Page 76 of Antidote

A flash of pride crosses my dad’s face, and tears sting the back of my eyes. He hasn’t directed that look at me in years. Because I’m a fuck up. I haven’t done anything right for years, and I get it. But sometimes, I wish I could share my accomplishments with him.

“How are the scouts, by the way?” he asks Hunter, then takes another bite of food. The chicken and mashed potatoes taste bland as fuck, although I can’t expect him to cook like her. After all, he’s never been good at it. I think he’s just surviving, and I should be grateful he even made an effort.

“I’ve had a couple of them come to the last few games,” Hunter says, and when I steal a glance at him, he smiles, looking at me too. His deep green eyes are tender, and I want to look away, but I can’t. The scent of citrus and smoke invades my senses, and my nostrils flare as I try to take more of his essence in. “New York, Boston, and North Carolina.”

“Holy shit.” My dad breathes. “That’s incredible, son. I’m proud of you.”

My stomach drops, and Hunter reaches for my hand and squeezes it so tight I feel like he’s breaking my fucking fingers. Still, I don’t move. I don’t dare even breathe. I know he knows it hurts, but it hurts less than the pain in my heart. Maybe this is his way of distracting me. He has always known when something is wrong with me.

“Thanks, Dad.” Hunter smiles. “But Ollie has some news too, don’t you?” He stares pointedly at me and squeezes my hand once more. I narrow my eyes in confusion, then raise an eyebrow. He looks at Dad and grins. “He sold a painting.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I shoot daggers from my eyes at Hunter, but he purposely evades my gaze.

“Did you, now?” Dad questions. “When was this?”

I bet all he cares about is the fact that I have money now. Money to buy drugs, transportation, and whatever the fuck I want. Money he’s not giving me because he doesn’t trust me. Well, guess what, dad? I don’t need you anymore.

“A few weeks ago,” I say weakly, unable to look at him. Instead, I focus on my food, not wanting to see the questions in his eyes.

“Are you still clean?”

“Dad—” Hunter interrupts, and I shove his hand away, then stand.

The plates and silverware clatter as I slap my hands on the table and lean in. “Fuck. You,” I spit. “Yeah, I’m clean. And I will continue to be clean. I know you’re not proud of me.” My dad appears stricken, a picture of regret. But I don’t give a shit. I’m getting this off my chest. “I’m proud of myself. You can keep your golden boy.” I glance at Hunter as I say it, and tears fill his eyes as he shakes his head. “I’m out.”

I shove the chair back, heading for the door. Only right before I open it, Hunter grabs my arm and yanks me back. He pulls me into him, slamming my chest against his.

“Don’t do this, Ollie,” he whispers, staring behind us to make sure Dad isn’t watching, and then he kisses my cheek. “Please don’t let him win. Don’t leave.”

“I can’t do this,” I whisper back, and my voice breaks. “I gotta go.”

“Go upstairs and cool down.” He wipes a lone tear from my cheek, then kisses my eyelids. “I’ll be right there.”

I nod. “Okay.”

“I’ll be right there,” he says again, then kisses my forehead.

My head is spinning from all his kisses, but somehow, I manage to walk toward the stairs. The living room looks the same. I can still picture my mom sitting on the couch, watching The Holiday, knitting fucking blankets, or beanies, or socks for us. She loved doing that, and I loved helping her. Even if I never quite learned how to do it and it was a mess. It seems that’s the theme of my life. Not being good at anything at all.

The state-of-the-art kitchen she loved so much is lit up, and I conjure up images of her baking cookies. She had all these different cookie cutters, and they were always holiday-themed: reindeer, snowmen, and snowflakes. She bought new ones every year so it didn’t feel repetitive. I thought it was ridiculous at the time. Now, I just miss it.

Being in this house feels like a punishment. Because as I go up the stairs, all I feel is dread. I haven’t been in my room since May, and I don’t want to be there. Opening the door, I’m hit with the smell of vanilla cupcakes, but also something else lingers in the air. Dust and Hunter.

It’s soothing.

All I see as I step into the room are images of us loving each other on my bed. The light on from the Jack-and-Jill bathroom illuminates his face. The look of bliss on his face as I made him come. The peace reflected on his face as I watched him sleep. I remember counting his freckles and eyelashes. The way I used to run my fingers through his hair, and he groaned from how much he loved it. It used to bring me so much peace and happiness.

I sit on my bed, contemplating all the shit I don’t want to think about, and my eyes begin to sting. I let the tears flow; I don’t fight them anymore. It’s useless, being that they’re going to fall anyway. My sniffles are loud as I lie on my side, my back facing the doorway. I can’t face anyone right now, not when the pain and disappointment in myself are this strong. It’s funny how no matter what I do or accomplish, all my dad cares about is whether I’ve relapsed. Is it valid? Maybe. It’s possible he will always be worried about me falling back into that black hole. But he should’ve acknowledged my accomplishment, not ignored it completely.

Footsteps creak on the floorboards, and my door closes and locks. Instantly, I know it’s Hunter. So when I feel the bed dip as he joins me, I scoot further away from him.

“Don’t run away from me,” Hunter says softly, and his voice sounds so sad it breaks my heart a little bit more. I still, and he chases me. “Never from me, baby.”

“Stop, Hunter,” I cry out. “I don’t want you here.”

His body covers mine from the back, and he pulls my ass into his groin until we’re flush with each other. His arm drapes over my waist and he grabs my hand, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles.

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