Page 51 of Ruined

While we game, I think about what he told me, and I feel a bit more confident about what to do next time I meet up with Logan.

Later that evening, Logan texts me and asks me to meet up tomorrow. Finally. I reply with “Okay, Daddy,” and he reacts to the message with a heart. My chest explodes with butterflies at that, and I stare at the red heart, wanting to tell him so many things but not knowing where to start.

I end up lying on my bed with my phone on my chest, gazing up at the ceiling and thinking about him. His large, strong hands… The thick fur covering his chest that I love to comb my fingers through… His eyes that crinkle when he smiles and calls me “Ollie.”

God, I’m in trouble.

19. FEEL IT

When I get off work, I pick up Oliver and take him to a restaurant in the Old Town area, not far from where he lives. Oliver complains that he’s wearing a hoodie and jeans—hardly appropriate for a place where you have to book a table in advance. I tell him no one will care, but then I look properly at the jeans he’s wearing.

They’re tattered and washed out; they look like hand-me-downs from Mason, and his hoodie isn’t much better. It’s too big for him, and the edges are worn.

I make a mental note to take him shopping over the weekend, but until then, I reassure him that the restaurant isn’t quite as fancy as he thinks and that no one will care about his clothes.

We get a couple of stares when we arrive together. The waiter sits us down at a table in the corner, and Oliver taps his feet while he looks at the menu. The lights are dimmed, and the furniture is modern and sleek.

“Anything looking good to you?” I ask.

“I prefer your cooking,” Oliver says, his sheepish smile turning into a wince. “Sorry. I’m not being ungrateful, I just…”

“You wanted to be alone?”

He bites his lip, cheeks turning rosy. “Yeah, um, kind of, I mean…”

“We have time,” I assure him. “Now pick out what you want, and let Daddy spoil you a bit.”

He blushes and squirms in his seat, and the waiter comes to take our orders.

“I’ll have the smoked salmon with garlic potatoes, please,” I say.

The waiter nods. “And your son?”

Oliver and I both cough—he with a laugh.

“I’ll have the same as Daddy,” he says.

The waiter raises a brow but takes our menus and disappears.

I look around us, chest twisting with discomfort. When I turn to Oliver, he doesn’t look uncomfortable at all; in fact, he’s grinning mischievously.

I roll my eyes. “Don’t.”

“What?” he says with a pout, but the bratty glint in his eyes remains.

I’ve been curious about what strangers will think of our relationship when we’re out and about, and now I guess I have my answer. Our age difference is so obvious that it’s easy to assume we’re father and son, even though we look nothing alike.

“Do you think that’s funny?” I ask, forcing a smile.

He shrugs. “Don’t you?”

I believe it’s fairly obvious where I stand on the matter. I won’t let strangers dictate the appropriateness of our age gap, but still, everyone wants to be accepted for who they are, right?

If that waiter found out we’re actually a couple, not father and son, he might treat us differently. He might judge us—or let’s be honest, the one he’d judge would be me—and I fully understand why. It’s part of the reason I resisted Oliver in the first place. If that waiter found out I’m not only twice his age, but that I used to see him as my son, well… I’m not sure what would happen, but I suspect it wouldn’t be anything good.

Being in a gay relationship is one thing; being in a gay age-gap relationship is a whole new layer of societal judgment laid on top. I judge myself hard enough as it is, and Oliver… If he’d been on a date with someone his own age, no one would bat an eye. Being with me complicates things for him in more ways than one, and he doesn’t deserve⁠—

“Daddy,” he says, snapping me out of my spiral and bringing me back to the moment. “It’s okay.” He slides his hand across the table and puts it over mine. “No one is looking. Everyone’s minding their own business, see?” He nods at the tables around us, and I suppose he’s right; everyone is looking down at their plate or at their dining companion rather than at us.