Page 21 of Not Made to Last

I take a moment to replay his words.He didn’t think I was coming back?“Nah,” I say calmly, shaking my head as I approach him. “I just lost track of time, is all.” I slump down on the lounger beside him and mimic his position, wondering if he realizes he’s half the reason I always come back. Probably not. And it’s not as if I’d ever share that with him. That’s a hell of a lot of pressure to put on any one person’s shoulders.

“Rhys,” he murmurs, his head rolling to face me.

“Oscar…”

“What doyouthink is in the ocean?”

I chuckle. “Brandon bring that good weed again, huh?”

“Maybe,” he states, shrugging. “But I didn’t have any of it…” He sucks in a breath, holds it, and I stay quiet, waiting for him to continue. “It’s just… they put all this money into NASA, and space exploration, and the sea… What percentage of the ocean is undiscovered again?”

We’d watched a documentary about sea exploration a few nights ago, and I guess he’s still thinking about it. “Over eighty percent,” I reply.

“Right.” Oscar nods, his eyes getting heavier with each passing second. “So what’s down there, Garrett?”

“I don’t know.”

He’s quiet a beat, his eyes back on the night sky while his jaw works as he contemplates. I wait, knowing he’s not done. “Imagine if there’s a whole other world down there. And our world and their world don’t know about the other, and we’re just here… existing… as if we’re the only entity, the most important of them all. Or… imagine if we are to them what ants are to us. Just these tiny blobs of atoms that have no real purpose, no significance. And the choices we make, the mistakes we carry, the regrets we hold on to… they meannothing. I mean… notreally.” Oscar’s two years younger than me, but clearly, his age doesn’t match his mental maturity. I guess that happens when you’re forced to man up too young.

I don’t respond. I simply watch his chest rise and fall until it slows to a steady rhythm. When I’m sure he’s asleep, I grab his phone from beside him, unlock it quickly, and make sure he’s let his mom know where he’s crashing. I send her a text from my phone, too, so she has absolutely no reason to worry. Then I send another text to a different number:

You would not believe the night I’ve had.

After hitting send, I head inside, grab my laptop from the bedroom, flop down on the couch, and let ESPN play in the background.

I run through the events of the night like I do game tape post-loss.

Post-failure.

Play by play.

Minute by minute.

Second by second.

Each time I run through it in my mind, the buzzer (aka alarm) sounds at the exact same time—the moment Olivia pulled away from the kiss with tears in her eyes. Tears that let me know exactly how she felt—regret, disappointment, fear.

To her, the kiss was nothing more than a fleeting moment of uncontrolled desire, and I was nothing more than a mistake.

But to me…

I flip open my laptop, my fingers flying over the keyboard as I type in her name.

Hit enter.

And laugh to myself as the search results load.

Olivia just became my new sport.

My new discipline.

My new obsession.

And she has no fucking clue what she’s in for.

11

Olivia

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