Page 66 of Ruined

I text him and say that I’m outside. No reply, so I park the car, determined to make things right.

I don’t even know what floor he lives on, so finding him requires a bit of detective work. There’s no O. Williams as far as I can tell; however, two tenants with the surname Valenti live in the same apartment. Must be the twins.

I ring the doorbell, eager to see Oliver and make things right. Instead of Oliver, though, a young man with black-and-green hair opens the door. He’s got a toothbrush in his mouth, and he looks like he just got out of bed.

“Oh.” His piercing green eyes look me up and down. “It’s you, isn’t it? The stepdaddy.”

I clear my throat. “Yeah.”

“Damn, you really are big.” His lips quirk up at the corners. “Well, come in, then. Oliver’s moping in his room. I’m Nico, by the way.”

He shows me into a large living space, then points at the door to Oliver’s room. I knock, but there’s no reply. I knock again, and my pulse picks up. Why isn’t he opening the door?

Finally, the handle twists, and Oliver appears in the doorway. His eyes are tinted red, like he’s been crying.

“What do you want?” he mutters.

“I’m here to pick you up.” I keep my voice steady, but on the inside, I’m kicking myself for making him cry.

He casts his gaze to the floor and doesn’t speak.

“Can I come in?” I ask.

“It’s messy,” he warns, but he opens the door fully and lets me inside.

Messy is the right word. Clothes are strewn all over the floor and the unmade bed, and dirty dishes litter his desk, along with a handful of empty cans. The blinds are drawn, and there’s a stale smell to the air.

Oliver slumps onto the bed, gaze fixed on the floor. I’d sit on his desk chair to give him space, but it’s occupied with a heap of clothes. Instead, I take a seat beside him on the bed, near enough to let him seek my touch if he wants to, and far enough away to not force him into anything he’s not ready for.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and I can tell he’s trying so hard to hold back his tears. The signs are subtle, but I know him. He was like this even as a kid. Sometimes he needed a little push.

“It’s okay,” I say, voice low. “It’s okay to let go.”

That does it. He gives a small, whimpering noise and sniffles as tears drop into his lap. His shoulders slump, and it takes all the resolve I have not to pull him into my embrace.

“Good boy,” I whisper. Those two words—for once not used in a sexual context between us but for simple reassurance—make him exhale a sharp, broken sob.

His body tilts toward me, and his small shoulder digs into my bicep. With that clear signal given, I wrap an arm around him and hold him through his sobs. He hides his face in my chest, and I let him soak my shirt with his tears.

I rock him gently back and forth, and memories rush through my mind: the time he fell off his bike as a child, the time a classmate told him his drawing was ugly, the time Mason broke his gaming console. He needed me then, and he needs me now. My heart aches with tenderness—with a love I can hardly explain.

He leans back a little and wipes his nose with his sleeve. “Are you ashamed of me?”

My stomach flips. “What?”

“Of being with me.”

I sigh, squeezing his hand. “Of course not.”

“Then why didn’t you want to kiss me?” His eyes are glassy with tears, his cheeks wet, and his nose red. If I could, I’d make it so he’d never have to cry again, but I don’t hold that power. All I can do is comfort him.

My jaw tightens. “It’s not that I didn’t want to. It’s just… meeting Mason again made me remember you the way you used to be.”

“I’m not a kid anymore.”

“I know, but you’re still so young.” I grimace, remembering the cashier at the clothing store. “To anyone who doesn’t know us… They won’t understand. They might think I’m taking advantage of you.”

“But you’re not,” he says, and his voice is stronger now, determined. “I’m the one who wanted this. I pretty much forced it to happen.”