Chapter 37 - Oliver

F our months clean flushed down the drain. Just. Like. That.

I feel sick to my stomach just thinking about it. Defeated doesn't even begin to cover it. I can't believe I let Lucy down like that—one step forward, one thousand steps back. I didn't just slide back, I also tripped and fell on my face.

After four months of sobriety, I forgot how fucked up the comedown is from the Oxy. Maybe I didn't truly forget, maybe my brain just plays tricks on me to convince me to use again. Before I went to rehab, I was at a point where I needed more and more and more in order to feel high. It was a dangerous place to be because I needed more pills to feel the high, like in the beginning, and it didn't matter if it killed me as long as I could feel the rush. And the problem is that, what was next? Heroin?

Eventually, when consuming pills, there comes a time when you're just surviving. You don't score to just get high; you do it because, without it, you'll go into withdrawals… and that feels worse than dying. An overdose would be a mercy.

My usual dose didn't bring me a high anymore. It was mostly an itch I needed to scratch—one that I didn't ever want to ignore. And yet, I had to scratch it several times a day. It was miserable, living my life minute by minute, hour by hour, until I needed to feed the monster again. It ruled my life. When Lucy died, I promised myself I wouldn't let the pills control me ever again. And yet here I am, three days sober.

A fucking failure .

I sit in the very back and listen to a man talk about how he's been sober for over twenty years, and my eyes sting. Hunter was right. I'm a disappointment, a fucking disgrace. I can't believe I ever thought things between us could go back to how they used to be. I'm not worthy of him. I'm not worthy of anyone. Fuck him, and fuck being sober.

Even the promise of death tastes sweet on my lips as long as I'm numb when I go.

Pressing my hands against my eye sockets, I rock back and forth in my chair. I don't look up to see who's staring at me; frankly, I don't care enough. I wish I brought Jamie with me for emotional support, but I haven't been honest with him about who I am. What I am. An addict. A junkie. A disaster of a human being. I can't control myself or my urges, and I'm a disappointment to my family and my loved ones.

To top it off, I don't know if I care enough. Why should I? My dad has never cared about me, and the love of my life wants nothing to do with me.

The past few days have been weird with him taking care of me. I know now everything will go back to normal again—and he won't care about me anymore. However, for a few days, I could pretend. Pretend he gave a fuck about me. Pretend things could've been whole again. Pretend there wasn't a chasm between us. But pretending doesn't do me any good. It's better for me to have my feet firmly planted on the ground. Maybe in another life, we would've been good together, but this thing between us—it's a fucking tragedy.

Lisa—the woman at the podium—keeps talking about how one day clean is a miracle. She's been clean for eighteen years, so of course, it feels that way. But I don't feel like a miracle. She keeps saying that this is a judgment-free zone. That people here are understanding and will help each other. Help me help you stay sober, she says. And for some reason, it all sounds like bullshit to me. So why am I sitting up in my seat, back ramrod straight, when she asks if anyone wants to share? Why am I looking around to see if someone volunteers? And why am I standing up when no one else does?

My hands shake and sweat as I walk up to the podium from the very back of the room. I was thinking this would all be a fluke, and soon enough, I'd be leaving and never coming back. Yet here I am, sharing. Am I seeking some sort of validation here? Is that what this is? I don't know, but someone needs to stop me from making a fool of myself, please .

I stand at the podium and clear my throat, my neck, and face heating with all eyes on me. There are a lot of people here, and they're all giving me their attention. I decide to focus on the back of the room instead. Looking at no one in particular.

Gathering some strength, I clear my throat again. Fuck . "Hi, my name is Ollie, and I'm an addict." My voice cracks at the last word, and I try to remind myself that I can recover. "I'm three days sober." I pause, looking around, and people clap. "My drug of choice is Oxy. It has been since I was eighteen years old. I won't get into why I started using. It was a petty decision I made—one that ruined my life."

I take a deep breath and try not to cry.

"I'm here today because life has been hard lately. And I won't lie, I want to use. I want it so damn bad." I close my eyes so I don't have to see the faces of the people I'm confessing my deepest secrets to. "Last May, I caused my mom's death. She was taking me to the hospital, thinking I was overdosing. I took more than I usually did…and I was incoherent."

I pause, opening my eyes and looking around.

I see nothing but understanding on each face, making me breathe a little easier. At the end of the day, even if they judge me, I know they've done fucked up things due to the drugs too. Everyone in here has been a sinner at some point.

"She was speeding in the rain. I asked her to stop." I say hoarsely, tears gathering in my eyes and tracking down my cheeks. "But she wouldn't. We crashed, and she was killed on impact. I thought I wouldn't survive her death…but here I am. Still breathing. It pushed me to get sober."

Another pause.

More silence.

"I went to rehab and thought long and hard about sobriety. I thought long and hard about my steps and a sponsor, and I thought I could make it on my own—without community." I swallow hard. "I was so fucking wrong. I was clean for four months, and even though I thought I wasn't struggling, I was. All it took was a little shove in the wrong direction, and I caved. It was my fault, I got the drugs. I told myself I wouldn't take them, except let's be serious. I was going to no matter what I told myself." I smile tightly. "I'm three days sober and don't feel like a miracle. Instead, I feel like I failed. I failed my mom. I failed myself. I failed everyone around me." I failed Hunter. "I hope to one day look back and see this as my last time. I've been told that if you don't remember every detail of your last time, it wasn't your last time. And I remember every single thing. I'm here to acknowledge I need help. I will accept help. I need a sponsor." I look at Lisa, who nods. "And in one year, I hope to still be sober." I pause. "So, here's to sobriety."

Cheers erupt, and I smile, even though all I want to do is sob. I bite my cheek to keep it in, drawing blood. It grounds me, though, and as I go back to my seat, I realize it feels like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Even my chest feels lighter, like all my emotions are no longer crushing it.

The meeting ends, but I stick around. I don't know why. Lisa comes to me immediately, standing at my side. "Are you a hugger?" she asks.

"I could use a hug," I reply with a small shrug.

Lisa envelops me in her warmth and pulls back. "Congratulations on three days sober." She says softly. "The first few days are the hardest, but I'm glad you found a meeting. You said you need a sponsor. Have you met anyone?"

"I haven't." I shake my head. "I don't even know how to get started."

"Well, I have been sober for eighteen years. My drug of choice was heroin."

I understand she has to share this with me to make me more comfortable, but I don't know how I feel about it yet. Maybe she's doing it so I don't feel like a fuck up, but I don't think anything is going to make those feelings disappear.

"I firmly believe that you were at this meeting for a reason, and maybe that reason was for you to find me. I know you don't believe one day is a miracle, but I do. I'll help you stay sober. I'll check in with you every day, and I'll make sure you come to meetings. I want you to know that I'd rather you be here, even if you're thinking of using, than not be here and dreaming about getting sober."

I nod once. "Okay." She beams at me, and my stomach tightens. She appears so damn happy…and I'm just…not that way right now. Although she does give me a little bit of hope. Hope that I can get through this. "Will you be my sponsor?"

Lisa jumps and claps. "Yes!"

The next few minutes are spent talking and exchanging phone numbers. We agree to meet up later in the week for coffee or dinner, and then I'm on my way home.

But this time, I promise myself I'll make it to one year sober.

One step at a time.

There's a knock at the door, and I hurry over to it, fixing my hair for the millionth time. Hunter watches me from the couch, a scowl on his face as he turns his attention back to his video game, his lips pursed and eyes tightening at the corners. Right now, he looks much older than his twenty years of age, and it makes me sad for him. I don't say anything about it—but I've heard him crying at night once or twice, and it breaks my fucking heart. Lucy's death hit him hard, and how could it not? He's always been a momma's boy.

It's been a few days since I've felt better, and we're back to our usual distance. After he kissed me and cuddled me to sleep, I woke up to an empty bed. That was our agreement, but it didn't hurt any less. Since then, he's been a shell of himself. He barely looks at me, and he definitely doesn't talk to me.

I've been wanting to act out, just to get his attention. Which is why I invited Jamie to the auction tonight. As my date. I could go alone, yet I also want to get a rise out of Hunter. If only because I miss him acting like he cares, even if it's for a few seconds. The look of pure jealousy and rage crossing his face right now is enough to hold me over for a few more days. It may be immature, but I don't care. I need it.

I smirk and open the door, and just as expected, Jamie whistles and pushes past me. "Goddamn." He grins, "You clean up real good, Oliver."

My name on his lips doesn't bother me, probably because he doesn't mean the world to me. And that's exactly how I want to keep this—a strict friendship. Yet here I am, unable to help myself as I smile back. For Hunter's benefit, I say, "Look at you," I chuckle. "You look hot as fuck."

Jamie takes a hold of my hand and spins me in a circle like we're dancing, and I feel Hunter's eyes on us as we giggle like fucking idiots. He huffs from across the room, and I turn my face to see him watching us with interest—and disdain. He gets up from the couch and closes the distance between us, pulling me away from Jamie. Only Jamie doesn't look concerned in the slightest as he looks between us with a smirk.

"I'll meet you outside," Jamie says with a smile.

"Okay." I nod, then turn around to face Hunter.

There's anger lining his features as he scans me from my toes all the way to my face, a furrow in his brows. He invades my space, closing the distance between us until his nose brushes against mine, and his hand cups the back of my head, fingers getting lost in my hair. I close my eyes and relish in the feeling, his nails scraping my scalp softly.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he asks, and it reminds me of the time he convinced me not to go on a date. Except this isn't what's happening. He's not going to sweep me off my feet again and keep me.

"Going out."

"On a date?" he asks through gritted teeth.

"Does it matter?" I search his eyes, search for answers, yet all I see are questions. "Why do you care?"

"You know it matters, Blue," he whispers. "Fuck."

I sigh and try to push away from him, but he doesn't let me, tightening his hand in my hair until it's painful. I'm sure he's giving me bedhead, and I'm going to have to fix it again, but right now, I can't bring myself to care. "Why are you doing this?"

"I can't—" His voice breaks. "I can't watch you?—"

I chuckle. "What?" He stiffens. "You can't watch me live my life?"

And just barely audible over the wild beating of my heart, he says, "Not without me in it."

"Fuck," I growl. "Make up your fucking mind, Hunter. You won't have me, but you won't let me go either." His breath hitches. "Let me go," I croak. "Please. Don't do this."

Hunter closes his eyes. He stays frozen, and I'm almost afraid of what he will do. But at the same time, all I can think of is our loss of contact, how I want it— crave it—back.

"Where are you going?" he asks, though it's not a demand. It's almost as if he's genuinely curious about how I'm spending my time.

"An auction. I have a painting to sell." Of you.

"That's—amazing." He grins and I return it. "Behave, Blue."

I smirk and whisper back, "Never, Green."

Then I turn on my heel and leave, closing the door behind me and running into Jamie. He steadies me, a look of concern crossing his features, but he doesn't say anything. The walk back to the car is quick, and I get buckled in fast. I don't particularly feel like talking about this, but either way, I brace myself for the questions I know are coming my way.

And just as expected, he wastes no time.

"So." He chuckles, pulling out of the parking lot and getting on the main road that leads to the interstate. "What was that about? And don't say nothing."

"I'm an addict," I blurt, not having told him this before. My hands shake at the possibility that I just made a mistake. But Jamie's features don't change, he just waits for me to elaborate. "Let's just say thanks to my fuck up, his mom is dead. He hates me, Jamie. I don't blame him; I only wish I didn't love him."

"What happened?"

I proceed to tell him everything, from the time when Hunter and I were seniors in high school to the moment I put a pill on my tongue and swallowed it dry. The way Hunter distanced himself from me, and how painful it was. It only drove me to seek more Oxy, knowing he wanted nothing to do with me. I had to survive the pain of his loss somehow, and I was stupid enough to go further down the rabbit hole rather than out of it. Getting clean crossed my mind many times over, but it was already too late. I was hooked.

My hands shake as I tell him about the night I came home high, how I took four pills and sat in the car for too long—long enough for them to kick in and make me a zombie. He listens intently, and when I tell him about Lucy freaking out, his breath hitches. It's as if he knows what comes next, and I confirm it when I say that she drove in the pouring rain to take me to the hospital, only to die trying.

"Wow," he whispers. "That's fucking heavy, Ollie."

My stomach drops. "So you see now?" I chuckle without an ounce of humor in it. "He will never love me again."

"I think you're wrong," he tells me, "I think he never stopped."

"But he won't act on it." I shrug. "He doesn't want to love me."

"It probably hurts him just as much as it hurts you," Jamie replies, his voice full of empathy.

"Why are you defending him?" I demand. "Why are you siding with him right now? I'm supposed to be your friend, not him."

"I'm not defending him." He reaches over to squeeze my hand, and I let him. "I'm making an observation. I'm sorry if it came out that way."

I deflate in my seat, and he keeps hold of my hand. "Enough heaviness for tonight," I say, trying to fix my hair with one hand. "I'm supposed to be happy."

"You're right." He chuckles. "Let's go get your painting sold."

The rest of the ride goes by in comfortable silence, and we're standing at the gallery before we know it. There are paintings everywhere, perfect splashes of color spread out. From abstracts to portraits and everything in between, I take it in. We walk around for what feels like forever, and my eyes linger on the portrait of a naked Hunter. It's my masterpiece, truly. Probably my best work yet, and I'm fucking proud of it.

After what feels like a lifetime, someone finally makes his way to my painting. He observes the play on colors, how I've mixed some abstracts onto the face to keep it barely recognizable, and the different colors I've played with. The paint drips in splatters down the canvas. Off his face and body. And fuck, I suddenly wish I could keep it.

"Is this yours?" the man asks, running a hand through his blond waves. His blue eyes bore into mine, and a shy smile tilts one side of his mouth.

"It is," I answer, a blush creeping to my cheeks. I'm not embarrassed by my art, but how he's staring at it…it suddenly makes me feel shy. "It's called The Hunter ."

"I like the play on greens." He grins as he gives it a slow perusal. "The face is interesting. Did you do that on purpose?"

"Yes." I gesture to the mosaic effect, giving the face the glass shards effect I worked so hard on. "I didn't want him to be recognized."

"How much?"

I gulp, thinking back to what the professor advised. It sounds like too much—but then again, the rich people come here for a reason. Either way, it feels odd to price it this high when I'm a nobody. "Thirty-thousand."

The man just grins, "Sold."

I rear back. Because, really? That easy? What does he see in it? What makes a person pay thirty thousand dollars for a painting? It seems excessive. But still, my exhale expels all the relief from my body, my shoulders dropping, and my head swimming just a bit.

Jamie squeezes my shoulder and grins. "I'll take you over to Ms. Jones." The lady who takes payment and ensures delivery. "If you'll follow me this way."

"Thank you," I tell the man, "Are you from here?"

"Yes." He grins. "I'm opening a club in a few days. It's called Vybe." A pause, and then his smile widens. "You should come."

I've heard of it—the new gay club. Does he know? Am I that obvious? "Sounds good." I beam. "We'll be there."

With that, they walk away, and I run a hand down my face in disbelief. Holy fuck, I just sold a painting. Not just any painting—no. A painting of the most important person in my life. He's going to freak the fuck out if he ever finds out, but even he won't be able to deny it's my best one yet.

It's my masterpiece.