Page 95 of Antidote

Hunter

Ollie.

Hunter

Good night, Ollie baby. I miss you.

Fuck.

For the last year, he has messaged me every single night. Goodnight, Merry Christmas, and my least favorite—Happy Birthday. And for the last year, I have ignored him. Not once have I replied, and every time a new message comes through, I die a little more inside. Yet I can’t bring myself to block him, and he knows that. Although I’ve never texted him back, I did answer the phone. Once. But it was enough for him to realize he still had access to me.

It was the spring after I arrived in New York City, and somehow, as if he knew I had left, he chose that night to call me—and I answered. Hunter didn’t say anything at first. I think he couldn’t even believe I picked up in the first place. Then his sniffles snapped me out of my haze, and I sobbed so fucking hard that he started crying too. We were a mess, and I couldn’t speak at all.

However, he spoke for the both of us. He told me how much he regretted letting me go. That he should’ve gone after me again and not given up after one try, even if Jamie beat his ass. He told me he got drafted, and while I was proud of him, it really fucking hurt. I wanted to be happy for him. But how could I be happy when I wanted to be there for that? And how could I be happy when I chose to move and never contact him again? How could I be happy when he begged for another chance, made promises and kept them—yet I still wouldn’t take him back?

My fingers hover over my screen, and just like every single morning, I almost reply. Only I don’t. I never do.

So I throw the phone on the bed and pull up my sweatpants. It’s cold as fuck in here, mainly because Jamie likes to save money on the electric bill so he’s not afraid to give us hypothermia. I can’t complain, though. Christmas in New York City is my favorite time of the year. The only thing missing is someone who can see the lighting of the tree at Rockefeller with me. Someone to skate with as well. It’s been a year since Hunter and I broke up, yet I haven’t been able to bring myself to text him back. I’m afraid too much has happened between us, and there’s no way back to the people we used to be together.

Jamie is browsing some channels on the television when I walk over to the kitchen to start my coffee. It’s Sunday, and unfortunately, that means there’s a team playing hockey today. It's a team that he settles on right about…now. I hear the sports commentator and roll my eyes. Great. Here comes the team I don’t like to watch, yet the only one Dylan roots for—as if they were ever fucking friends. Hypocrite.

I put the pod in, slamming the lid of my Keurig shut a little harder than I should. Jamie looks over at me and raises one eyebrow. Just as I look back, I see that my favorite person in the world scores a goal—of course, he does. I look away, not wanting to see his face. It hurts too much. I’m glad I haven’t seen him in person so far. I wouldn’t be strong enough to stay away. I’d probably run right into his arms. It takes every ounce of strength inside of me to not reply to his text messages every night. But why am I holding back? What the hell am I even waiting for? I made him a promise—one year. And that year is up. I should be contacting him, but something is stopping me.

Doubt.

Fear.

“He scores!” The sports commentator yells, and I shake my head. Fuck this. “Hunter Hartman again with a hell of a slap shot!”

Again.

He never stops fucking scoring. He never stops drawing attention to himself. And he never stops looking at the camera with sad eyes during interviews. It’s as if he’s begging the universe to make me watch him. To make me keep up with him. Sadly, he’s gotten his wish.

“That’s my boy!” Dylan yells, and Jamie smirks.

“Turn that shit off,” I mutter, then take a sip of the coffee.

“You know, Oliver.” Dylan grins, and I wince, remembering how Hunter used to call me Oliver while trying to keep me away. “Stop acting like an asshole. He tried to get you back, but you refused. Give him a break. All he’s doing is surviving at this point.”

I smile back. “I don’t give a fuck what he’s doing.”

Lies.

“You told him one year, remember?” Dylan presses. “And he’s here, in New York. For you.”

He still came to New York. He followed through on all our dreams. Except I no longer have a part in them. It fucking sucks. “Are you talking to him?” I close my eyes, and my nostrils flare, but when Jamie speaks next in a careful tone, I open them up.

“They’re friends.” He says softly, and I narrow my eyes at Dylan.

“He wants you back.” He replies, and my heart squeezes in my chest. “If you’re not gonna give him the chance you promised, at least text him back and put him out of his misery. Man up already.”

“Gee, thanks for the moral support.” I roll my eyes, attempting to deflect. I don’t want to man up and text him. What if this affects my sobriety? I’m in such a good place. “I just need more time.”

“If he falls in love with someone else, that’s on you.” Dylan shrugs, and my stomach drops down to my ass.

Jamie shoves him hard, and Dylan stumbles slightly. “Shut up, Dylan.” He growls. “He said he needs more time, so he’s getting more time.”

“I gotta go,” I mutter, then lock myself back in my room, pacing.

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