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I can’t admit something like that.
But it’s true.
She already knows it.
All I would be doing by saying it is stopping my denial. I would quit lying to myself. I would have to follow through. She wouldn’t let me get away with it if I didn’t. My hand falls and I close my eyes, feeling like I might throw up at any second.
It’s Olivia. I’ve talked to her more than anyone else. Ever. That says a lot, especially when I haven’t really talked to her much. I could tell her.
Right?
My head shakes as I change my mind. My feet are rooted in place. I need to make a decision. Leaning forward, I rest my head against the doorframe and close my eyes.
Now or never.
Where is my strength when I need it? Talk doesn’t mean much when I can’t follow through. How am I to say I’m this strong guy when I can’t do something as seemingly simple as tell the truth and admit I need help to the one person I could actually say those words to?
Maybe I’m nothing but a coward.
No.
I need help. I want it. I need to say it.
My eyes open and I lift my hand, keeping my head in place as I watch it hover an inch from the door. Two knocks. That’s all I need to do. My fist clenches tighter and I want to bang my head against the wall. I’m in bad shape when I can’t even knock on a fucking door.
“Corey?”
My hand falls as I stand upright to see Olivia watching me carefully, her arms full of groceries.
“Everything okay?”
Lie or tell the truth?
Squeezing my eyes closed and taking a deep breath, I shake my head. When I hear her moving towards me, I open my eyes again.
“Take some of these bags, so I can get my key,” she says gently, like she knows I’m close to breaking. I take the bags from her, stepping to the side, so she can let us inside. She leads me into the kitchen and we set the bags on the table. Olivia glances at me, doing that seeing-into-your-soul shit I hate, and then says, “If you take the stuff out of the bags, I’ll put it away.”
So that’s what I do. I focus on the sounds around me to keep from panicking. The bags rustle as I remove things and set them aside. Olivia’s soft footsteps move quickly around the room. The cabinets creak as she opens and closes them, and there’s the quiet thuds of the refrigerator door closing. I don’t know what to do with myself once we’re done.
I can’t leave now.
She knows something’s up.
I don’t want to leave.
Olivia stores the empty bags under the sink before coming over to take my hand. She pulls me with her into the living room, and we sit down on the couch. This is it. This is the moment when I acknowledge my weakness and inability to take care of myself. This problem, it’s here for the long run. It’s a lifetime kind of issue, and there are going to be times when I’ll need help again. It’s only going to be harder in the future if I don’t get some now.
I rest my elbows on my knees, hold my hands together and rest my chin on my thumbs. My mouth is dry and my lips feel as if they’re stitched shut. My hands turn into fists, still together, and I lay my forehead on my knuckles, closing my eyes.
Olivia puts a hand on my back as she leans her head against my shoulder. For once, she’s not pushing me. She’s not pushing and prodding and poking in hopes of making me face this. She’s waiting silently. It’s throwing me off, honestly.
Or maybe I’m procrastinating.
The need to see her face, to catch a glimpse of what she’s thinking, makes me open my eyes and turn my head. Her eyes move my way and she gives me a small reassuring smile. I swallow hard. My left leg starts bouncing up and down in short, quick successions. I need to touch her, so I lay my right arm on her leg, palm up.
She doesn’t waste a second taking my hand, intertwining our fingers, and giving me her best firm grip. Those brown eyes of hers never leave mine. My heart is racing so fast, I can feel it banging against my chest.
My whisper is so soft, it’s nearly silent. Just barely audible, yet I feel like I’ve yelled. “I need help.”
