Page 106 of Faux Real
“I know that Ollie,” Freddie says, his tone wavering. “I didn’t mean anything bad by it. I’m sorry, Ollie, I’m sorry.” Fred pleads. “Please don’t be mad at me; I just mean to—”
“No, I’m sorry,” I say, this time I make sure to use a gentler tone. “Don’t cry, Freddie, it’s fine. I’m not mad at you.”
“Promise?” he whimpers.
“I promise, mate,” I say, his comparison eating away at my fucking soul.
It always works for Dad.
Dad. My dad? The asshole that torments his wife? His kids? Who drinks every night and destroys lives? Does Freddie see me like that? He must, right? If that’s the first thing that came to him? Fred’s only a child. A kid. And yet, he can see it? A parallel? Between me and that... that monster?
“Freddie?” I ask hesitantly. “Do I remind you of Dad?”
“Not really,” Fred says. “You got nothing in common.”
“Except we both drink,” I mutter. “Right?”
“Well, you said Dad drinks because his job is really stressful and it’s a way for him to escape the real world,” Fred replies, repeating the white lies I’ve told him over the years. “But you drink beer for fun, right? So it’s not really the same, is it?”
Fun? I don’t remember the last time I had fun while drinking. I usually don’t rememberanythingafter drinking. Just flashes. Small, insignificant memories. Often bad. Embarrassing. Regretful.
Destructive.
Like a large wave wreaking havoc on a peaceful shore.
Kennedy was my shore. She was solid ground. And I crashed all over her. Destroying everything in sight.
Just like Dad.
Just like him.
“Freddie, I gotta go,” I say. “I’ll call you on Christmas, okay?”
“Okay, say hi to Aunt Bessie for me,” he says. “Love you, Ollie.”
“Love you too, Fred,” I say, hanging up.
I stare at my phone, chewing my bottom lips as I contemplate my next move.
This ends with me. I won’t become him. Ever. I dial a number, bringing the phone to my ear. “What do you want, dickwad?”
“Maxine,” I begin, closing my eyes. “I think I need help.”
thirty-three
Bulletproof
KENNEDY
He’severywhere.Hauntingme.Following me like a stupid ghost. I go to the library—he’s there. Common room—he’s there. Staircase—he’s freaking there. Why? Why can’t he just leave me alone? I don’t want to talk to him. I have nothing to say. I have nothing left. No energy to give him.
My Oliver reserve is depleted, empty, drained. I thought time was supposed to heal all. I thought that space and distance and distraction were going to help me forget and move on. It’s all lies. Nothing is helping.
Nothing.
I can sense when he’s around. I can feel it in my bones. His presence. He’s here. Somewhere in the dining hall. I know it. I grip my fork tighter, digging it into the plate of whatever the hell we’re eating today, spaghetti, I think? Or was that last week? I don’t know anymore. Everything is jumbled. Hours, days, weeks. Just one giant mess.
A mess.
