Page 122 of Jaded

Instead, I lift my knuckles to the door and knock. “Olli? Let me know you’re okay at least?”

“I’m fine.” His words drift through the door so soft and low I wonder if I imaginedthem.

They’re not him. Not at all. Not the bright, beautiful, sunshiny Aspen I know.

“No, you’re not.” I push the door open without thinking. That voice is just so broken, like shattered shards scratching against my soul, like someone begging for help without wanting anyone to know how desperately they’re reaching out.

The room beyond the door is dark, nearly pitch, the curtains drawn tightly against the bright morning sunshine outside. It’s neat, if a little minimalist—a desk against the wall beneath the window, closed closet doors to the right, bed wedged into the corner against the left.

A discarded pair of pants and T-shirt lie on the floor beside the bed. And in the bed, bundled beneath a bright paisley quilt, lies Olli James. Curled in on himself in a tiny ball, his eyes open and out of focus, staring into the abyss of the room like he’s lost the ability to see.

Olli James. Aspen. The ghost I never want to stop haunting me.

He doesn’t even look up at me. “Go away.”

“Oh, little ghost,” I breathe, and I’m not thinking anymore, not questioning. There is only him, lying there, ashen and limp and lifeless, like he’s barely clinging to life, to his own breath. Truly a ghost. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

His eyes stare at nothing. “Nothing happened.”

The words shatter against me, hard and cold, rough and ragged, maybe not intended to cut but certainly not softened to prevent such injury. I’m at his side in an instant. Kneeling beside the bed, trying to read the empty lines of his face. “Are you sick? Hurt?”

“No.”

My mind struggles to make sense of what I’m seeing. “But you weren’t at practice today.”

“No. I can’t skate.” The words fade to a murmur. “Not like this. Why do you think no teams want to keep me?”

My chest clenches like someone’s wrapped a giant fist around my heart and squeezed. “How about a walk, then?”

“No.”

“But you love being out in nature.” I inch closer. He looks so unlike the Olli I know—the Olli that’s fire on the ice, that’s alive in the woods, that’s laughter at bars—it leaves me breathless. The covers bunch under his chin, but one of his hands extends off the side of the bed, poking through the warmth and protection of that blanket.

“Go away.”

Without thinking, I reach out to brush my fingers against his palm. He shudders under my touch, starts to withdraw—

“Oh, little ghost,” I whisper, and he stops short.

“What did you call me?”

“Little ghost,” I murmur, and when my eyes lift from his hand, pulled halfway back under the blankets, to his broken, empty face, he’s looking at me now. “Because you haunt me. Because I can’t tell you to go away. Because I don’t want to.”

He says nothing, but the covers lift in a deep breath, and his eyes stay fixed on mine.

“You want me to go?” I ask. “Tell me what you need first. I can’t leave you like this. Water? Food? When was the last time you ate?”

He just stares at me, like he’s seeing me for the first time.

“C’mon, Olli. Talk to me.” I start to rise. “I’ll make you some breakfast. Eggs? Everybody has eggs, right? And toast—”

“I don’t need anything,” he says finally, his voice toneless, raspy, like it’s been unused for weeks. “I just need to sit in the dark.”

I drop back down beside him.

“If you need to sit in the dark,” I murmur, my fingers tracing the lines of his palm, long beautiful, elegant lines, “then let me sit with you.”

“Mouse,” he whispers, and his eyes fade out of focus again, slide away. “I can’t be strong today.”

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