Chapter 5
Oliver
I’m not scared of him.
I’m fucking terrified.
Darius is standing in front of me, waiting for me to make a move.
He wants me to stay. I want that too, but I have this overwhelming need to run and put a safe distance between my fragile heart and this man who suddenly has far too much power over me.
Darius holds out a hand, and I kick off my trainers, then place my palm in his.
I step towards him, and the urge in me to steer this moment to somewhere I’m more comfortable and to grasp control takes over.
My other hand comes up to clutch the back of his neck and I pull him forward with force, but before my lips meet his, Darius’s hands hit at my chest, forcing me back.
“Don’t do that,” he says, his nostrils flaring. “Don’t ruin this.”
I step back, and squeezing my eyes shut, I tug at my hair until the ache is too much. Panic swells in my chest, and I suck in air, willing my heart to slow down before I pass out.
What the fuck did I just do?
You always make the wrong choices, Oliver.
My mother’s words have never felt more true than they do now. I’ve never pushed myself on someone. I know first hand what it feels like to have something taken that you weren’t offering, and the thought I am anything like him makes me physically sick to my stomach.
“Fuck,” I yell into the quiet flat. I gather the strength to open my eyes and look at Darius. “I’m so fucking sorry. I’m going to go. Fuck. I would never…” I take yet another step away from him.
“Come here,” Darius says, his voice firm, arms wide open. I shake my head. “Oliver. Give me a fucking hug.”
He should hate me.
I hate me.
“Why?” My voice cracks on the word and my eyes sting.
“Because you look like you could use one and no one does hugs better than me.”
My lips twitch in an effort to muster a smile but I remain firm, not moving.
“Puppy,” he says firmly. Our eyes lock as he moves forward, taking slow steady steps like you would when approaching a wounded animal.
When we’re a hair’s breadth apart, Darius wraps his arms around my waist and presses his body flush against mine.
On instinct I squeeze my arms around him and nuzzle my nose against his temple.
I wonder if this is what having a place to belong feels like? Because if it is, I never want to leave.
“I’m sorry.” His hand draws patterns up and down my back, and I melt, liquid pooling at his feet. “I’m so sorry, D.”
Darius breaks the hug, lifts onto his toes and kisses my forehead, linking our hands together. He doesn’t say it’s okay, or that he forgives me. He doesn’t say anything, just leads us into the kitchen.
His grip is tight, like he fears I may bolt if he lets go, while he uses his free hand to dish up pasta. Once he’s done, he turns his attention to me.
“I like you, Oliver.” My heart skips a beat.
“I like you, too,” I reply. I like you a little too much. So much it frightens me.
I’m acutely aware that this fear is not only because I’m terrible at hiding from him, but because I want him to want me in his life. Knowing full well that I am not easy to love, but incredibly easy to walk away from.
“Good. So we’re friends. And friends don’t treat each other like that, okay?”
I nod and he continues. “But friends also forgive. Let’s put the last twenty minutes behind us and eat this meal before it’s stone cold.”
Darius squeezes my hand and I let him drag me to the lounge.
We sit in our usual spots, food bowls on our laps.
I can’t eat. It smells amazing, but my mouth tastes like chalk, and my stomach is rolling. Darius tucks in and there’s those little noises again. I’m watching him, and he pauses, a sly grin on his face.
“Here, stalker,” he says, throwing the remote towards me. “You pick something to watch.”
“I already have,” I joke and he rolls his eyes, but puts another forkful of pasta in his mouth. This time he groans loudly, exaggerating the earlier noises. I huff in amusement, scrolling through a few choices before settling on a home DIY show.
Darius wrinkles his nose – his tell when he’s displeased – but accepts my choice and we sit quietly watching the team on screen revamp an old cottage into an awful modern home. It truly is terrible. All the old country charm gone, replaced with sterile black and white.
“Looks like my father’s place,” Darius scoffs. His eyes dart to my lap where my pasta bowl sits, still full. “You not hungry?”
I circle my fork around the food, before putting the bowl down on the coffee table.
“No. I ate earlier.”
Darius raises an eyebrow, both of us knowing it’s bullshit, but like he did when I cried next to him, he doesn’t push for answers.
“Caiden is back tomorrow,” he says.
“Oh.” My stomach sinks. He said he wants us to be friends, but does that mean he wants to see me outside this bubble we’ve created the past three days?
I should be okay with whatever this is between us ending.
But I’m not. I don’t know why I’m so affected by Darius – it’s never like this for me.
I don’t cling to people I’ve just met, not the way I want to cling to him.
And I cannot put into words why. But I feel it, deep in my bones, that this – whatever we’re calling it – is different.
“We could keep hanging out at my place, if you’d like?” Darius suggests, as though he heard my earlier thought.
“What about Caiden? He’s not going to like this.” I gesture between the two of us.
Darius shrugs. “I’ll deal with that when the time comes. I think he’s going to be preoccupied for a while.” I don’t ask what he means. I don’t want to know.
“I’d like that. But I’m working tomorrow night. I could come to yours on Friday?”
Darius turns, so he’s sitting side on, plopping his bowl on the floor. The cat appears out of nowhere to inspect the dish.
“I have to go to Birmingham on Friday to see my dad and stepmum, and then Saturday I have a…” His focus dips to his hands, resting on his lap. “A thing.”
I swallow thickly and words are passing my lips before I can stop myself. “A date?”
Darius won’t look at me, but he nods.
Well, fuck. I never knew he was seeing someone. I rub at an invisible ache in the centre of my chest, forcing a smile on my face, not sure if I succeed.
“Fun. Sunday, then?”
“Ollie, it’s not – ” I cut him off.
“You don’t owe me any explanations, D.”
He shifts on the sofa, our arms flush, his head tipping to rest on my shoulder. His hair smells like apples and I grit my teeth at how badly I want to bury my face in the soft strands.
“Where are you working tomorrow?” Darius asks. He’s picked up the remote and turned off my show, lining up some serial killer documentary.
“Bar La Vella. I do a few shifts a month.”
“Ooh, fancy,” he replies. “Do you have to wear the bowtie and suspender belts?”
“Yep. You’ve been there?” He must have if he knows the staff uniform.
He chuckles. “Once or twice. My father loves the place.”
“Huh. I’ve been working there for a year now. Wonder if I’ve met him? Does he look like you?”
Darius shakes his head. It’s still resting on my shoulder and the strands tickle my chin.
“Nope. Nothing like me. He’s tall with dark brown hair that matches his eyes.”
I can’t see Darius’s face in this position, but I don’t need to see him to picture him perfectly. I memorised his shockingly blue eyes, plush pink lips and lithe body the day I met him.
“I’m the spitting image of my father,” I admit. “Or I was before I bleached my hair a few weeks back.”
And before he died.
Darius reaches a hand up, playing with a stray curl that’s fallen over my forehead.
“My dad says I look like my mum, but I never met her, so I don’t know for sure. But I guess that’s where I get my blond hair from.”
The confession twists something in my chest because this is the most real conversation I’ve had with someone in…I can’t even recall how long.
“What happened to her?”
Darius nuzzles closer. My hand is resting on my lap, and he touches a fingertip to the skin at my wrist, then glides his finger in circular patterns. He’s a very tactile and affectionate person and I drink it in like water.
“She lives somewhere up north. She was young when she fell pregnant – a fair bit younger than my father. She had all these plans that didn’t include a kid, and my dad knew that.
But she fell pregnant – totally unplanned.
My father knew right away he wanted to be a dad, so they agreed he’d take full custody of me after I was born. And then she left.”
“And she’s never been in contact?”
He shakes his head, fingertip still dancing over my skin.
“No. There were times in my life I wondered why I didn’t have a mum like some of my friends.
But now that I’m older, I understand – being a parent isn’t the path everyone wants to take, and that’s okay.
She gave me life and my dad raised me. For years, it was just me and him.
He married my stepmum a few years ago. She’s not much older than me and though he forces these weekly family dinners on us, she’s not my family.
He’s the only parent I’ve ever known. He’s a good father. ”
I stay silent, waiting for the ‘but’. It doesn’t come, and I remind myself that not everyone has a complicated relationship with their parents.
“My dad was a good father, too,” I admit. “Until he wasn’t.”
My throat tightens, and my heart pounds hard and fast. Darius must notice, because he takes my hand in his and squeezes.
“Do you want to go somewhere with me?” Darius asks, changing the subject, for which I am grateful.
“Now? It’s like ten already.”
“Yes, now, puppy. We’re young and this is London. The city that never sleeps.”
I kiss his forehead, like he did to mine earlier.
“I think you’ll find that’s New York.”
He sits up to glare at me, his eyes sparkling. “Smartass.”