I had no one left. I’d isolated myself from my friends, my family, the people at work. Worse, I didn’t know who I could trust. Including myself. I was fucking up my life with all its privilege and potential, standing by helplessly as it circled down the drain.
But one person never gave up on me.
Ollie.
He came over one night, and I broke down, sobbing like I’ve never sobbed before. My rage at the betrayal of Luca and all my friends turned into a deep, whole-body sadness. I confessed and told him everything. That my life was out of control. That I was lost and miserable. That I had seriously considered drinking so much that I just wouldn’t wake up.
He held my shoulder, the way he is right now, and whispered into my ear, “We’ll get help. You’ll get through this. I got you, Mav.”
He found one of the best rehab centers in the country, and the next day, he and I flew to Pennsylvania together. As hedropped me off, I vowed never to speak to Luca or anyone else from that circle ever again. Ollie truly saved my life, and I will never forget that for as long as I live. I owe it to him, as much as I owe it to myself, to stay on the right track.
“I should get going,” he says, snapping me out of my memories. “My car will be arriving soon.”
“Let me help you down the stairs.”
“I fucking hate these things,” he says, shaking his crutches.
“Good. Remember how you feel right now should you ever decide that parkour is a good idea in the future.”
“Zip it, and give me a hand, would you?”
He gets to his feet, and I take his crutches, following as he clings to the railing and eases down the stairs, flinching with every step.
A random memory pops into my head. Of Jackson and the way he struggled with the three stairs that led from Clancy’s patio to the backyard. Ollie has a good reason for moving so slowly down the staircase. What was Jackson’s?
Ollie’s ride pulls up, and as we’re slowly making our way over to it, I spot the object of my obsession. “Hey, Jackson!” I call out. “Come over and meet my friend.”
He wipes the back of his hand near his eyes and yells, “Not in the mood, Benson.”
Ollie shoots me an unimpressed look. Irritation paws at my chest. I’ve just been trying to convince my best friend that Jackson isn’t a jerk, and then he goes and speaks to me in that way. We may not have a conventional boss-employee relationship, but he can’t talk to me like that.
“Jackson. Over here. Now!”
He flips me off over his shoulder and storms toward the barn.
“Dude. That is way out of line,” Ollie mutters, his jaw clenching.
“You’re damn right it is. I’ll deal with him once you leave.”
We hug, and I help him get into the car, sliding the crutches into the back seat. As soon as the driver takes off, I stomp my way to the barn, anger brewing in my gut.
I’ve been nothing but nice to Jackson, bending over backward to accommodate him. Practically begging him to stay. Comforting him when he was sick. Cooking for him and his grandpa. I never did any of that expecting anything in return—but is it too much to ask for a little basic respect?
“Jackson!” I yell-growl when I step into the barn.
He appears in the hall. “Stop yelling.” He lets out a venomous hiss, his frustration on full display. “You’ll disturb the horses.”
He’s got a point. I lower my voice. “My office. Five minutes.”
“Told you, I’m not in the mood.”
“I don’t care what mood you’re in.”
And with that, I spin on my heel and head for the exit. I have exactly five minutes to prepare myself for a showdown with Jackson.
Five minutes come.
And five minutes go.
