Page 58 of Antidote

Then I turn on my heel and leave, closing the door behind me and running into Jamie. He steadies me, a look of concern crossing his features, but he doesn’t say anything. The walk back to the car is quick, and I get buckled in fast. I don’t particularly feel like talking about this, but either way, I brace myself for the questions I know are coming my way.

And just as expected, he wastes no time.

“So.” He chuckles, pulling out of the parking lot and getting on the main road that leads to the interstate. “What was that about? And don’t say nothing.”

“I’m an addict,” I blurt, not having told him this before. My hands shake at the possibility that I just made a mistake. But Jamie’s features don’t change, he just waits for me to elaborate. “Let’s just say thanks to my fuck up, his mom is dead. He hates me, Jamie. I don’t blame him; I only wish I didn’t love him.”

“What happened?”

I proceed to tell him everything, from the time when Hunter and I were seniors in high school to the moment I put a pill on my tongue and swallowed it dry. The way Hunter distanced himself from me, and how painful it was. It only drove me to seek more Oxy, knowing he wanted nothing to do with me. I had to survive the pain of his loss somehow, and I was stupid enough to go further down the rabbit hole rather than out of it. Getting clean crossed my mind many times over, but it was already too late. I was hooked.

My hands shake as I tell him about the night I came home high, how I took four pills and sat in the car for too long—long enough for them to kick in and make me a zombie. He listens intently, and when I tell him about Lucy freaking out, his breath hitches. It’s as if he knows what comes next, and I confirm it when I say that she drove in the pouring rain to take me to the hospital, only to die trying.

“Wow,” he whispers. “That’s fucking heavy, Ollie.”

My stomach drops. “So you see now?” I chuckle without an ounce of humor in it. “He will never love me again.”

“I think you’re wrong,” he tells me, “I think he never stopped.”

“But he won’t act on it.” I shrug. “He doesn’t want to love me.”

“It probably hurts him just as much as it hurts you,” Jamie replies, his voice full of empathy.

“Why are you defending him?” I demand. “Why are you siding with him right now? I’m supposed to be your friend, not him.”

“I’m not defending him.” He reaches over to squeeze my hand, and I let him. “I’m making an observation. I’m sorry if it came out that way.”

I deflate in my seat, and he keeps hold of my hand. “Enough heaviness for tonight,” I say, trying to fix my hair with one hand. “I’m supposed to be happy.”

“You’re right.” He chuckles. “Let’s go get your painting sold.”

The rest of the ride goes by in comfortable silence, and we’re standing at the gallery before we know it. There are paintings everywhere, perfect splashes of color spread out. From abstracts to portraits and everything in between, I take it in. We walk around for what feels like forever, and my eyes linger on the portrait of a naked Hunter. It’s my masterpiece, truly. Probably my best work yet, and I’m fucking proud of it.

After what feels like a lifetime, someone finally makes his way to my painting. He observes the play on colors, how I’ve mixed some abstracts onto the face to keep it barely recognizable, and the different colors I’ve played with. The paint drips in splatters down the canvas. Off his face and body. And fuck, I suddenly wish I could keep it.

“Is this yours?” the man asks, running a hand through his blond waves. His blue eyes bore into mine, and a shy smile tilts one side of his mouth.

“It is,” I answer, a blush creeping to my cheeks. I’m not embarrassed by my art, but how he’s staring at it…it suddenly makes me feel shy. “It’s called The Hunter.”

“I like the play on greens.” He grins as he gives it a slow perusal. “The face is interesting. Did you do that on purpose?”

“Yes.” I gesture to the mosaic effect, giving the face the glass shards effect I worked so hard on. “I didn’t want him to be recognized.”

“How much?”

I gulp, thinking back to what the professor advised. It sounds like too much—but then again, the rich people come here for a reason. Either way, it feels odd to price it this high when I’m a nobody. “Thirty-thousand.”

The man just grins, “Sold.”

I rear back. Because, really? That easy? What does he see in it? What makes a person pay thirty thousand dollars for a painting? It seems excessive. But still, my exhale expels all the relief from my body, my shoulders dropping, and my head swimming just a bit.

Jamie squeezes my shoulder and grins. “I’ll take you over to Ms. Jones.” The lady who takes payment and ensures delivery. “If you’ll follow me this way.”

“Thank you,” I tell the man, “Are you from here?”

“Yes.” He grins. “I’m opening a club in a few days. It’s called Vybe.” A pause, and then his smile widens. “You should come.”

I’ve heard of it—the new gay club. Does he know? Am I that obvious? “Sounds good.” I beam. “We’ll be there.”

---