dear-oliver

[dear-oliver]

Chapter 2

Adam

I’m standing alone in the diner’s bathroom, my insides completely blown asunder by the hurricane of a boy that is Oliver Beck. Fuck. I’m a mess. This isn’t news, but I’ve probably just made a fool of myself. I don’t know why I did what I just did. That’s a lie, of course I know, I just can’t believe I actually did it.

He’s been getting under my skin for years, what with his messy hair and outrageous laugh, his…interesting and colorful wardrobe choices. Oliver is full of sunlight that radiates from every pore.

The bathroom, dear god, he probably thinks I’m a creep. I couldn’t leave him alone.

I hope he’s okay. Of course, he’s not okay; I heard him in there. I’m not a creep, he needed someone.

I’m a mess.

My thoughts are racing and my heart is pounding and I have to get out. I pull the door open and hurry back to my table, oblivious to anything going on around me. Grabbing my jacket and backpack, I rush out of the diner and am greeted by a bite of cold November wind.

 When I get home the lights are still on downstairs, mom waiting up for me. I open the door as quietly as possible, in the off-chance she’s drifted off watching House Hunters or some other HGTV show.

“Adam, is that you?”

“Hey, Mom,” I say, dropping my things in a heap by the door and stepping into the light of the living room.

She looks up from the television, giving me a once-over. “Everything all right, love?”

I look down to the spot on my wrist that I’ve now scratched raw. Wonderful. I must’ve been at it the whole walk home. I slide my hands into my pockets.

“I’m good, mom.” My smile is probably unconvincing, but it’s okay, I’m not here to perform.

“There’s some leftover spaghetti in the fridge, if you haven’t eaten.”

I nod and collapse onto the couch beside her, her hand moving up and smoothing my hair. We sit in silence for a while before sleep begins creeping up on me. I rest my head on my mother’s shoulder and close my eyes, drifting off to the sweet sound of home renovations.

 I’m awakened by a crashing sound. The lights are off, as well as the TV. My brother is on the floor, he probably fell, and he’s now laughing at…himself, I’m assuming. Someone’s a little drunk.

Theo is one year older than me and a lot more fun, if fun means having plans with someone other than yourself on a Friday night. People love Theo. He’s the guy who knows everyone’s secrets, but never tells them. The guy you go to when no one else will listen, you need a shoulder to cry on, you need help burning down a building or robbing a bank. Theo is simultaneously a bright laugh on a breezy day and a tired whisper in the dead of night.

Right now, though, he is a boy who has just returned from a party at who-knows-whose house and can’t even stand up straight.

Mom covered me in a blanket before turning in, and I speak to Theo from my nest on the couch. “Do you think you can make it to your bedroom on your own?”

“All good, Brother, we’re all good indeed,” Theo laughs again at his own hilarity as he clambers up the stairs.

A few minutes later I gather the blanket around me and head up to my room.

I crawl into bed with my slightly battered copy of Frankenstein, which I’m about to read for the third time. Opening the book, I lose myself in the story.

I relate, however odd that may seem, to Frankenstein’s Monster. Honestly, I’ve never believed he was the monster that so many make him out to be. He only wanted what we all want, which is love. He gave his heart to someone else and had it thrown back at him, was called ‘ugly’ and ‘monster’ over and over again. Anyone who hears those words enough times is going to darken, turn cold. You can’t hurl cruelty at someone and expect them to just stand there and take it. Now, it certainly doesn’t justify hurting or killing, but is it really that hard to relate? Can anyone truly say they’ve never wanted to inflict injury on someone else? How different he might have been, had someone only given him the love he so desperately needed. Seriously, have a little empathy.

People exhaust me. I’m tired of being tired. I feel like an old man trapped in the body of a sixteen-year-old boy. I am lonely. When did people move so far out of reach? When did happiness and freedom become so hard to obtain? My world is bleak these days.

More than anything, I miss being carefree. I miss not worrying about how many friends I had or if anyone would ever love me for me.

When I was little I was probably closest to my cousin, Joanna. We spent the majority of our summers together right up until I was around eight and she was nine. I was a relatively mild kid, quiet, played by myself. I didn’t have any close friends through my elementary school years, didn’t have other kids over or go to birthday parties, normal kid things. But that was always okay, because I knew that come summer I would have Jo.

We had brilliant adventures together, Joanna and me. Our imaginations were overflowing with endless possibilities; the world was ours for the taking. Thinking back, I don’t see how anything could compare to the utter happiness of those invincible summers.

My aunt and uncle had a cottage on Long Lake. It was this retro-looking little place: wood paneling, wicker lampshades, a set of table and chairs rimmed with chrome and plastered in vinyl. It felt like home. One year, I was staying with them at the cottage for the week. At the time, Jo and I were obsessed with that movie Monster House. The one where the house is alive and evil, and with Halloween fast-approaching these three kids have to figure out a way to destroy it before it demolishes the hordes trick-or-treaters. With this extraordinary piece of cinema at the forefront of our minds, we decided that the old abandoned cottage down the lake was alive. Now, unfortunately, this is not a tale of a murderous cottage. Disappointing, I know. It’s not a tale at all; just a memory. A clear, pure memory.

I see Little Jo and Little Adam running along the beach (if you could even call it a beach, more like a rocky landscape that sliced up my feet, but Joanna seemed hardened to). I see us jumping and whooping, climbing from rock to rock on our way to investigate the Monster Cottage. I don’t actually remember the cottage itself, just that moment on the way, moving as fast as we could but also in no hurry at all.

We were crime fighters, detectives, partners, friends. Joanna was the hero, I was the sidekick, and I liked it that way. I had always looked up to her. An energy emanated from her and it demanded attention, it was beautiful. I’m sure it still is, but people grow up and grow apart. We build lives or walls, separate from the people who shared our innocence. I haven’t talked to her in years, and I don’t think of her often, but I am thinking of her now. Joanna was wild. She made me wild too.

My eyelids are heavy. I close the book and set it on my nightstand, turn out the light.

That night I dream of golden-haired boys and grimy bathrooms.

#adam and oliver

[dear-oliver]

Chapter 1

It’s not supposed to be you, or the people you love. Or the person you love most. You never expect to be running through the woods on a warm, sunny day, legs burning and lungs screaming, trying to get to him.

Faster. The first time his lips met mine, soft, gentle.

Faster. Tracing my fingertips over the constellations on his cheeks.

Faster. A quiet song in the stillness of the night.

 –

 Oliver

This isn’t exactly my idea of a fantastic Friday night. My ass is numb from sitting on the hard tile of the bathroom floor for so long. I probably smell awful but right now I don’t care. I’m leaning my head against the wall with my knees drawn up to my chest.

There’s a soft knock on the bathroom door. “Oliver?”

“Yeah?” My voice comes out hoarse.

“It’s Adam. Holly, Adam Holly. From school.” When I don’t reply, he continues. “Would it be alright if I came in?”

I pull myself up using the edge of the toilet and unlock the door. Adam pushes through, closing and locking it behind him.

“Have a seat,” I say, gesturing to the floor before dropping back down myself, “I can’t promise it’s very sanitary down here, but whatever.”

Adam sits down cross legged in front of me. “Are you okay?” His voice is gentle; it fits him.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well,” he shifts and brings his hands together, “you’ve been in here awhile. Sorry I noticed. Also, we could hear you. I just mean, do you feel okay?”

“We who? Everyone in the freaking diner? Here’s hoping they weren’t too disturbed by the puking noises.” I run my hands through my hair. “I must’ve eaten something bad; maybe I’m coming down with the flu, but yeah, I’m okay.”

Adam nods. He’s got his hands in his lap and they’re constantly moving, grabbing his fingers, rubbing his palms together.

This is honestly kind of weird. We’re not really friends. I’ve always known Adam. He’s a junior, I’m a senior, so we’ve pretty much always been in the same school. But that’s not saying much, since I’ve probably said five words to the guy in the last five years. He’s always been a quiet kid; one who sits alone at lunch and doesn’t bother talking to any of us. He’s twitchy; he has these tics, like his arm jerks or his hands twitch, lots of shoulder shrugging, and he definitely gets teased for it, which sucks. Honestly though, that’s all I think most of us know about Adam Holly. So yes, I know Adam, but I don’t know him. I’m not so sure anyone does, or that we even try to know him. Which is sad, now that I think about it. It’s funny that it takes me vomiting my guts up in the bathroom of the Moonlight Diner to realize this. Funny enough, apparently, that I start laughing.

Adam stops wringing his hands and looks up at me. “What?”

“Just consider yourself lucky. Not everyone gets to experience something like this.”

“Sitting on a questionable floor, possibly catching whatever it is that’s got you throwing up like it’s going out of style?”

“Trust me, if I’m doing it it’s not going out of style anytime soon.” This gets a smile from Adam. I smile back.

“What were you doing here alone? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I could ask you the same question,” I say pointedly.

Adam’s eyes meet mine. “Not really. I’m practically always alone. What’s your excuse?” He pauses, then adds, “I mean, you don’t have to tell me—"

“Why does it matter?” I don’t mean to sound so defensive. “I just left Evan Mackenzie’s place, I realized I hadn’t really eaten anything in a while, so I stopped by the diner to grab a bite before heading home. Is that good enough for you?”

Red blooms in Adam’s cheeks. His eyes have fallen back to his lap. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

I rub my hands over my face. “No, shit, sorry about that. I’m just not feeling too great; I should probably be getting home.”

Gaze still focused on his legs, Adam raises a hand and scratches his nose, which, I notice for the first time, is spattered with dozens of freckles. Interesting, the things you miss when you don’t bother to look.

“Right, uh, is there anything I can do?” His voice is hardly more than a whisper.

I put my hand on the wall to steady myself as I stand. “I’ll be fine. Nothing that buckets of ginger ale and a crap ton of Stranger Things won’t fix.”

Standing, Adam brings his hand to the back of his neck and scratches it, then reaches past me and grabs a piece of paper towel. He stands in front of me, leaving little space between us. ‘Tower’ is a strong word that makes me feel short, but yeah, okay, Adam Holly towers over me. He’s got a good six or seven inches on me and I currently feel like a preschooler.

Adam’s paper-towel-armed-hand finds its way to my hair and I duck out of the way. “Whoa, whoa,” I say, discomfort apparent, “What are you doing?”

Adam jerks his hand away and sort of stumbles back a step. “There’s some, you know, vomit. In your hair. Sorry.”

“No offense, pal, but this is awkward as hell.” I force a laugh, looking at anything but Adam.

“Oh, yeah, gosh, sorry,” Adam says quickly. He then proceeds to stuff the paper towel into the pocket of his black jeans rather than throw it away.

I pull out my keys and reach for the door handle. “So, I’m going to head home. This has been…fun.”

“Okay, uh, well, have fun in the Upside-Down, I guess.”

“Huh?”

“Stranger Things.” Adam meets my eyes for a second then looks away.

“Oh, right. I’ll see you later.” I slip out of the bathroom, leaving Adam behind.

#adam and oliver #original writing #original story #original characters