Straight Shot ➳ Oliver Queen

03. Ghosts

C H A P T E R    T H R E E

GHOSTS

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My flight was set to take off at 7:05 that evening. I passed through security and boarded without a hitch, but still, there was an overwhelming anxiety bubbling in my stomach. I took out my phone and put in earbuds, hoping that the music might distract me, but my mind couldn't forget the images I had made up of Oliver, my best friend, on a desolate island. Tired, cold, hungry, and all alone.

It baffled me that Oliver had survived that long on his own in the wilderness. He didn't know anything about the outdoors. He spent his weekends clubbing and having meaningless soirees with women he wouldn't remember the names of in the morning. His idea of fun was drinking and playing beer pong. He had only ever shot guns for fun, the way board, rich men do just to pass the time. He didn't know the first thing about hunting or building shelter.

But Oliver was undoubtedly a smart guy, though he'd never admit it. He was actually incredibly good at math and he secretly was amazing in English, but no one else ever knew this because he got horrible grades in school and was constantly getting in trouble.

When I accepted the music I was listening to was doing nothing to distract me, I gave up on the effort and removed my headphones, tucking them away in my carry on bag. I checked the time and rolled my eyes when I saw I was only an hour into the flight.

"You hear about that billionaire's son?" I was taken aback by a voice that seemed to have come from the man sitting next to me. He had hair that would stereotypically be described as salt and pepper and wore a light grey suit. He appeared to be some sort of businessman and he was skimming through a newspaper he must have picked up at the airport. The front page was a large printed picture of Oliver and Robert.

"Excuse me?" I responded. The man gave me a questioning look.

"I didn't say anything..." he muttered, his tone implying that he was disinterested in conversation. I glanced down at the newspaper and instead of seeing the familiar faces of Ollie and his father, it was a title telling of a crash in some sort of stock and a picture of a graph.

I rubbed my eyes and slumped back in my seat. I had barely gotten any sleep the night before, and clearly, it was taking its toll if I was hearing and seeing things now. I closed my eyes, but my own thoughts and memories clouded my mind.

I remembered the night I found out Oliver was dead. It was a couple nights after Oliver had left on the trip with his father. I had been invited to some dumb party for a girl I didn't even know that well. I only knew her through my roommate and I don't think I could even remember her name if I tried. She was turning twenty-one, so, of course, the party had to be at a bar. I went to the party but left early after getting sick of being elbowed by the crowd and hit on by drunk guys. I went back to my dorm and immediately changed into a pair of sweatpants, an oversized Harvard sweatshirt, and fuzzy slippers.

I spent the next hour or so working on a paper I had put off that was due the next day, but mid-sentence, I was interrupted by a knock on my door. I stood from the yellow couch, which my roommate had stained by spilling red wine, and opened the door. I figured it was Morgan, my college roommate, and that she had forgotten her keys or was too drunk to figure out how to use them. It wouldn't have been the first time this scenario occurred.

But instead of a drunk sorority girl, I opened the door to a twelve-year-old girl with brown, shoulder length hair that was overly straightened, wearing a bright tank top and neon choker necklace. Her eyes were red and puffy and there were tears actively dripping down her chubby cheeks. My lips parted as I hurried to pull her into the door room in shock.