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MY EYES OPEN, dry as hell, and I realize where I am. Still on the couch with Olivia. She’s tilted over, resting her arms and head on my legs while my head is in her lap. What time is it? I should probably wake her up and move us to the bed.
“Olivia.” I shake her shoulder.
“Hmm?” Her eyes peek open at me as she begins to sit up.
“Let’s go to my room.”
“Nah,” she yawns. “Let’s stay here. Stand up.” I do and she stretches out. “C’mon,” she mumbles, half back to sleep already as she tugs on the blanket resting along the back of the couch. I lie next to her, tugging her closer to me, and then we’re both knocked out until morning.
The moment I wake up, I wish I hadn’t. My dream, whatever the details may be, was simply amazing, relaxing, and perfect. I nuzzle further into the crook of Olivia’s neck. Hell, this feels too good to disrupt too. Her body is pressed against me as mine has her almost pinned to the back of the couch, her arm under my neck. I don’t care that I’m more wrapped in her than she is in me. All I care about is that she’s here and God, does she feel amazing. My eyes hurt from how dry they are, though, so I start blinking rapidly to try and moisten them.
A giggle escapes as Olivia’s stomach tenses up. “Corey, stop blinking. It’s tickling my neck.” Her voice is like the perfect melody you can’t stop listening to.
“Sorry,” I answer, mine more groggy and thick than hers.
“It’s okay.” Her arm lifts and she tilts her head as she reaches for something on the end table. “Shit!” She suddenly exclaims. “Get up, Corey! I’m going to be late for class!”
I don’t want her to go, so I don’t move. “Skip,” I tell her simply.
Olivia blinks. “What? No, I can’t do that.”
“Is it your only class today?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Skip,” I repeat.
“Corey,” she starts.
My desperation for her to stay runs deeper than I thought, because suddenly I blurt out the stupidest two-word sentence I’ve ever said in my entire life. “I’ll talk.” That definitely catches her attention. “I mean, uh, I’ll…” How can I take this back?
“Really? You will?” There’s too much hope in her voice.
There’s no way I can let her down now. I squeeze my eyes closed before opening them again to answer her. “Yeah, sure. Just,” I take a deep breath, already regretting this, “slow and steady, okay?”
She nods eagerly and relaxes back into the couch and in my arms. Olivia watches me for a bit and I prepare myself for the worst. “What’s your middle name?”
“What?” I was not expecting that at all.
“You said slow and steady, so we’re starting small.”
Oh, God. This is going to take forever. “I don’t have one. What’s yours?”
“Marie.” She pauses. “When did you start playing football? And if we’re going to do this, you have to answer the question and add another sentence at least. Otherwise, you’ll only answer it and we won’t get anywhere.”
Ugh. Why did I get myself into this mess? Might as well tell her. “As soon as I was old enough to play, my dad signed me up.” One more sentence, right? What do I want to say? This is harder than I thought it would be. I sigh and turn to lie on my back, Olivia resting an arm over my stomach and her chin on my chest, still watching me. “He used to tell me all the time that I’d be a huge star in the NFL one day.” It’ll never happen now. That’s always been his and my dream, and I’m lost without it. I’ve never done anything else, never had any other interests. I’m taking years upon years of work, dumping it in the trash, and starting over.
“I’m sure your parents know you’re still going to be successful.” She’s trying to be helpful, but she’s not. It isn’t her fault, though.
“My parents are dead.” My gaze is locked on the ceiling. I haven’t said those words in a long, long time. I haven’t had to. My parents aren’t a topic I want to discuss. Thinking about them and being around my siblings on the anniversary of their death and funeral is enough. It’s all I can handle even after all this time.
When we were younger, they would share memories and try to talk about them as much as possible. I didn’t ever really join in, and now, I rarely mention them aloud. Jon was the one who noticed that I didn’t when we were kids. Shortly after is when they stopped sharing their memories, I think. Still, I didn’t have to talk about how I was doing. Everyone always asked about Lucy first, always spoke to her first, and then trickled down to the rest of us. Sometimes, people wouldn’t even ask us about ourselves. Only about how Lucy was doing. My grandparents cared, but Lucy was the priority.
They told us we could talk to them about anything, that they were there for us, but no matter how much I wanted to run to them and say, “I want my parents back,” I couldn’t do it. Things wouldn’t have changed anyway. Maybe my siblings reached out to them, because sometimes they would change the subject when I walked in, but I don’t know for sure. I couldn’t do that myself. It was too hard.
I wanted to cry, but I didn’t. And I always lied if someone ever asked me about me. All I could hear in my head was what my dad told me. He even had one of these talks with me a few days before they were killed. I can’t remember what exactly caused him to give us the big-brother guidelines, but his words rang loud and clear in my head every time I felt like I wanted to break down in tears.
Be strong for her when she can’t be.
