Nepenthe (Bracing for Love #2) (3 page)

I wake up every morning, hating life. Why get out of bed? I don't have a dream to strive for. Why care about school? I don't want the degree I'm trying to earn. Why eat healthy and exercise? I don't have to because I'm not playing football anymore. My life has consisted of nothing but shitty hands that throw my life out of order, leaving me to clean up the mess afterwards.

Life fucking sucks.

It's that simple.

A text from Lucy on the drive home chips a bit of the anger away. Not a lot, but just enough to where I'm tired and ready for a nap. Naps are my best friend. Sleep and alcohol, really. Anything to make me forget that my life is shit for a while.

MY ALARM BLARES, nagging me to wake up. I have school today, but my body feels too heavy to move. My head aches from the mere thought of trying to go to class. A class I have no desire to take because I never planned on relying on a degree, especially not a political science one.

I don't have it in me today to force myself out of my bed. My hand reaches out and slams down on the clock, luckily hitting the snooze button. My body seems to sink further into the bed, anchoring me by the heaviness of my sorrows. Sometimes, I get the urge to cry. No shit. I'm a “big-boned” muscular football player, tough and mean-looking half the time, and I want to cry.

Shit.

I
was
a football player. Now, I'm just a large guy. Still. Sometimes, my eyes burn, my throat gets scratchy, and it's hard to take in small breaths. This, what I feel, what I've lost, it
hurts
. It's such a deep ache I'm positive it's grown roots and attached itself to every part of me to ensure that I carry it around every day. And what sucks even more?

I'm the only one who knows it's there. I'm the only one who can feel the burning throb as it pulses with stinging lashes repeatedly, leaving welts with no time to heal. The only thing everyone else sees, what my siblings see, is the same ol' me. I don't look different. My ailment isn't something physical they can see. No one knows the depths of the pain, not even me. For all I know, it's endless and this is how I'll live the rest of my life.

Might as well miraculously die now.

Olivia said I'm broken. She's wrong. I'm more dead than alive. I'm a living corpse, decomposing a little more every day.

The thirst for alcohol awakens me, as does the realization that while school started a few weeks ago, I'm a day away from having missed too many classes. A half-hearted chuckle cracks the silence around me. At this point, there are two words in my mind.

Fuck it.

I don't want it anyway. Tossing the covers aside, I manage to make it to the kitchen to the bottles of Bourbon. I sit on the kitchen floor, half delirious from what little sleep I've managed to get the past couple of days, and start drinking.

Time quickly blurs with my empty stomach growling for food. That's not what I need, though. This. Drinking. That's what I need. The burn numbs my pain, takes my mind somewhere else. Not to happier thoughts, but maybe to a place more stable than this. Through my haze, I eat chips and make trips to the bathroom.

Someone knocks on my door and calls my name.

I think.

Kind of sounds like a girl.

Maybe Olivia.

But she wouldn't knock on my door. Not after how mean I was to her.

Girls.

I shake my head and fall onto the couch. Oh, yes. This feels good. It's comfy. Time for a nap. No one likes Mondays anyway, right?

MY STASH OF alcohol is almost gone. My phone is vibrating somewhere, but I don't want to answer it. Speaking may ruin this. Whatever this is. I'm loose and dizzy and my stomach hurts like hell. My hand goes to my stomach and my shirt is sticky.

Gross.

What's on my shirt?

My curiosity disappears with that fucking banging again. Dots pass my vision and I try to remember which room I'm in. Living room? Bathroom? It's coldish. Possibly in the kitchen. Who knows?

Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.

Who the hell is at my door?! I want to yell at them, but my mouth is dry and not functioning properly. My head droops to the side, leaning against a cool surface as the darkness finally takes over.

“Corey!”

Ugh. My shoulder shakes, but I know I'm not doing it. That would take too much energy. I don't have any of that.

“Oh my God. Please don't be dead.”

Dead? Ha. I wish. Life would be much simpler.

Warmth presses against my neck and I shiver from the touch.

“Wake up, wake up, wake up!” The voice is so frantic. Why? Nothing is happening here.

I grunt. I like this feeling. Kind of. I don't want it to go away, though, and it will if I wake up. My eyes slit open and a blurry figure is in front of me.

“Thank goodness. C'mon, let's get you cleaned up and in bed.”

Something garbled comes out of my mouth when I try to laugh. Two words echo in my mind as an exhausted heaviness falls over me.

Fuck it.

And with that, I sleep.

UGH. FUCK. MY body aches, my mouth is dry as sandpaper, and my head feels like it's about to explode. Slowly, I peer from under my eyelids, but quickly close them again. Shit, that lamp is bright. Why couldn't I be dead?

“Corey?”

My brows bunch together at the sound of a soft feminine voice. Oh hell, am I hearing things now? Do I need to add that to my growing list of problems?

“Corey?” the voice repeats.

Carefully, I open my eyes and blink rapidly at the sight of a face hovering over me. “Olivia?” I manage to say. What the hell is she doing in here? How did she get inside? I'm in my bedroom and she's sitting on my bed. I'm shirtless and in boxers. When did that happen?

“Here.” She hands me a glass of water, which I eagerly take. “Patrick has been worried.”

My eyes automatically narrow as I down the cold drink and hand her the glass back. “How do you know my brother's name?”

“I plugged in your phone and he kept calling, so I answered.”

Great. “What are you doing? What day is it?” I add as an afterthought.

“Thursday. You've pretty much slept since I found you yesterday.”

Thursday? Last I remember, it was Monday. I actually slept, and bits and pieces of my memory surge forward as I recall more drinking, munching on whatever I could find in the cabinets, and watching TV. Everything else is pretty much a blur. My stomach twists in pain and roars with hunger. The corner of Olivia's mouth lifts.

“I'll fix you something to eat and then explain.”

Without waiting for an answer, she leaves me alone. My mind swirls with the news. I pretty much blacked out for four days, and Olivia is in my apartment, about to cook me food. And she's talked to Patrick, which means he probably knows.

Shit.

I have to work tonight, too.

Sighing, I close my eyes and relax into the mattress. After a while, Olivia returns with a plate full of food. Chicken, green beans, rice and gravy, and corn. I want to eat it all and it doesn't take me long to inhale it. While I do, Olivia starts talking.

“Monday, I came by to apologize for overstepping before. I figured if you're going to be my neighbor, we should be friendly. But you didn't answer, so I left and tried again Tuesday. I knew you were here because I could hear you moving around, but you never answered. Wednesday, I was concerned because you obviously hadn't left. Snow only left wet footprints coming to my door. I, um,” she looks a little nervous and a bit ashamed as she continues, “found your spare key under the mat. Genius hiding spot, by the way.

“And then I found you.” Olivia frowns and shakes her head. “Your apartment was a mess. Vomit seemed to be everywhere but the bathroom, which was gross too.” She makes a gagging noise from the memory and I start to feel sick myself. “You were passed out in the kitchen. I was pretty sure you were half dead,” she whispers, looking down at her hands in her lap.

“Anyway, I, ah, took most of your clothes off because you were covered in vomit too, cleaned you up a bit with a wet rag, and then cleaned your apartment. I've been keeping an eye on you and bought some groceries. You owe me fifty bucks for that, too. Like I said, Patrick kept calling, so I answered. He came and helped me, which is how you ended up in the bed, but he had to leave. So, here we are.”

I stare at her. My mind is completely blank. My lips part from—amazement? Wonder? Shock? Finally, I find a word. It's only one, but it's enough.

“Why?”

Her mouth dips again. “What do you mean, why? Why what?”

“Why did you do this?”

Realization dawns on her and she shrugs. “It was the right thing to do. Plus, you helped me when I was locked out of my apartment. I was returning the favor.”

From the sounds of it, it was the crazy thing to do. “You were right.” She looks confused, so I add, “About what you said. There wasn't a need to apologize.” Before she can answer, my phone vibrates on my nightstand, plugged in like she told me.

“It's Patrick,” she says as she peers at it. My groan amuses her, judging by the quirk of her lips. “You should answer.”

“You answer. Tell him I'm sleeping.”

Her brows raise, disappearing beneath her side-swept bangs. “Seriously?”

I nod. There's no way in hell I want to talk to him. Not if he came here and this place was as bad as she said it was. Olivia watches me for a beat longer before answering my cell.

“Hey, Patrick. Yeah, he's still knocked out.” Her head bobs in a nod, even though he can't see her. “Sure, I'll have him call you first thing.” She pauses. “You're welcome. Bye.” Olivia places my phone back on the nightstand.

“Thanks.”

“You should have talked to him. He's worried about you.”

“He shouldn't be. I'm fine.” The words come out of my mouth without a second thought.

Her head tilts to the side. “Yeah, I can see that.” The anger I saw the day I told her to get the fuck out reappears. “You're right. You're completely fine, Corey. You nearly drank yourself to death, but that's nothing serious, nothing to worry about!” Her arms flail around with her gestures. “What the hell is wrong with you? Seriously. You need help! Are you really in denial? Because I can go show you the trash from where I cleaned up
your
mess!” She pokes me hard in the chest. “You need help,” she repeats.

Her outburst has silenced me. Help doesn't exist, unless she has magical healing powers to get me back onto the field, and there's no need to burst her bubble that there is. I know, deep in whatever fucked-up soul I have, that if I could play again, I could find a way to make this go away once and for all. It's not possible, though, and now things are worse than before. Despite my apparently sleeping for such a long time, I'm exhausted and tired of fighting.

“There's two hundred-dollar bills in the top drawer of my dresser under the socks. You can take it for the groceries and for your trouble. Then, you can go back to your own apartment,” I tell her without any emotion at all, which isn't hard to do because I'm numb again. For once, a small part of me wishes I wasn't.

This time, Olivia stares at me with disbelief. I stare right back. She swallows hard, her tense shoulders slumping with defeat. I've let her down, I can tell, though I'm not sure how I managed to do that. “I might not be able save you next time.”

“You shouldn't have this time.”

MY WORDS ARE a bluff. Death, especially suicide, scare the hell out of me. I've seen the destruction any type of death leaves behind, and to take my own life is the last thing I want to burden my siblings with. I like life. I like living. I'm even happy sometimes, but that doesn't change things overall. What I do know is that I don't like how things are right now or how to make them different. Something that appears simple to others, like Lucy, isn't that simple. It's complex and confusing.

Olivia mulls over my words as if she's debating whether I'm really bluffing or not. Finally, she speaks. “I'm a good listener.”

“For what? Me to talk about my feelings? I don't do that.” I shouldn't give her a response at all. Nor should I continue with, “I don't have to talk to you just because you helped me.” Shouldn't she be at least a little pissed that I haven't thanked her yet?

“You should,” she simply answers.

“I should talk to you because you helped me?” She's asking too much of me. That's no easy task for me.

“No, you should talk to me because you need someone to listen and understand you.”

“You can do that?” I question skeptically.

Olivia nods. “More than you think I can, but you have to realize you need help first.”

Help. Ha.

She stands, walks over to my dresser, and retrieves the money before heading to the door.

“Where are you going?” Stupid question. I told her to leave.

But she called my bluff by telling me she's a good listener. Her words lit a torch in the tunnel I'm stuck in. If she leaves, the flames will extinguish.

“My apartment.” Olivia waits ten seconds for me to ask her to stay.

I don't, and she leaves.

AFTER TAKING SOME aspirin, I force myself to get up and shower. I need to, badly. Instead of a hot one, I take a lukewarm shower. The cool water feels better against my skin. My chest lifts as I inhale the scent of my body wash. Oddly, it's easy to breathe today. Maybe going to work won't be so bad.