Chapter 24 - Hunter

PRESENT DAY

T he North Carolina heat is searing in August, and my t-shirt is drenched in sweat as I sit in front of my mother's headstone. The longer I sit here, the more it feels like I will have a heat stroke. But I don't even care. This is as close as I can get to her nowadays, and I rarely get to come see her. It's probably weird as hell for other people to see me talking to a grave, or maybe they understand exactly where I'm coming from. Only to me, it's therapeutic, another way of grieving her.

It's only been a few months since she was taken from me.

The pain of her death is still a fresh wound in my heart, gaping and bleeding profusely. She was my best friend—Oliver's too. Not that he fucking matters anymore. It's his fault she died. If he hadn't been high that night and barely coherent, she would've never driven in the rain. She would've been cocooned in the safety of her home, where she belonged. I should've done more that night. I should've been the one to drive him to the hospital.

It should've been me—me who died.

And that's another type of guilt I wish I could rid myself of. A fresh wave of it hits me every single day, making me question everything about my life. Even hockey has stopped bringing me joy. The ice no longer feels like a safe place, instead just another chore to get through. Everything has stopped making sense.

"I'm sorry, Mom." I choke on the last word. "I should've been the one. I didn't protect you when you needed me."

There's no reply.

But if I had to guess, she'd tell me it wasn't my fault. To move on. To be happy. But how can I do any of those things when a massive part of my heart is missing? No matter how much I hate him, he is still a part of me. Now, a visceral pain has taken residence in my heart for more reasons than one. And I don't know how to fucking make it stop. I don't know how to forget this—and him. All I know is that I need to. For the sake of my mental health, I need to move on from the fact that he killed my mom. Forgetting he ever existed will be the hardest thing I've ever done—but it's necessary.

Looking into his eyes, I smile and brush my nose against his.

"I need you, Blue."

"Take me," he whispers against my lips. "I'm yours."

"Fuck!" I growl, getting up from the hot grass and brushing off my basketball shorts. "He was never mine, Mom," I cry out. "He lied, and I fucking hate him."

I don't know why it still hurts so damn much. I have an amazing girlfriend. So tell me why there's this void that can't be filled? Well, I guess that's a lie. It's been filled with rage and hatred, and pain . What bothers me more than anything is that after a year of being with her, nothing feels like it did with him. Which makes no sense—I'm not fucking gay. I can't be. No one would accept me, especially not my dad. I've seen how he treats Oliver for it. So, no, I'm not gay. Regardless of my feelings for Oliver, I can confidently say I've never been attracted to other men, and that's scarier than if I were. Because where does that leave me? I don't like women, but I don't like guys either.

Am I broken?

Malia and I aren't happening, however. As much as she thinks we're endgame, I'm just not feeling her as much as she's feeling me. I say I love you because it's the right thing to do—the nice thing to do. I'm not a pushover, but I don't want to hurt her either. She's been a really good friend to me, though maybe that's all I see her as, no matter how badly I want to feel more. She thinks we're getting married and having kids, and I know I should cut this off before it goes too far, but I need someone. And she gives that to me—a safe place. A shoulder to cry on. More than anything, I'm afraid to be alone —mainly because I already feel like I am.

My footsteps crunch on the rocky path leading back to the parking lot, and I focus on my breaths to hold back the tears trying to push past my eyelids. I hate coming here. I cry for hours after every visit, but the alternative is worse. Not coming hits me harder. How can I leave my mom behind? There's no way I could live with myself.

Riverdale University has been my home for the past three years, and I'm now entering my senior year. Before the accident, I was a different person. All that mattered to me were the things that mattered to a stupid popular jock. Getting laid—even if I felt nothing—and winning games. I kept up with my grades because if I failed, I wouldn't get to play. I am the captain of the hockey team. I have to play.

Except now my priorities have shifted. I don't care about fucking my way through college anymore. In fact, that's why I have Malia. I don't need that shit anymore. I figured settling down was something that eventually needed to happen. At first, we were just fuck buddies for a very long time. At least for the sake of upholding my image. But then my mom died, and it felt like my mom would've wanted me to be a better person. And more than anything, I want to be someone she's proud of. Unlike my fucking brother—who I can't even bring myself to think of for more than a few minutes a day. Because if I do, I'll never dig myself out of this damn hole.

Oliver's a disappointment. And he knows that.

We haven't talked at all since she passed. Not since I told him I never wanted to see him again. He hasn't sought me out, and I've tried my hardest to not give a fuck. After all, I told him I hated him.

You're fucking dead to me.

That's what I told him.

Did I mean it? Yes, in the heat of the moment. Would I wish him dead? I don't think I have it in me to. We've been brothers since we were ten years old. His dad is my dad—considering the one who came in my mom is a piece of shit who didn't want a kid. Said he was too young and had a life ahead of him that didn't involve me. So no, I've never met him. And that's just fine by me.

My little family was enough—until it wasn't.

Unlocking my car, I get in and turn the key in the ignition. I blast the A/C, mostly because the leather seats are scorching hot. Just as I'm about to pull out of the parking spot, my phone begins to ring. I reverse and peel out, answering at the same time.

"Are you going fast again?" Dad chuckles. "I can hear your tires begging me to put them out of their misery."

"They've never been happier." I chuckle back. "Hey, Dad. How's it going?"

"Oh, you know. Same old, same old." He clears his throat. "Did you visit her today?"

Her.

Lucy.

Mom.

"Yeah." Tears sting my eyes again, but I don't let them fall. "I miss her," I whisper.

Just when I think he didn't hear me, he says, "I miss her too, son." My dad clears his throat again. "So, listen."

"Yeah?" I narrow my eyes at the road.

"We need to talk."

"About?"

"That apartment I pay for?" I tense. He never brings up that he pays for stuff, so he's about to ask for something that I know will piss me off. No . "I need you to share it."

I take a deep breath in. "With who, Dad?"

"Um..." He seems flustered, although I can't get a good read on him. I should be able to, considering we talk almost every day. But, right now? He's nervous, and that's the only thing I can tell. "Oliver."

My hackles rise, and I tighten my grip on the steering wheel until my knuckles crack and turn white. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"He's done with rehab, Hunt." Dad sighs, "And I need you to make sure he stays clean. I can't just let him throw his life away. Your mom would've never wanted that."

No.

"Don't you dare bring Mom into this," I growl, my sweaty shirt sticking to my back. I feel nasty, and I just want to get home. Not have this stupid conversation. "It's not happening."

"Your mom died trying to get him help, Hunter," he replies. "Do you truly think she'd want him to go down this path again? He needs to be supervised. He has to turn his life around."

"So what?" I laugh, but it holds no humor. "I'm just a babysitter now?"

"See it however you'd like." Oh, yeah. I'm a glorified babysitter. Great. It's not fucking happening, though. I don't give a shit what he does with his life. He could overdose right now, and I'd feel nothing . "But he's living there, and that's the end of it. If you don't want to interact, suit yourself. However I do need to know if he's acting fishy."

"I'm not fucking reporting on him," I snap. "I don't give a fuck about what he does."

"Then, at least stay out of his way." I can just imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. "He's going to live with you. That's the end of it."

"Fuck this," I growl, then hang up.

As soon as I do, Numb from Sleep Theory begins to play on the Bluetooth. It relaxes me instantly, and I loosen my grip on the steering wheel as I make my way back to Raleigh. The traffic is awful, yet I manage to not lose my shit for once. Maybe I'm a grumpy driver, but I don't care. I'm impatient and hate waiting a long time to get places. I probably shouldn't live in the city.

Soon enough, I'm parked back at the apartment complex right in front of my building. That's one of the perks of not living in student housing: I don't have to worry about parking at the dorms, especially when there's a crazy party going on. Not that I don't throw my own parties here, but usually, I let people know that there are no parking spaces and they need to get an Uber. It's safer that way anyway, since everyone is always getting hammered.

Once inside my apartment, I look around, trying to visualize how the hell I'm going to share eight hundred square feet with someone I can't even stand to look at. The space is fucking small, with a tiny living room filled with a small sectional couch and a TV. I couldn't share with him if I tried. In fact, I might make it a rule that he has to stay in his fucking room—right next to mine. The only thing dividing us would be the thinnest wall known to humanity.

Will Oliver bring guys to fuck in here? Would he stoop that low?

And don't even get me started on the tiny circular dining table for two. I can't possibly be expected to share meals with him. This is going to fuck up my entire schedule. Now I will have to figure out where to eat—maybe the dining hall on campus. Being that there's no way I could breathe the same air as him for longer than a few seconds without having the urge to snap his pretty little neck. Maybe then I'd finally be able to get him out of my head.

I remove my shirt, take it to my room, and drop it in the hamper. The cool air feels good on my skin, and I drop my pants too, ready to jump in the shower. Except that just as I make my way across the hallway to open the bathroom door, I hear the lock turn and the front door open.

My body heats from the inside out, and I freeze, shutting my eyes. I take a deep breath, trying to calm the erratic thumping of my heart, before walking to the living room, where I hear the door slam closed.

Oliver stands at the entrance, frozen in what I see is fear—much to my satisfaction. He should be scared. He should be terrified. I don't know how long we stand there, sizing each other up. When he finally gathers enough courage, he begins to wheel his luggage in. It looks like he's moved all his shit in here, and that same anger returns in full force.

He looks the same as he did all those months ago—except better. Even from here, I notice his eyes are no longer bloodshot. The dimness in them has disappeared, bringing a brightness to the icy blue that makes me uncomfortable. He shouldn't be getting better while she's dead. There's something majorly wrong with that.

Oliver's hair is still the same length as always. Cropped short on the sides and longer on top, floppy dark hair over his eyes. One of his arms is covered in tattoos from neck to fingers. He's dressed in his usual. Ripped black jeans and a band t-shirt, and painted purple nails.

How fucking cute.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" I growl, my fists tightening at my sides.

"Moving in," Oliver smirks, then looks down at his shoes. My body heats momentarily at the sight of his snake bite piercings, and I force myself to tear my gaze away from his lips. When we make eye contact again, he seems to be pleading with me. But I don't care about what he wants. "Dad told you, yes?"

"I don't give a fuck about what dad said, Oliver." He flinches, his lips tightening. "As far as you're concerned—well, I don't want to see you. Got it?"

"And how is that gonna be possible, Hunter?" His eyes narrow on mine, and I briefly remember what a defiant little shit he is. Brat . "We live together. We're going to see each other."

"Well—make sure I don't see you ." I grin, and he takes a step back when I step forward. "Or I might just beat your stupid ass again."

I turn around, but he's brave enough to mutter under his breath. "I'm not fucking scared of you."

"What was that?" Sweat trickles down my spine, and the urge to hit him is almost too much to contain. "Say it to my face."

Facing him once more, Oliver makes his way right up to me, stopping only when his black Converse almost step on my bare toes. "I said," He grins. "I'm not scared of you, Green."

"Don't call me that," I repeat his last words to me before the accident, but his grin never drops. Is he fucking high?

"What are you gonna do about it?"

Yeah, Hunter. What are you gonna do?

"Just stay out of my way," I mutter, leaving him behind and slamming the bathroom door.

I don't know how the hell I'm going to survive this.

Or how he is.