Chapter 25 - Oliver

A low rumble of laughter slips past my lips as Hunter slams a door shut, and it's not lost on me that he's always leaving me behind. Maybe this is my Karma for all the fucked up shit I've done in my life—but mostly for being the reason his mom— our mom —is dead. Yeah, I don't really think there will ever be enough Karma to make up for that. I firmly believe that no matter what happens to me from now on…I will never be able to make up for this.

I finally relax now that Hunt is out of sight, pulling air deep into my lungs. It's safe to say I'm not getting a tour, not that I'll need it. There's no way I could get lost in here either way. As Dad mentioned, this apartment has only two bedrooms. And from the looks of the small living and dining areas, I don't think there's a single place where he and I won't run into each other.

Fuck.

Just my luck.

Padding across the small space of the apartment, I head toward the only place left—the hallway. It's narrow, with bare, bright white walls. It's evident the apartment belongs to a college student, well, more like a guy. There's no personality in here. Not that it matters to me; it's just a place to sleep. I'll likely spend most of my time at the art studio, painting my life away.

There are three doors in the short hallway, two on the left right next to each other and one on the right side. I can hear the shower running, and the light from the door on the right side illuminates the hardwood floor. So I guess that only leaves me with two options…and really, deciding which room I go into first is a coin toss. Part of me wants to see his while also knowing I should stay in my lane and get in my room as quickly as possible. So I take a deep breath and?—

Open the door.

The smell of citrus and smoke hits my nostrils as soon as I open it, and my nostrils flare as I try to take in more of the soothing scent. I'm suddenly enveloped in warmth, taken back to memories of us…of home . I'm taken back to another time, a simpler time. When the only things that mattered were being tucked in bed with Hunter, trying to stay quiet so our parents didn't hear us, and driving around aimlessly in his passenger seat while listening to my favorite songs—the ones he says he hates but secretly loves.

I sweep my gaze over the room, wanting to memorize it while simultaneously looking for clues as to who Hunter Hartman has become. One thing is still the same as always, that's for sure. A shelf above his queen-sized bed is filled to the brim with trophies. It reminds me of his room at home, except he's brought them all with him now. I should've expected that, but it still hits hard. That we no longer have that safe space that existed just for us. That house— that room —has a lot of memories I never want to let go of.

There's a desk right next to the bed, all black wood. The room is filled with neutral colors, so like Hunter, it makes me smile. His gray bedspread is tucked and made up because he's a neat freak, and even the textbooks on his desk are piled up on top of each other in a way that has them aligned perfectly. His dark green backpack hangs off the chair by the strap.

"I love you, Green." I cup his face, looking into his dark green orbs.

"I love you, Blue," Hunter says softly with a smile, but I can't tell if he means it as brothers…or more.

I hate how much he's fucked with my head.

I'm about to close the door when I notice something at the end of his bed. A quilt. But not just any quilt. It's mom's quilt. A beige knitted quilt with gray flowers on it. She made it herself, and it was her favorite. I guess it makes sense that he'd be given first dibs on the things she left behind, especially with him being her biological son. But damn, it still hurts. I didn't get anything since I was in rehab.

I breathe in deeply one more time, trying to memorize his scent. It smells of quiet nights tucked into Hunter's side. Of protection and safety—all of it giving me a false sense of security that I know I don't deserve. So I take a step back and close the door.

I wheel my suitcases to the next room, shoving everything in it and locking the door behind me. I try not to think of him; I swear I do. But Hunter Michael Hartman has my heart in a chokehold, and I don't think he's ever letting go.

I am so pathetic.

Pining for the one person in the world who wants nothing to do with me. The one person who makes me feel things I've never felt before. I hate that he hasn't changed. I hate his light brown hair and his smile, and I hate the sneer on his face. I hate his green eyes. Yet, wanting him is inevitable.

The same way we are.

I busy myself by opening my suitcases and putting things away in their new spot. Before long, everything is hung up or in a drawer, and I put my suitcases in the walk-in closet. It's a spacious room, considering how small the apartment is. My queen-sized bed is against the far wall—connected to Hunter's wall—so it leaves more space to be used. And I know it's perfect for what I'm going to do.

Draping a huge blanket on the hardwood floor, I line up my acrylic paints and canvases on it, knowing I'll likely start to paint something tonight. Creating is as easy as breathing for me, and just as crucial to my survival. It doesn't matter that the things I create have usually brought me pain at some point. Maybe that's why most of my paintings are of Hunter nowadays. Go figure.

I leave her letters for last.

It's hard to reach for them, knowing they'll only make me hurt even more. As if being here in this apartment is not the definition of cruel and unusual punishment. I don't know why Dad refused to pay for a dorm; he has the money. I think he knows deep down that Hunter hates me…and maybe he thinks if he shoves us into a tiny space together, we will be able to make up. But that's not happening, because I fucked up. No matter how much I beg, cry, or apologize, nothing will make it better again. She's dead, and I can't bring her back.

Even if I didn't kill her…

My mom's handwriting is barely legible through my tears, and the paper looks distorted. But still, I look at the words on the paper like they're my lifeline. And maybe they are. God knows I've come so close to not being here anymore. Living with the guilt of her death has driven me to make stupid choices—like coming back to his college. I'm torn between wanting to join her and making her proud.

Lucy used to do this thing for us, where she would write us a letter for each of our birthdays. I have ten of them—and I'm jealous of Hunter for it. He has twice as many as me, considering I came into her life much later. Grabbing the most recent birthday letter, I glance over it until I reach the end and choke on a sob. I cover my mouth, keeping the sounds in, hoping Hunter doesn't hear me.

I love you a bushel and a peck,

Mom.

I love you too, Mom. I miss you so much, it physically hurts.

Wiping my face, I hear the sound of the front door, and my eyes narrow. Isn't Hunter still in the shower? Who else has a key to this place? Then I hear the bathroom door close as well and voices coming from far away.

A girl.

Malia .

My stomach drops, and I get up to turn off the light. I'm not going back out there tonight, especially not to watch him purposely be all over her just to hurt me. So I guess I'm heading to sleep. Or as close to sleep as possible with the commotion coming from next door.

Even if I can't see him, he's still putting on a fucking show for me.

I can hear the way he's slamming her against the door, probably with her legs wrapped around his waist. Her giggles say a lot, like maybe he doesn't usually act this way with her. It's a shame, because goddamn is he hot when he does it. She's probably melting into a fucking puddle, just like I once had with him.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath.

"Take it off, Malia," Hunter growls. "Let me see those pretty little tits."

Fuck. You. Hunter.

More commotion.

The bed creaking.

And then a fist slams against the wall.

I can literally imagine his body under me, all lines and hard edges, grabbing onto my hips and rubbing me over his length. The way his eyes sparkled in the darkness when I brushed my finger under the head of his dick—the way his mouth always opened on a gasp when I took him to the back of my throat…

"Yes." Hunter groans. "Just like that."

I flinch, tears stinging the back of my eyes. I know he's doing it on purpose, and I shouldn't let it bother me, but this shit has my heart splintering into a tiny million pieces. I should hate him as he hates me, but even after this, I can't.

My little infatuation hasn't died yet—but I'm determined to change that. I'll fuck my way through college if that's what it takes to kill it off. And I know for a fact he hates me enough to not care about what I do.

"You like that, babe?" he asks Malia, and I hear her moan her confirmation, just like I once did with him.

"You like that, baby?" he whispers, tightening his grip around our cocks and brushing his thumb over the little nerve under the head on the upstroke.

I moan and nod at the same time, "F-f-fuck, Hunt." His mouth opens on a gasp, and his breathing turns ragged. I know he's about to— "I'm gonna come," I whimper. "I'm coming."

I can't do this.

Turning over in bed, I put my pillow over my head and close my eyes. Then, I cry. Seeing as that's all I have left to do. And when no more tears flow out, my body shakes with silent sobs anyway.

I wish I was high.