Page 12 of Ruined

“Oh.” Lane’s eyes get even bigger, and he shakes his head in horror. “Oh no.”

“I know. I had no idea, and he didn’t either.”

“Oliver…” Lane reaches out a hand to grip mine, which is shaking, my fingers tapping repeatedly on the tabletop.

“I don’t know what to do,” I whimper. I feel like I’m thirteen again—a boy left behind by the man who was supposed to protect him, who was supposed to love him.

“You need to talk to him,” Lane says.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Would you rather try to pretend this didn’t happen?”

“No.” Every word comes out choked, and I can’t breathe properly.

Lane’s hand squeezes mine, and I close my eyes, trying to take a deep breath. At that moment, a shadow looms over us, and my eyes pop back open.

“What’s happening here?” Mason’s calm voice carries a sharpness underneath. “Why are you crying?”

“He’s okay,” Lane says quickly. “He’s just homesick.”

I don’t know about homesick, but I feel sick, alright. I could throw up at any minute, and my eyes leak tears whenever I blink.

“Well, just move back home to Mom’s, then,” Mason says with his usual arrogant, bored voice, but there’s an unmistakable tense undertone, making it a question at the end.

He doesn’t believe us, but I can’t tell him the truth. I can’t.

Lane scoots out of the booth, sits next to me instead, and gives me a tight hug. Then he takes the opportunity to whisper in my ear. “Talk to him. Meet him somewhere public.”

I hug him back, trying to force my tears to recede and my heart to quit aching. The physical touch helps somewhat. It would help more if my brother weren’t observing us with a skeptical look on his face.

Once they’ve left, the chime of the café door echoing in the air, I fish my phone out of my pocket and act before I can talk myself out of it. There’s no way I’ll arrange another meeting with him through the app, so I go to our messages and type two demanding words—not even a question.

Me:

Your number.

5. HATE YOU

Virex:

Your number.

I stared at my phone for ages when the message came through. After nothing all day, I’d come to the painful conclusion that he might not even want to see me again. I’d considered deleting my dating profile, but I kept it just in case, hoping for him to reach out. Determined to give him space and let him decide if and how we move forward.

What happened on Saturday was shocking enough for us both, but for Oliver, it must be even worse. Not only because of the way we met, but also because of the implications.

I moved back to Portland, but I didn’t contact him, so he must think I don’t care about him at all, which is far from true. I just… couldn’t. The past is too painful, and I figured he might be away for college. Even if he wasn’t, I didn’t want to pop back up in his life and risk hurting him again. I decided he was better off without me. Part of me still thinks that’s true, but he deserves to see me if he wants to, even if it’s just to yell at me.

After I sent him my number, we decided to meet on Tuesday at twelve. Lunch break for me. Maybe for Oliver too? I have no idea what his life is like now—if he works or studies, where he lives, what he does day to day. I know nothing about him, except that he apparently likes men. Men like me.

The thought sends a slew of unsettling emotions through me as I drive to South Waterfront Park. Oliver sent me a GPS location for where he wanted to meet. Very specific.

An unbidden smile stretches my mouth. Six years may have changed his appearance, but not his inherent technical knowledge and stubbornness.

If I allow myself to think about how things used to be—how he used to run and hug me after work, or how he used to sit in the uncomfortable chair in my garage just to be near me—I don’t know if I can do this. It’s too painful to remember. I have to set the past aside in my mind, focus only on the here and now, and see Oliver as the young man he is and not the child he was.

I owe him that, at least. I owe him so much more, but I’m not sure if I can give it to him.