Chapter 22 - Hunter

I 've spent the whole day unpacking my things and organizing them in my old room, where I will be spending my entire summer. Malia, my girlfriend, has been helping me. Her family lives in Boston, but she came home with me to meet my parents. My dad is smitten with her—saying how, at twenty years old, I should be thinking about settling down. I highly disagree, and so does my mom. Speaking of her, she keeps giving me these looks that I can't decipher. Something between pity and disappointment, and I can't for the life of me figure out why she'd feel either of those things. But I hate how it makes me feel like I'm crawling out of my skin. I hate disappointing my mom and dad. I can't fucking stand it. It's the main reason why I never told them about me and Oliver.

Oliver—sweet, pretty, asshole, Oliver.

With his dark hair and sky-blue eyes. Pouty lips that I used to love kissing, the bottom fuller than the top. And, fuck, just thinking of biting that bottom lip still gets me hard. Except I push it away because I have to.

For the past few years, we've done our best to avoid each other. Especially during the summers after the school year is over. It doesn't help that our bedrooms are next to each other because every night, I have always felt this deep yearning, an ache , a longing pain to crawl into bed with him and forget he didn't pick me. That he chose drugs over me. That I won't ever be good enough for him.

But I'm good enough for Malia.

I sit on the edge of the bed staring at her ass in those shorts as she puts my last shirt in the closet. It doesn't do anything for me. Not one ounce of heat flushes through me at the sight or thought of being in it. And she lets me fuck it often, except it's always to thoughts of Ollie and his ass. It's pathetic, really.

I met Malia last year, and we hit it off pretty quickly. She's nice and funny, thoughtful and romantic. She's a lot of things that I truly don't deserve. So tell me why I feel zero longing, no ache, no pain at the thought of not having her anymore. Tell me why I wouldn't hate her if she chose someone else over me. I wouldn't care. I wouldn't want to strangle her with my bare hands.

Not the way I want to strangle him .

Yeah, we're together, but above all, she and I are friends. It wouldn't bother me in the slightest if we reverted to that, either. It wouldn't hurt me, even though I feel like shit that it would hurt her.

Malia has it in her mind that I'm her future husband. She has told me that plenty of times before, and who am I to burst her little bubble? Maybe one day I'll feel a spark between us. Maybe I'll like our kisses. The sex. But that day isn't today, and I have a feeling it won't be any time soon.

Which is why I tense when Malia turns around with a glint in her eye that I recognize. Something that tells me she wants me to rail her, right here, right now.

Goddamn it.

Except just as she settles on my lap and begins to rub against my soft dick, I hear my mom screaming. I frown, tilting my head to listen and make sure I didn't imagine it,. Malia scrambles off my lap, and I get up and rush down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

I pull the door open just to see my mom banging on her car's window. My stomach drops to my ass, and my eyes fall to the still form in the driver's seat, his head tilted up against the headrest, his mouth wide open, his eyes closed.

No.

"Hunter!" Her scream snaps me out of my daze, and I run to her side. "Help me!"

What the hell is going on?

My mom gets the door open, and I push her out of the way, needing to see if he's alive. Needing to see if my nightmares have come true. "Blue?" I whisper in his ear, and he smiles. Anger spreads through me, through my bones, my fucking bone marrow, and I growl. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"W-what's wrong, Green?" he asks, and I scowl. Clearly, he's confused. Doesn't he know he's fucking dying ?

"That's it," Mom barks. "I'm taking him to the hospital."

"No!" Ollie moans, startling.

"Put him in the passenger seat," she demands.

I shake my head, hating him more than I hated him all those years ago when he didn't choose me. He continues not to choose me. But why isn't he at least choosing himself?

"Fuck him," I growl again. "I don't want anything to do with him right now. Just fucking look at him. Let him die, Mom. He's been going down that road for a long fucking time."

"Shut your fucking mouth, Hunter Michael Hartman," my mom snaps. "And help me help him."

I huff while doing as she says, practically carrying Oliver out of the driver's side. Ollie's dead weight, his feet dragging on the concrete, and even though I'm a six-foot-three defenseman, I'm struggling with him. He's not helping at all. He might as well not be alive. However, he's gripping me like if he lets go of me he really will die, and that makes my heart squeeze painfully in my chest.

My eyes sting as I get him into the passenger side of the car, and even though he hurt me, I don't actually want him to die. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean what I said to my mom. I can only hope he didn't hear it, especially since I won't be apologizing for it either. So why are my hands trembling as I buckle his seatbelt? Why do I want to slap him and kiss him simultaneously? It's not his fault he needs help. He needs help.

"What were you thinking, Oliver?" I ask him, cupping his face. "You really fucked up this time."

"Sorry," he whispers.

My thumb brushes his cheek, and I look into his sky-blue eyes, which have often brought me to my knees. Except they're dull and lifeless, red too. It makes me hot all over—with anger. But I try to push it down. Maybe anger isn't what he needs right now. Maybe if I'm gentle, he'll see reason.

Oliver's eyes tear up and he closes them, finally putting me out of my misery. I hate seeing him this way, broken.

"It'll be okay," I whisper back. I smile at him gently, hoping it eases some of the fear he must be feeling. I channel all the love I still have for him—buried fucking deep down—and try to convey it through my face, begging him to see it for what it is. Only it still doesn't dissipate my anger—I still hate him right now, even when I know I can't fully do it. He has to be scared. I know I am. Fucking shitless. "You will get help this time, baby."

He groans. "Don't call me that."

That hurts, and I rear back momentarily, stunned that he had the balls to say that. "Stop telling me what to do," I mutter, just as my mom gets in the car. I look away from her, scared she'll see right through me, and slam the door, walking away.

They pull out of the driveway hastily, my mom speeding, and I grip my hair and scream. I scream so loud that one of the neighbors turns on his porch light and comes out. I kneel on the ground and pull at my hair. But I reassure him I'm alright, even if he looks at me like I'm insane.

I'm not alright.

Malia comes to my side and tries to soothe me, but I just push her away and run up the stairs again, grabbing my desk and flipping it over. I destroy my room—throwing my belongings against the wall and breaking everything in sight. She gasps when she catches up to me and sees the mess though she doesn't say anything.

At least malia stays back, away from me. It's all I could ask for, and thankfully, she knows me enough to know I need this. I can't even think about what must be going through her head. She's probably wondering why I'm destroying my room over my brother. Or maybe not. I guess any person would be distraught over seeing their brother overdosing.

My mom should've just called an ambulance.

They probably would've helped him faster with Narcan or something.

"Hunter!" Dad yells, and he sounds desperate. I close my eyes and groan, wanting to keep going, needing to purge this anger and hate and pain. Suddenly, he's at the door. "There's been an accident. We need to get to the hospital."

"Accident?"

"Yeah." He nods, and I turn around. He seems distraught, tears in his eyes. "Car accident. Your mom and brother."

I feel sick, and suddenly, I turn around and hurl right there on the hardwood floor. Malia scrambles to rub my back, but I push her away, feeling gross. I straighten and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, then rush to the bathroom and rinse my mouth.

Before I can think clearly, we're in the car and driving to the hospital. The drive is silent, and there's so much tension it's hard to breathe. Is Ollie okay? Did he get hurt? Is he dead? Did they give him Narcan? My leg bounces as all these questions practically fly through my brain, and I can't think clearly anymore when we pull up to the hospital.

Malia holds my hand tightly the whole way, and I want to shove her away. Instead, I breathe in slowly and deeply, my nostrils flaring. We finally park, and then we're running, flying, to the entrance of the hospital. It's all a blur after that. We're directed to this waiting room with sterile white walls and green armchairs, and then a doctor comes in with a face that tells me he's bearing bad news.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hartman," the doctor says, and I panic. No, no, no, no, no. Not my Ollie. "There's no easy way to say this—but the crash broke your wife's neck."

Dead on impact.

We couldn't save her.

She's gone.

My hands tremble because, this whole time, I was so focused on him that I didn't even consider the possibility that she could be hurt. How could I? She's my mom. I could never imagine a world where she doesn't exist.

My knees hit the ground as I wail, my hands finding my hair again. Malia is there in an instant, but she can't soothe me. No one can. I'm gone.

And then I feel it, physically feel it.

The way my heart is cracking, breaking, shattering, splintering into little pieces.

Because I didn't just lose her.

I lost him, too.

Nothing will ever be the same.

For even if I love him more than life, he did this. He did this to me—to us. And I can never be with him again. It would be a betrayal to my mom.

And that's something I refuse to be.

A fucking traitor.

After a while, a nurse comes to get us from the waiting room and directs us to where Ollie is admitted. I practically speed walk there, ready to fucking kill him, but when I see how fucked up he already looks, my steps falter. My heart skips a couple of beats and then rearranges itself in my chest, and I breathe in through my nose slowly.

Everything disappears—everyone. It's as if my dad and Malia don't exist anymore. And when I ask them for a moment alone with him, they don't hesitate. I don't think Conrad is ready to face Ollie right now. I think he blames him for my mom's death just as much as I do.

I sit at the foot of the bed and simply stare at Ollie. At the bandage on his head—the crusted blood running down his face. They didn't clean him, and for one split second, that pisses me off. Then I remember what he did, and I sober up. I shouldn't give a fuck about what happens to him anymore.

Ollie opens his eyes slowly, and he seems confused, but when our eyes connect, I show him just how angry I am. How much I hate him now. How he broke us, and how we'll never be the same. How we'll never have another shot because he ruined it. Once upon a time, I told myself I'd take him back if he got clean, but now? There's no fucking way.

I shake my head, my heart in my throat, and tears threatening to make their way out of my eyes. My lips purse and I whisper, "How could you?"

Tears trail down Ollie's face, and he opens his mouth to say something but then snaps it shut when I get out of bed and speed walk to the side of the bed. I grab him by the front of his hospital gown and scream, "How fucking could you?!"

"I'm—" Ollie closes his eyes and says through trembling lips, "So sorry."

He doesn't look at me; he just stares down at his hands.

"Fuck you and your apologies, Oliver." He cringes at the way I say his name. I know he has always hated it, and this time, I'm doing it to inflict pain. Because fuck him. He deserves all the pain in the world right now. I hope it brings him to his knees. I hope he finally finishes what he started today. "I hate you."

Crying out, Oliver grabs onto my arms, tightening his grip on me the closer I bring him to my face. Our foreheads touch, and I rest mine against his. The urge to kiss him one last time is so strong, and I hate myself even more for it. "No, please." Ollie whimpers, breaking me out of my thoughts. "You don't mean it."

"You've ruined—everything," I growl, and my tears finally betray me, making a hot trail down my face. "How could you do this to me? To us ?"

"I'm sorry," Ollie whispers hoarsely. "I wish I could take it all back—I'm sorry!"

" Fuck ." I let go of his gown, my hands trembling as he falls back onto his pillow. " You ."

I debate walking away. In fact, I turn around as if I'm going to. At the last second however, I cock my fist back and hit him right in the eye. I hear a crunch of bone and watch as blood spills out of the broken skin, and he cries out. I momentarily stare down at my ring—our ring—and see the blood on it. My heart sinks for one moment, seeing how I've hurt him. But no, he deserved it. Still deserves it. So I pull my arm back and hit him again—this time his jaw.

It doesn't make me feel better.

Instead, I feel worse.

Seeing as, at the end of the day, no amount of pain will bring her back. No amount of pain will prevent this. No amount of pain will turn back time and bring him back to me.

"I fucking hate you!" I scream, and it's visceral. I feel it rattling my bones, my teeth, my brain. "You're fucking dead to me!"

This time, I do walk away, mostly because if I don't, I might just kill him. So I open the door and don't stop walking until I see Malia. And then I fall to my knees and scream. She's there to catch me as I fall, and maybe, just maybe, this means she's the right person for me.

Because he sure as fuck wasn't.

It was all a lie.

The love he said he had for me has crushed me.

And if that's what it's like to be in love?

I don't want anything to do with it ever again.