Alive

Chapter 23

Oliver

(Thursday, May 16)

My left leg feels like it might fall off by the time I reach the top of the tower. I'm not sure if it's my leg that made the climb difficult, though. Each rung came with its own wave of reluctance. Reluctance? I mean, I guess that's it. But it feels different. Not like I don't want to do this. Right now I'm right where I want to be. Need to be. But I don't know. It's heavy. Everything's so heavy.

And one look into Arlo's eyes makes my mouth dry. My throat constrict. Even if I knew what to say, I don't think I could. He's leaning forward against the railing, one arm dangling over the edge with a cigarette wedged between two fingers. Maybe he's tongue-tied too, because he just sighs and digs out the pack from his pocket, then hands it to me.

Suddenly I can't look at him anymore. I can't reach out and accept it. But at least there's one upside. I know exactly what to say. I open my mouth, breathing heavily, trying to force the words out. But they won't come, because I know it's not enough to say them. Just say them. So I swallow. Grab the railing and lower myself onto my knees, one at a time. Arlo turns.

"What are you—"

"I'm sorry," I say, and I force myself to look up. Look him in the eyes. But his gaze is sharp and I have to look away again. What good is apology? What good is anything I can tell him? I let my breath out, struggling back to my feet. Then I bury my hand into my pocket, pull the cash out and hand it to him.

"Olly," he says, frowning, "what is this?"

"I'm paying you back," I say. Then I cough into my arm, try to meet his eyes. "Rent and shit. I estimated the amount. I'll come up with anything if I'm short."

"Money?" The word comes at the end of a sharp laugh. I jump, my eyes snapping up and locking with his. He shakes his head, flicking the butt of his cigarette over the railing. "Really? You come here and bring me money."

I drop my head, squeezing the stack of cash tighter.

"Just take it," I say. But not with half the amount of confidence I want.

"Right," he says. "Because that will fix everything."

It won't. That's not what I'm trying to say, but maybe that's the point here. Maybe this whole thing is beyond words. Beyond apologies or gestures. There's death in Arlo's eyes. Years of pain and anger boiling through him. I can smell it. Stronger than the cologne he's wearing. He's got to get it out.

"Fine," I say, pocketing the money. My heart beats faster as I take a step toward him, keep my eyes locked with his as I lean closer. "I knew you wouldn't take it, anyway. Used you, like everyone else, Arlo. You're pathetic."

God, there's fire in him. I have to force myself to stand my ground as Arlo grabs my shirt collar.

"What'd you say?" he growls.

"Fucking loser," I say. "Always have to be the fucking hero."

"Shut up," he says.

"So scared of being alone. Fucking scared of anyone being mad at you." The words are thick in my throat, but I manage to deliver them with some kind of passion. "Willing to stick up for anyone but yourself. Letting yourself get walked on all the fucking time. Pussy."

"Shut your goddamn mouth, Oliver," Arlo says, his voice even lower, his hand trembling around the fistful of my shirt. I keep staring, trying to ignore the storm in his eyes.

"Make me," I say, shoving him back, raising my fist. But I don't get much farther than that because it works. And it's painful as fuck. Arlo lets loose, and everything's a blur as he yells, throws me down, then pins me underneath him. Hurls his fists down into my chest, side, face. Then he grabs my shirt, lifts me, and slams me back down.