Nepenthe (Bracing for Love #2) (5 page)

“Helps who? Because I would bet it's not helping you.”

My fists clench in my lap. The waiter appears and I have to hold my tongue, completely pissed off. Just because she sees right through me doesn't mean she gets a say on my morals or lack thereof. The food arrives right as I'm ready to go back home.

“Did I piss you off?” she questions once the waiter is gone and I still haven't spoken, only eating silently.

Ignoring her question, I say, “I can take care of myself.”

Her voice and eyes soften. “Not all the time, and that's okay. You need to realize you need support and someone to lean on every now and then. You could trust me. You don't have to be strong all the time, Corey.” She pauses, almost thoughtfully. “Or pretend to be strong, I should say.”

Pretending? I'm strong. I have the muscles to prove the physical side, though I've gained weight since I stopped all my healthy habits after my injury. I have three younger siblings who are respectful, smart, and wonderful people who are well on their way to fantastic lives, in part because I was strong. Because I
am
strong. Being weak in the confines of my own home, my own life, and my own mind doesn't mean I'm not strong.

Right?

Or am I feeding myself bullshit now?

Before I can comment, she shakes her head. “The 'that's okay' part went right over your head, didn't it?”

No, I caught that and ignored it because I don't want it to be okay. Being the strong older brother is who I am, have always been. I can't lose that part of myself too. Admitting it'll be okay is admitting I have a problem.

“You don't know anything, Olivia. Even if you do, it doesn't matter. I lost everything and it's not going to be okay.”

Her brows pull together and she frowns. “What did you lose? Because based on what Patrick said, you have two brothers and a sister who try to be there for you, so you didn't lose your family. You didn't lose the ones you love, so what did you lose?” There's a bit of a bite to her question.

I swallow hard. Those crappy moments where I feel like I could cry? I'm having one of those. After a deep breath, I mutter, “Football.”

Olivia stares at me. It's a bit creepy having her so openly watch me eat, but I know what's really bothering me is not knowing what she's thinking.

Finally, she speaks. “Football?” I nod. “I need a better explanation. There has to be more to this than that.”

“More to what?” I carefully ask, my muscles tensing like she's about to hit me and I need to be prepared.

There's that embarrassed/ashamed expression again. The little flit of her eyes away from me as she goes to quietly answer. “I think you might be depressed.”

My fork falls from my fingers with a clink to my plate and I lean back in the booth. My chest is ten times heavier than it was seconds ago, my ears are ringing, and I'm barely breathing in enough air. That word has been thrown around in my head before during rough patches, but none of those were like how I've been for the past few months. Hell, the past year.

I'm worse.

But it doesn't really mean anything.

Life gets hard. I'm in the middle of one of those times. That's all. I'm not one of those people in the TV ads for antidepressants who place a hand to their forehead and look so sad. If that's what depression looks like, then I'm definitely not that.

You need help. Something is wrong, Corey.

Does this mean Patrick thinks so as well? Depression means psychiatrists and medications. Um, no thanks. How strong and reliable would I look to my siblings then? Vomit clogs my throat as I imagine Luce's face. I swallow it back down. No, I can't have her give me a look full of pity and sorrow and worry. She doesn't need to worry about me. She shouldn't have to. I'm the big brother. I'm supposed to worry, care for, and look after her, not the other way around.

Olivia has been watching, analyzing me.

Words. I need words. She's expecting a response and I should probably give her one before I faint. Because that would be very manly and tough and strong of me.

“Why do you think that?” I force myself to say.

“Observations...and a few off-handed things your brother said. Plus,” Olivia hesitates, struggling with going forward.

“Plus what?” I grit, desperate to know.

“Personal experience.”

My eyebrows lift immediately following her statement. Olivia has suffered from depression? No wonder she sees right through me. The lightbulb explodes over my head as I realize what this means.

She gets it.

She knows.

This is why she said what she did after she came back into my bedroom that day. It's how she knew.

She gets it.

Someone understands, like really understands.

Or, I thought so until she continues, shattering the burst of hope I had. “Not me personally, but a...someone close to me. I was a bystander who watched it unfold,” she adds with sorrow. Her focus has shifted back out the window, her food long forgotten.

“I'm sorry.” It's the only thing I can think to say.

She glances at me, surprised and a bit confused. “For what?”

“My siblings aren't around to see how I am, and it's something I'm grateful for. I'm sorry you had to watch someone go through it.”

“Thanks.” The waiter drops off the bill and she looks relieved.

I grab it before she can and slip my card inside, handing it right back to him. Part of me is anxious to go, while the other half wants to stay here with Olivia. We both probably need a break from one another, though. We don't say anything on the way back home, lost in our thoughts as much as I'm lost about my life. As we're walking up the stairs, Olivia speaks.

“If you ever want to talk, I'm here. Or if you want someone around, you could text me and I'll come over. I know you'd probably rather have one of your siblings or one of your friends, but just in case.”

I don't want my siblings involved, if possible, and my friends were my teammates, which I no longer have, though a few text me here and there.

I'm alone.

Alone, off course from my life, and desperate. For what exactly, I'm not sure.

“Thanks. Same for you,” I offer in return.

“Thanks.” Olivia smiles. “Have a good day, Corey.” I don't think anyone has ever meant those words as much as she does right now. Words so simple that most people take them for granted and just tag on a, “You too,” in response. People say it to say it, as a social formality. Not Olivia. She says it because she truly wants me to have a good day.

“You too,” I reply, meaning it as much as she does. Then I turn, unlock my door, and escape to the prison of my apartment. There's still a good portion of the day to get through before work tonight. For a moment, I despise this place. It's a home void of emotions, where I seem to lose a sense of good in the world. At the same time, it's my comfort, my place away from people where I can be alone when I want it to be that way. I lie on the couch, stare at the ceiling, and rerun breakfast.

It doesn't matter how many times I replay it in my head, I keep coming back to the same question.

Is Olivia right?

Of course she is, dummy. We've been here before. Only it's never been this bad. You can't hide this forever.

Ignoring my inner dialogue, I continue my thoughts. And if she is right, have I reached a point where I actually need professional help?

No. Yes. Maybe?

A flashback to earlier this week surges forward. That might have been my lowest of the low.

Is help something that's possible?

My injury won't change. All I want is to be able to play. I want my constant back, my way of handling life back, but that's not ever going to happen again. So, why get help? Just so I won't be miserable? For me to smile and laugh and feel good most of the time? Is it possible?

It doesn't seem likely. This isn't my first go-round. This is a lifetime kind of problem. No one wants that, certainly not me. Before now, I've always been able to manage it and deny that it was an issue, whatever
it
is. I'm not about to deem myself depressed just yet. My heart constricts and threatens to explode with the word, so I can only imagine what a diagnosis would do.

However, I'm no longer in control here. And since this dark beast I'm battling has enough power that I can't manage it anymore, how much longer can I attempt to deny its existence before it unravels me completely?

A couple hours pass between looking at the ceiling and finally making a trip to the grocery store. It becomes apparent that I have too much time on my hands. My mind is working nonstop, thinking about everything and nothing, and I can feel each brain cell running in circles, slamming into the walls of my skull, and dying upon impact as I slowly lose my sanity. Or, it could be the headache I'm getting. Either way, I'm definitely getting another job. Before I head into work, I notice a text from Jonathan from this morning, and one from Lucy just now.

Jon: Hope you're doing ok, bro. Things will get better. We're here for you too.

I don't know if I should be impressed or concerned. Jon isn't a big texter, and he's like me; he doesn't get emotional. So, either he's really worried or he's just reaching out to me.

Me: Thanks.

It's wrong of me, I know, but I'm jealous of him and Patrick. We were a trio, a force to be reckoned with on that field, and now, it's only them. I'm proud of them, wish them the best of luck, and hope they go far, but I wish I could have those things too. We used to talk football. Not anymore. I avoid talking about it as much as possible because I can't stomach the thought of it. Like speaking of it would be like me pretending it's still my game, when it's not.

Sighing, I open Lucy's.

Lucy: Just wanted to say I love you. :) <3 Do something fun this weekend, okay?

Me: Love you, Luce. I will.

Fun.

What does fun even mean anymore?

Work drags by with the exception of having to escort a couple of rowdy drunks out. It's late when I get home and freezing cold outside. My eyes naturally glance at Olivia's door before I reach my own. I wonder if she's still awake.

Something in me wants to find out. I don't want to go home yet. Olivia said she would be there if I wanted someone around, and as of this second, I want someone around. Leaving my apartment behind, I cross the hallway and knock tentatively on her door. Hope she's not sleeping.

“Just a second!” I hear her yell.

A feeling of relief passes through me. But two minutes later, she still hasn't come to the door. I'm about to give up when she opens it.

“Oh, hey. Sorry, I didn't want to hit pause on my game. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just got back from work, and I...” I what? What in the hell am I doing here?

“Want to come in?” Olivia finishes for me, stepping aside so I can do so.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” She leads me into her living room where there's a car on the TV and a controller to a game system on the coffee table. She was playing a racing video game? I haven't done that since I was a kid with my brothers. “Want to play?” she asks as we sit down on the couch. “This is like my escape. I should warn you that I'm very competitive, though.”

I take the controller she hands me. “Do you drive here like you do in real life?”

Olivia laughs, shaking her head before smirking at me. “Yes, and I'm even better in the game.”

Her response cracks me up. “Let's play then.”

We pick our cars, she selects a track, and the screen splits as the countdown begins. Olivia revs the engine of her car, making me chuckle. The race begins. She immediately starts cursing the other drivers until she forces her way past them with a laugh and a, “Haha! Suckers!” Or, “Nana nana boo boo, y'all aren't ever going to catch up.”

I haven't heard someone say 'nana nana boo boo' in a long, long time. It causes me to laugh so much that I come in dead last. Olivia comes in first.

“I nearly lost with all your laughing. You're distracting.” She gives me a pointed look, like I better not dare cause her to lose.

“You are too. Restart and I'll focus.”

She does and I try. Olivia is just too funny. Between the cussing and the gloating she alternates between depending on which place she's in, I laugh way more than I win.

“Darn it!” she huffs as she spins out after clipping a guard rail. This is my first chance to pass her, maybe even win. I fly right by her. “Oh, no, you don't,” she mutters, gaining speed behind me.

I'm within seconds of winning when she bumps into me from behind, sending me spinning and crashing into the sidewalk. She wins.

“You play dirty, Olivia.” I shake my head at her.

“Sometimes you have to.”

I SPEND MOST of the next day sleeping, since it was pretty late when I walked over from Olivia's last night and I could actually sleep. Lucy's text telling me to have fun this weekend runs through my mind again. The only person I really know here and would feel comfortable hanging out with is Olivia. Reaching for my phone, I text her.

Me: Dinner? My place?