Page 92 of Last Call at the Local

If I thought I could escape this without having a conversation with Ollie, I would. Ollie’s right. But he can manage on his own.He’ll understand. I’ll explain to him what is going on, just a quick conversation, and he’ll let me leave like he always does on days like today. Then I can go home without the guilt.

I turn to face him, and his already furrowed brow deepens. “What’s with you?”

“Oh, you know, the usual.”

Ollie looks me over, then nods. “C’mon.”

“Where are you—”

“Hush up, now. We need to talk.”

I’m too tired to fight it when Ollie steps around me and places his hands on my shoulders. He steers me behind the bar and toward the door to the kitchen, deftly avoiding running into Aoife, who is in her element as she whizzes around taking orders and pouring drinks.

I hold my breath as soon as Ollie pushes me through the door. The kitchen is quieter than out front. Róisín doesn’t look up as we pass by them. I try not to catch sight of the knife in their hands, and avert my gaze to my boots.Bad-boy aesthetic my arse, I think. All the black clothes and tattoos can’t hide the fact that I’m a coward.

Ollie lets go of me to open the office door. He gestures for me to step inside, and I do so, but not without a sigh. Neither of us says anything when he steps in behind me and closes the door. I busy myself by loitering around the desk and pretending to read over the jumbled mess of Post-its stuck to it.

I don’t look at Ollie when he sinks into the chair behind the desk, though I can feel him watching me. I’m not sure how long the silence between us stretches on. Thirty seconds? Three minutes? I’m too stuck in my own head to know.

“Why don’t you take a seat, Jackie?” Ollie finally says.

I shake my head but do as he says anyway.

“Now tell me what’s going on.”

“The usual. Like I said.”

“What’s the usual?”

When I look at Ollie, I feel outside of myself. It’s been five years since he came home, but every now and then it hits me out of nowhere that he’s here. He came home. For me. Because I asked.

“I need to go home.”

Ollie doesn’t say okay like he usually does. He looks me over, and does that brow-furrowing thing again. “Are you sure that’s what you reallyneed, Jackie?”

“What do you mean?”

Ollie tips his face up to the ceiling and sighs. “I know I’m not good at this stuff.”

“What... stuff?”

“Your OCD. I know I’m not good at... doing whatever it is I’m supposed to do. I wanna do right by you, Jackie, but it’s hard. I don’t wanna make things worse. Reassuring you... helping you avoid triggers... itfeelslike the right thing to do, even if it isn’t.”

I’m too stunned to speak. For the last few years, Ollie and I have talkedaroundmy OCD. We never touch on it directly unless it is absolutely necessary. I know it’s not because he’s ashamed of me. I know it’s his own shame that he wasn’t here, and that if he had been, maybe things wouldn’t have been so bad.

“You’re seeing your therapist again, yeah?” he asks.

“First appointment was yesterday.”

“Right. So... what would your therapist say you need? Do you reallyneedto go home?”

I stare at my brother for a moment. “I don’t understand.”

“Jesus, I’m not making sense, am I? You said you need to go home. Is that really what you need or—”

“Not that,” I say. “I don’t understand... this.”

He gives me a blank stare.

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