The Struggle For Love ✔

Chapter 14 - Jealousy

"Sam called, everybody was freaking out, because you left. On your own." He grabs hold of my collar and for a second, I think he's angrily going to slam me against a wall, when he pulls me towards him and into a suffocating hug.

"I'm sorry..." That came out without any sincerity to it. I don't feel regret, and I'm not in the mood to pretend I do either.

"Talk to me, Cris," Oliver whispers, still holding me in his arms, as I limply stand there and allow him to keep hugging me.

I simply shake my head, now fighting back tears. I'm an emotional drunk. I've always been one, when not in the right state of mind.

Alcohol seems to enlarge my mood extremely – whichever mood that may be.

Right now? Desperate and depressed.

"Don't shut me out too, Cris." Oliver now pulls back, grabbing my shoulders, shaking me lightly. "You're shutting out Stan and Nathan, you keep Sam, Jaimie and Felix at bay. Don't do that to me too."

"Shouldn't you be with Alex right now?" I bitterly spit at him, pulling away from his hold completely. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine, Cris." Oliver snorts, sending me a scowl afterwards. "You drink more then ever..."

"Says who? The guy who pours vodka into a water bottle and pretends it is water?" I shake my head in disbelieve. "I haven't been drinking in days, how about you?"

Oliver pulls a face, telling me I'm spot on.

"You're an alcoholic, Oliver, I'm not."

Oliver seems to fight back the anger that left him as soon as he allowed his worry to seep through the cracks in his posture. Big, mouthy Oliver, always trying to act though and sarcastic. I know better now.

Oliver is just as insecure as the rest of us, and right now, I need him to leave.

Leave me alone, that is.

And I know I'll get him to leave faster then anything, by insulting him. He simply doesn't know how to deal with me whenever I'm becoming angry at him.

"Go back to Alex. I'll deal with my own shit. You deal with yours." I mutter, stepping inside, quickly closing the door. Hoping that my attitude is enough to keep him from ringing the doorbell and waking up my parents in the middle of the night. He knocks on the door anyway.

"Cristian? Is that you?" Mom sounds worried, and shortly after her voice reached me, I hear footsteps on the stairs, and I already know I woke them up myself, probably because I was too loud to open the door.

"I don't want to talk, mom." I mutter, slumping down on the floor, covering my head with my arms. "I want to be alone."

* * * * *

Off course, mom didn't just accept me coming home drunk, unexpectedly, and depressed more then ever. She wouldn't be my mom if she would brush it off and send me off to bed.

She wouldn't be my mom if she wouldn't have made hot coco – with marshmallows – and sat me down in the kitchen, demanding me to talk to her.

She wouldn't be mom either if she would've left Oliver standing in front of the door.

Which is why I found myself, seated in the kitchen, with a worried mom and a seething Oliver staring at me, awaiting me to spill out whatever got me to act like this.

The silence is painful, awkward and deafening in some way, while I'm pushing around soaked marshmallows in a cold chocolate drink with a spoon, after eating the whipped cream covered in sugar – how I liked it most when I was younger.