They didn’t talk, which was really weird. Oliver had always been a talker. Always the kind of guy to fill silences. Marcus had been the same. Carlos and JD, too. Ghost and Abe had been the only ones who’d relished silence. They’d liked to have space and time to think.
He didn’t like it quite as much now.
Oliver had never enjoyed driving. That was his usual stance. If he could avoid driving, he usually did. He didn’t mind being driven, but sitting behind the wheel always made him feel anxious. Aberlour recalled that Oliver used to own an old Buick, which had been a gift from his grandfather. But that ugly thing was nowhere in sight now. The car that was parked in the visitor lot was a shiny black Mercedes G Class. A rich man’s status symbol.
Aberlour bit back the sarcastic remark he was dying to make.
He sat in the beige leather seat. He dropped both hands in his lap, aware that he probably smelled of beer and puke, suddenly worried he’d ruin the leather.
“It gets really good mileage, and has four-wheel drive,” Oli said, out of the blue.
“Cool,” Aberlour replied, feeling more out of place in the Mercedes than he had in the prison cell.
“I’m glad you called.”
“I didn’t,” Aberlour stated flatly.
“Well, you gave them my number,” Oliver replied, like he was arguing with a stupid child.
“I didn’t,” Aberlour repeated, turning to stare at Oli.
Oli clenched his jaw and started the car.
“At least you didn’t drive drunk,” Oli said, his voice drowning out some late-night radio host talking about love.
Aberlour thought the talk show host might be mocking him.
Once upon a time, Aberlour would have promised that he’d never drink and drive. That regardless of the circumstances, he’d never be so reckless with the lives of others.
He couldn’t promise that anymore.
There was a part of him that had given some consideration to doing just that. Thought about driving drunk and maybe wrapping his car around a pole. Maybe he’d hit someone along the way. A car. With children in it. A family coming back from the movies, or something. It would be horrible. He’d live, they’d die.
It would be horrible.
But at least then, he’d finally be officially branded the monster he already knew he was. At least then, others would impose the full weight of his guilt on him instead of seeing a martyr and a survivor.
Oliver didn’t ask where he should drive Aberlour, he simply drove. It was better that way. Aberlour wasn’t sure what he’d have said. Home wouldn’t have been the right answer. Not anymore.
“My mother got me a job with a friend of hers,” Oliver said, a few moments later, incapable of remaining silent.
Aberlour felt some measure of relief, knowing that at least some things never changed. He wondered what Oli was so afraid of that he couldn’t be alone with his own thoughts for more than a few minutes at a time.
“Finance?” Aberlour asked, trying not to sound sarcastic.
“Yeah,” Oliver said, with a nod.
“How’s wearing a tie every day?” Abe asked, daring to glance at Oli’s profile.
As he turned, he had a weird flashback, expecting to see Marcus sitting here, driving Aberlour home, windows foggy with rain. He blinked away the memory.
“It’s no worse than shining my boots,” he said with a shrug.
“Get injured in the field much?” Aberlour asked with a quick laugh.
“Got a pretty bad case of calculator finger last month,” Oliver remarked, a smile tugging at his mouth.
“Hear those are a real bitch. You should watch out for desk chair ass strains, too, because they’re rampant.”
