Page 24 of Oliver

“Here,” he says gruffly, and a kernel of relief pushes at the ache battering my soul when he takes the keys from my hand. “I’ll drive you.”

Maybe the fucker has a flicker of life in that tin can heart after all.

I’ve been sitting here for hours. Mom hasn’t opened her eyes. The tube that was down her throat prevented her from speaking but that’s long gone now.

The doctors gave me platitudes I didn’t want to hear. I know better though. I see the pity shining behind their eyes. It’s the same look the cops had when they showed up at our door ten years ago to inform us of our father’s death. An accident, except some dick choosing to drink and drive isn’t really an accident. Is it?

The second time I saw that look, I knew to my bones that my sister was dead. Now, well, fuck I don’t know.

Uncle Hank came earlier and did what I couldn’t, he agreed to not put her on life support. Brain dead, they said. What the fuck do they know? Fuck.

Now, it’s quiet but for the slow steady beep of her monitors. My throat is dry but when I try to say something, anything, the words get stuck in my throat.

Oliver left a while ago after sitting with me in silence. Although I appreciated his presence, I suspect his discomfort eventually pushed him to go. I don’t blame him. Sitting before a woman on the precipice of death isn’t exactly anyone’s definition of a good time.

I know what I must do, I’m just not sure I have it in me. I need more time. I want more time. This is so fucking unfair.

At some point, in the middle of the night after a dream I can’t remember but for the emotion coating my soul, I pick up my mom’s hand, so frail and thin and shiver at the cool sensation.

How did I block this out? How did I not see? I was too hellbent on revenge when Mom needed me to be her savior.

Stroking the delicate skin, covered in veins that pop and bulge under my fingertips, I say quietly, “It’s okay, Mom. Let go. I’ve got it from here. I’ll be okay.”

Of course, she doesn’t stir, and I press my numb lips to her skin once more before laying my head on the bed beside her prone form.

“I’ll be okay,” I lie, swallowing my salty tears.

I can’t say how much time passes but I exhale when her monitors begin to beep. She’s no longer breathing. She’s leaving me. Alone. She’s fucking leaving me.

With a choked sob, I touch her arm and her shoulder before kissing her head. I want so badly to be what she needs but I can’t. I just can’t and climbing into her bed, I wrap my arms around her frail body and say, “Don’t leave me. I lied. I’m not okay. I’m not.”

My shoulders shake so badly, I can’t hold onto her, but I refuse to let her go, even when Oliver appears.

Without a word, he wraps his arms around me and pulls me up, allowing me to hold her tighter and when I sob and cry, he leans his forehead into the crook of my shoulder and holds on tight.

Chapter 7

Later,wedon'tspeakas he carries me through the hospital and out to the car. Once he’s dropped me in the passenger seat and rounded the vehicle to climb inside, I slump against the door and fight the tears filling my eyes.

I can’t imagine going home. I can’t imagine…anything. What do I do now? Where do I go?

When we pull up to my house, I stare at the facade, fighting every urge inside of me to beg Oliver to take me home with him.

An interesting thought considering his father is facing life in prison or a death sentence for killing my sister.

Instead, I touch the handle only to pause when Oliver shuts off the engine and says, “What happened?”

He’s been a quiet source of comfort for hours but never asked until now. I don’t really have an answer. She was consumed by grief. Madness? I don’t fucking know but I will never forget the sickly-sweet smell that assailed my nostrils when I found her in her car in the garage.

Apparently, while I searched the house, she was in her fucking car in the garage where she sat with the engine running until the car eventually ran out of gas. Only my neighbor who called to ask about the smell clued me in.

She’s gone. That’s really all that needs to be said. Except I don’t want to think about what happens next. I don’t want to feel the loss echoing in my fucking soul and instead, I admire his chest, yearning to see beneath the shirt molded to his body and only hinting at the strength he leashes.

He’s all lean lines and muscle, graceful with every movement. Maybe this is why I lose my fucking sanity and slide across the seat.

I’ll never fucking know beyond that I want to feel, and he gives me that in spades. Lust. Hate. Anger. Need.

Crawling into his lap, I feel a little thrill when he doesn't stop me, his eyes glittering by the light of the moon.

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