Page 73 of Almost Him

“No, I’m okay.”

His smile is half-hearted. Something occurs to me that might cheer him up but not be too taxing. We spent a lot of evenings by the firepit out back before. Alden and I always kept the ingredients for s’mores on hand because Oliver always wanted to make them when we’d have a bonfire. “Do you feel up to going to the grocery store with me?”

“Sure. I’d like some pudding. The rehab got me hooked on it.”

Once we’re in my car and almost to the store, he asks, “The robbers took my credit cards and everything, didn’t they?”

“They did. But the cards have been cancelled. They didn’t get a chance to charge anything or get into your money.”

He nods. “I want to get new cards. You can’t keep paying for my stuff.”

“Don’t worry about that. I get Alden’s half of the profits from the bike shop plus what I make at my studio. I’m not hurting.”

“That’s not the point. I can’t work or live alone or drive. But I can support myself.” There’s an edge to his voice when he adds, “I’m not completely fucking helpless.”

Heistired. Mentally, if not physically. The first sign is always that irritability. I’m going to make this grocery trip quick. “I know that. Why don’t we go to your shop this week? You’ll need your account numbers to get the cards re-issued, and your paperwork will be in your apartment.”

He nods and stares out the window while I find a parking space. I’ve chosen the small grocery store I know he often frequented. His eyes dart around while we make our way inside. “Are you okay? Do you recognize something?”

“No.” His curt answer could be to either question, but it doesn’t matter. I’m watching his mood plummet.

“Okay, pudding first,” I reply, keeping my tone cheerful. He follows me to the middle of the aisle. While he peruses the selection, he rubs one of his temples. After he chooses a package of pudding cups, we find the cookie aisle where I grab some graham crackers. We already have a few chocolate bars, so after picking up a bag of marshmallows, it’s time to check out.

The front of the store is a bit of a madhouse. Four registers are open, but each has quite a long line. A toddler right in front of us suddenly screeches, and Oliver jerks, almost dropping the pudding he’s carrying. The kid hits the floor and keeps screaming. His mother responds by yelling at him. Someone bumps into Oliver’s shoulder as they pass with a mumbled “excuse me.”

Oliver’s hand clamps onto my arm, and I look up into wide eyes. He’s breathing hard. Shit. I shouldn’t have brought him here. It’s too much.

“Okay, it’s okay,” I tell him. “This way.” He stays right with me, holding on while I lead us to the opposite end where the self-checkouts are. There are far fewer people. I choose one as far away from the others as possible.

As quickly as I can manage, I scan our few items and toss them into a bag. “We’re almost done,” I assure him, jamming my card into the reader. “Take a deep breath.”

“I’m alright,” he says, but the tremble in his voice says otherwise.

Finally, the card is approved, and I snatch up our bag. We get about three steps when a man blocks our path.

“Oliver!” he shouts, a huge smile on his face. He looks vaguely familiar, but it takes me a second to realize who it is. Caleb Jackson, one of Oliver’s high school friends. “It’s good to see you out and about, man! I’ve been meaning to come visit you. I’m sorry about your brother.”

Caleb claps his hand onto Oliver’s shoulder at the same time the intercom blares to life to announce another checkout has been opened. Before I can do anything, Oliver shoves him away. Hard. Caleb stumbles back into a display of candy. It topples and the colorful packages spray across the floor.

All eyes are on us which just makes everything worse. I reach for Oliver’s hand, but he’s gone. Frantic, I look around and spot him darting across the front of the store. With his head down and fists clenched, he rushes out the doors.

Fuck.

The exclamations and comments from the people around us bounce off of me while I run to catch up to him. He’s rounding the side of the building instead of going to the car. How panicked is he? Is he going to run off?

Relief lets me breathe when I turn the corner and spot him. With one hand pressed against the stone wall, he bends over and vomits into the grass. His body shakes like he’s been dipped in ice water.

“Oliver,” I say softly, careful not to startle him. He turns and braces himself against the wall, leaning over and putting his hands on his knees. His breaths are quick and shallow.

When he’s like this, there isn’t much I can do but stay beside him. I rub his back lightly while his breathing starts to even out a little. “Can you walk with me? I have some water in the car.”

He nods and remains right beside me while we cross the lot. There are napkins in my console, and I hand him a bottle of water. After he rinses out his mouth a couple of times and wipes his mouth, he closes his door.

“Do you still feel sick? We can sit here for as long as you need.”

“No, I want to go home, please.” His eyes close and he lays his head back, taking measured breaths.

“Okay.”

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