Page 34 of Ruined

“You won’t say that the day you end up in the hospital.”

Nico takes his glass and pulls a vodka bottle out of the freezer. “You don’t know what I’m into.”

Luca rolls his eyes. “Don’t end up like him,” he tells me.

I’m fairly sure I won’t end up like Nico. I want the opposite of what he wants. I want gentleness; I want care. I want… love. Not just any love; I want Logan’s love. I crave it so much I can barely breathe sometimes when he’s with me.

The next time I see him, I hope I can gather the courage to follow the twins’ advice, even though it’s slightly terrifying.

It hurts not having him the way I want, but having him in my life as a platonic father figure is better than not having him at all. What if I push too hard? What if he rejects me and sends me away?

All those questions churn around in my head for hours as I try to sleep, and when I dream, I dream about him—his strong hands, his soft voice, and his fingers in my hair as he lulls me to sleep. Daddy. God, I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want him.

13. WRONG

I neither see nor hear from Oliver for a few days. I hope our last conversation didn’t upset him. He seemed more sullen than sad when I drove him home, though, so I figure he’s just busy with work. I’m busy, too, and my mind is busy with thoughts about him, especially at night when the world is quiet and dark.

I find myself wondering about his life, his dreams, and his plans for the future. I think about him constantly. I hope he’s safe; I hope he’s happy. Sometimes late at night, my thoughts drift to the times we’ve stepped over the line. First, when he had his head in my lap, and then, during the massage. I think about his parted lips and soft skin. I think about the breathy tone of his voice when he calls me “Daddy.”

Inevitably, my body responds to my forbidden thoughts. I need relief, but if I touch myself, I know where my mind would lead me, and I can’t allow that. I can’t jerk off to thoughts of Oliver—no way. Besides the wrongness of it, I’d be a hypocrite. I’m the one who’s tried to keep our relationship platonic. I’m the one who asked him not to call me “Daddy.” But in the darkness of night, the reasons for why I can’t have him seem to hold less weight than during the day.

Regardless, I force myself to go to sleep without relief, night after night. Getting on the hookup app is not an option either. I don’t want to meet a stranger; I want… No, don’t finish that thought.

On Saturday, I send Oliver a text.

Me:

Making homemade pizza tonight. Could use some help.

Friendly, soft, the way we usually talk. Oliver’s text comes a few minutes later.

Oliver:

Okay. When?

When I look out the window, it’s overcast and pouring rain, so I don’t want to force him to ride his bike. I tell him I’ll pick him up at six, and he reacts with a thumbs-up.

I have two hours to grocery shop and prepare for his arrival, and for some reason, nerves fill my chest at the thought of him. I really, really want to see him. Even though it’s only been a few days since I last saw him, I’ve missed him—his soft giggles, his teasing remarks, and his blissful sighs when I hug him tight.

I’ve missed him calling me “Daddy,” too, but I can’t tell him that. I can’t act on my feelings when it comes to him. I have to practice restraint, but my restraint is waning, and frankly, seeing him tonight feels dangerous somehow.

The hours pass, and I get my home ready to receive him. I clean, prepare the pizza ingredients, and fluff up the couch pillows.

Eventually, the time comes to pick him up. When I arrive at his apartment building, he runs out of the door, shielding his hair from the rain, and climbs into my car.

“Hi, Daddy,” he says, leaning over to give me a hug.

“Hi.” Clearing my throat, I hug him back, and I don’t say what I should say. I don’t say, “I thought I asked you not to call me that,” because technically, I didn’t. I just said it’s inappropriate, and apparently Oliver doesn’t care about being inappropriate.

During the drive to my place, he’s unusually quiet. More often than not, he babbles on about the games he’s been playing, the twins’ antics, or his boss’s complaints. Instead, all he does is glance at me now and again while tapping his feet against the floor of the car. Is he nervous? About what? We’re just having a dinner night, which we’ve had a handful of times already.

This time, though, Oliver turns out less interested in the cooking than the previous occasions. He keeps getting distracted, fidgeting with everything he can get his hands on and zoning out when I try to give him instructions.

The pizzas turn out fine regardless. One has a cheese topping with vegetables, while the other has pepperoni and mushrooms. They smell divine coming out of the oven.

“Can we sit on the couch?” Oliver asks, and I shrug in a “why not?” and set our plates and the oven tray on the coffee table. I hand Oliver one of the sodas we bought during our grocery run, and he drinks it quietly, still lost in thought. I devour slice after slice while he leaves his plate mostly untouched.

“Not hungry?” I ask, wiping my mouth. Usually I’d have a beer with my Saturday dinner, but something tells me it’s not a good idea to drink in Oliver’s company. I need my senses sharp in case he⁠—