Chapter 6 Damien
Damien
The locker room is mostly empty by the time I force myself into the showers. My hand still aches from hitting Ryan, knuckles raw and tender from the impact, but the guilt burns worse than the bruised skin ever could.
I scrub harder than necessary, trying to wash off the weight of what I did—of what I keep doing. Letting everything inside me build until it’s too much and then unloading it on the people who don’t deserve it.
The water is hot enough to sting, and that’s the point.
I stand under it longer than I should, hands braced against the tiles, head bowed, water cascading down my back and shoulders as I try to breathe through the noise in my head.
I see his face when I close my eyes—not Ryan’s, though his is there too, bruised and disappointed—Noah’s.
Noah, sitting at that table, quiet and small, trying to make himself invisible.
Noah, not meeting my eyes. Noah, in that oversized hoodie, sleeves pulled over his fingers, barely eating, barely speaking, barely looking like the boy I remember.
And despite everything I’ve done, he’s still beautiful.
Still every reason I can’t think straight.
I hit the tile with the side of my fist, not hard, but enough to feel the jolt.
I deserve more than that; I deserve worse.
I let the water keep pouring until it runs cold and my fingers start to go numb.
Only then do I shut it off, then towel myself dry in short, jerky movements before pulling on my clean clothes.
By the time I get to my car, the sun’s starting to set.
The sky’s that soft, dusty pink that always reminds me of driving through the hills with my dad in the off-season, windows down, radio on low.
I sit in the driver’s seat with the door shut and engine off, letting the quiet stretch out around me.
I crack a window low enough to let in the cool air.
My phone sits in the cup holder, the screen dark. I stare at it for a while, debating whether what I’m about to do is even worth it. But I know I need to. I always do when I get like this.
After a few minutes, I pick it up and scroll to the only contact I need right now.
Dad.
I hesitate just long enough to wonder if he’s busy, if he’s in a meeting or on a call with one of his clients. Then I hit the button anyway, and he picks up on the second ring.
“Damien?”
Just that. No questions. No breathless, distracted multitasking my mom used to do. No lectures, no waiting. Just a voice that’s always been steady, even when mine shook. I know he doesn’t expect to hear from me often but is always glad when I call. I don’t call enough, I know that.
“Hey,” I say, swallowing hard. “You busy?”
“No. Just got home from the gym. What’s up?” There’s a pause on the other end before he asks, “You alright?”
I don’t lie to him. “No.”
He exhales slowly. “Talk to me.”
I close my eyes, tipping my head back against the headrest, and let the words come. I exhale through my nose, hand tightening on the wheel. “Noah’s back. He’s living at the Sin Bin now.”
There’s a beat of silence, and when my dad speaks again, it’s gentler. “I figured that might be coming. Ryan mentioned something a few weeks ago. Said the dorms were overbooked.”
I blink, surprised at that bit of information. “He told you?”
“He asked if I thought you could handle it. I told him only you could answer that.”
I stare out at the sky, the colors blurring together. “I punched him today.”
“Noah?”
I reel back. “Jesus, no, Dad. Ryan.”
He doesn’t say anything for a second, and I can practically see him narrowing his eyes over the line. “And why did you hit Ryan?”
I close my eyes briefly before responding, “I was pissed. He said some shit I didn’t want to hear,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “It’s just—Dad, Noah’s everywhere, and I keep fucking it up. I can’t look at him without remembering everything I gave up, and everything I didn’t say.”
He lets me spiral without cutting me off. It’s something he’s always been good at—making space for the mess without stepping in too early. Finally, he says, “Did you think seeing him again wouldn’t break you open?”
“I didn’t think I’d ever see him again,” I admit, voice barely above a whisper.
“Well,” he says, calm as ever, “you did, and now you’ve got a choice. You can keep avoiding the truth, or you can face it. But either way, you need to deal with what you’re carrying before it hurts you more than it already has.”
I grit my teeth, hands flexing on the wheel. “You know why I left. How am I supposed to look him in the eye and not say anything? How do I live with him, walk past him in the hallway, eat dinner at the same fucking table, and not tell him what his dad did?”
“You think I don’t still remember the look on your face when you showed up on my doorstep with nothing but a duffel bag?
” My dad’s voice sharpens just a fraction.
“I know what it cost you, Damien, but Noah doesn’t.
And whether you tell him or not…that’s a choice you’ve got to make, and one you have to live with. ”
“I didn’t want to lie to him.”
“You didn’t,” he says. “You made a choice and did what I asked you to do, but it’s been four years. If that choice is still eating you alive, maybe it’s time to stop carrying it alone.”
I run a hand through my hair. “I don’t even know how to start.”
He sighs softly. “First, tell me what happened with Ryan.”
“He started talking about Noah, about how I’ve basically been a ghost since he showed up. He’s not wrong, but I couldn’t handle it.” I flex my hand and wince. “I lost it and hit him harder than I meant to.”
He tuts at that. “Did you apologize?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he accept it?”
“Not really. He walked out. I don’t blame him.”
“Then start there. You fix things with your best friend; you fix the one thing you can deal with. But what I’m about to tell you is something you probably don’t want to hear.”
My dad is quiet for a moment. I can hear the soft background noise of his house—music low on some speaker, the hum of traffic beyond his window. It’s always calm there. It was the only place I felt safe when I left.
“You need to tell Noah the truth,” he says at last. “He deserves that much.”
I watch a couple of students cut across the parking lot toward the track. Their laughter echoes faintly, and I wonder what it feels like to have something that light again.
“He’s going to hate me.”
“You hurt him,” my dad says, but I know he’s not being unkind, “that’s the truth. But it doesn’t make your reason any less valid. What his father did—what he threatened—wasn’t something you could ignore. You did what a lot of people wouldn’t have had the strength to do.”
I let out a breath that’s half-laugh, half-groan. “You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Say the right thing. Make me feel worse and better at the same time.”
He chuckles softly. “That’s called parenting.”
We fall quiet again, but it’s easier now. The worst of the storm has passed, at least for tonight. The ache is still there, the guilt still raw, but I don’t feel like I’m drowning in it anymore.
“I’m proud of you,” he says after a moment. “Even when you fuck up. Especially when you admit it.”
“I don’t think I can do this, Dad,” I breathe.
“You already are. Just try not to hit anyone else on the way.”
A sudden laugh breaks out of me. It doesn’t last long, but it’s real, and that’s more than I’ve had in a while. “I’ll try.”
He hums on the other end. “Call me tomorrow.”
“I will.”
“And Damien?” he says before I can hang up.
“Yeah?”
“Tell him when you’re ready. Just… don’t wait until it’s too late.”
We say our goodbyes after that. I let the phone sit in my lap, fingers loose around it, staring out the windshield at the fading light.
I don’t know when I’ll be ready to tell Noah everything. But I know I can’t keep avoiding him like he’s a ghost, when I’m the one who died.