Ruined (Wrecked & Wrong #2)

1. Fuck Him

The door to my new home swings open, and the Valenti twins tumble out of the doorway, tall and lanky and intimidating as hell.

My new roommates. I’ve only met them once on FaceTime after I’d messaged about the listing. The call lasted for about two minutes, in which one of the twins—with black-and-green hair and a perpetual scowl—took one look at me and said, “He’s cute. Pick him.”

The other twin, who’d introduced himself as Luca, shrugged and said, “I guess that’s settled.”

Things moved quickly after that. My mom got me a job as a busboy at a restaurant owned by her former fling, Guillaume. Not my first, second, or even third choice, but everywhere else rejected my application, and in this economy, I’m not above a little nepotism.

At nineteen, I’m moving away from the quiet suburb I’ve lived in all my life and into downtown Portland. I’m finally going to make my life my own.

Not my mom’s. Not anyone else’s. Mine.

And I’m currently trying not to acknowledge how terrifying that is. Meeting the twins is unsettling enough.

“Already?” the one with the scowl and black-and-green mullet asks. I think his name was Nico. “You said tomorrow.” He elbows Luca in the side.

Now that I meet them in real life, it’s even more uncanny how similar they are. They have the same faces, with delicate elf-like features, narrow-set jaws, and brilliant green eyes.

The only difference is their styles. In contrast to Nico’s dark and edgy aesthetic, Luca’s got platinum blond hair and bright, colorful clothing, making it easy to tell them apart. They look a few years older than me. Most of all, they look like they know their place in the world, unlike me.

“I said Saturday,” Luca points out. “It’s not my fault you have no idea what day of the week it is.”

“Oh.” Nico’s mouth twitches a little, but his scowl remains.

Luca rolls his eyes and turns his attention to me. “What are you waiting for? Come in.”

Hitching my duffel bag further onto my shoulder, I pick up the cardboard box containing my gaming PC—my most treasured possession.

A mix of scents hits my nose as I step past the threshold: laundry detergent, coffee grounds, and something vaguely familiar.

What is that? I flare my nostrils, trying to pull in as much air as possible to figure out whatever it is that smells so… so much like home.

The hallway leads to an open living space with a high ceiling, modest kitchen, and a staircase leading up to a second floor.

The living room is decked out with beanbags, a huge TV, an Xbox, and a bunch of colorful blankets thrown haphazardly over a plush, L-shaped sofa.

In every corner of the living room, there are speakers connected to the TV, and the music playing on low bounces softly off the walls.

I feel like I’ve stepped into a youth hostel, but better. Trying to take it all in, I struggle with my heavy luggage, almost dropping the PC box.

“Here, drop that off in your room.” Luca leads me to a door next to the kitchen. It opens up to a bedroom with a tiny window and tiny, well, everything.

It’s way smaller than my bedroom at Mom’s house, but it doesn’t matter to me. I won’t spend that much time here, anyway—work will take up a lot of it. Guillaume told me to come on Monday at five.

“Let’s check off the boring stuff.” Luca plops down on the swivel chair and starts counting on his fingers. “No drugs, no loud noises after eleven; if you invite someone, just let us know first, and, uh, what did I forget?”

Nico leans against the doorway, arms crossed. “Clean up your own mess.”

“Right. And pay rent on time, of course.”

“Eight hundred bucks. What a steal, right?” Nico smirks.

Luca rolls his eyes. “Nothing’s a steal these days.”

I know that full well. Rent prices are part of the reason why I chose a shared apartment. Secondly, it’s a good location and close to my workplace. Thirdly, I thought it might be fun. Now that I’m here, however, I’m not so sure about that third reason…

I glance over at Nico, who’s scowling at me. What the hell did I do? They’re the ones who put up the listing. If they didn’t want strangers for roommates, they shouldn’t have advertised it. And on the FaceTime call, he said I was cute, whatever he meant by that.

I distract myself by lifting my monitor onto the desk, then the PC itself.

Nico rolls his eyes. “Oh, great—another gamer. You have a headset, I hope?”

I nod, checking the monitor to make sure it made the journey alright.

Mom dropped me off by the entrance to the building, so I had to transport everything myself up the elevator and onto the fifth floor.

Seems like the screen’s alright—no scratches or dents.

I proceed to connect the cables and set up the keyboard.

“Our last roommate used to game until four in the morning,” Luca explains. “Nico’s traumatized.”

“I need my beauty sleep, stronzo! I have the bedroom next to you, by the way.” Nico points a finger at me. “So don’t be loud, or I’ll kick your ass.”

“He’s kidding,” Luca says, but it doesn’t feel very reassuring. He jumps off the swivel chair. “Anyway, we’ll leave you to it. Join us in the kitchen later for snacks and chats.”

“Sure,” I say, raising my eyebrows at Nico, who’s glaring daggers at me.

What the hell is this guy’s problem? I usually don’t much care if someone dislikes me. I’m not like my friend Lane, who trembles at the mere thought of someone not liking him, but Nico’s my roommate, and my time here will suck if he hates me.

He jerks a thumb toward the living room. “Another house rule: don’t touch the speakers.”

Luca waves a dismissive hand. “Yeah, don’t change the settings on that remote. Nico will fly off the handle if you do.”

With that, the twins close the door with a whoosh of air, and I smell it again.

That scent from before. Where is it coming from?

I sniff again, trying to place it. It makes me think of times long passed.

Simpler times, like when I was younger. It smells like our garage at home used to smell, before—

Shit. That’s what the smell is, isn’t it? Him. Before I can stop it, memories assault my senses.

Sitting on a hard wooden chair in the garage for hours, watching while he tinkered with his car.

The bright sun in the kitchen as he taught me how to bake bread from scratch.

Getting picked up after school in his vintage Chevrolet Camaro.

It was red like ketchup, and the rumble of the engine sounded like adventure.

He’d roll down the windows in the summer, and our hair blew in the warm wind as he drove me to the park to play or to the donut place by Waterfront Park.

When he hugged me, he smelled like masculine cologne, motor oil, and faintly of whatever food he’d just cooked. He smelled like home. Like Dad.

I shut my eyes and try to block it out, to once again convince myself of things I’ve never fully managed to believe.

He’s not your dad, and he never was. He was only Logan, your mom’s boyfriend, and he’s gone. Just forget about him. He’s not coming back.

It’s too easy to remember that day. I was thirteen, it was a Sunday, and Logan was supposed to make me pancakes, like he always did on Sunday mornings.

Instead, Mom’s distressed voice came from downstairs. “What about the boys? What about Oliver?”

The garage door swung open. Logan was there, packing his stuff into the trunk of his car—the same ketchup-red car that he’d taken me on so many adventures in.

“Dad!” I ran to him without hesitation to wrap my arms around his middle. “Dad, what’s wrong?”

Everything. Everything was wrong. I just didn’t know it yet. His subdued voice echoes in my head like I’m underwater.

“Your mom and I have decided to go our separate ways.”

I feel the clench of panic in my chest like it’s happening here and now, and I hear my own broken cry.

“Why? No, Dad, wait!”

“I’ll keep in touch, little Ollie. I promise.”

The next sequence of memories is a blur.

“Dad!” Lunging for the car in a panic. Strong arms holding me back.

As he backed out of the driveway, I struggled and thrashed like an animal against my brother’s hold, screaming, sobbing, barely knowing what was happening and why. Why was he leaving all of a sudden, and why wasn’t he telling me why? The sheer shock of it still makes me cry to this day.

I take a deep breath, trying to hold the tears back. Despite my efforts, my eyes burn, and I grit my teeth against the pain in my chest.

Only weeks ago, my older brother Mason told me to get over him, that he’s not coming back. He thinks six years is enough time to keep hoping. That I should let go. I agree, and I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried. He also told me something else—something too shameful to think about.

Damn him. Damn it all. With tears rolling down my cheeks and my former stepdad’s scent stuck in my nose, I clench my fists, praying for something to make me forget it all, or at least to make it hurt less.

Shit. Shit. I need to get myself together. I can’t be in my room bawling my eyes out while Nico and Luca are expecting me to join them for “snacks and chats,” whatever that means.

I take a deep breath. Another. I do this about five more times while squeezing my eyes shut. Block it out, block it out. Easier said than done.

If only I could be angry with him instead of heartbroken. If only I could curse him, dismiss him like Mason does. He didn’t spend nights upon nights awake in bed, crying for the man who’d left us behind.

“I’ll keep in touch, little Ollie. I promise.”

He lied. When I tried to text him and call him later on, he never answered. Fuck him. It’s Mason’s voice saying those words—not mine, but if I try hard enough, maybe I can make it mine.

Another deep breath. Deep enough to fill me with resolve rather than pain.

Roughly, I rub the stray tears out of my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt and check my face in my phone’s front-facing camera.

Brown, red-rimmed eyes. Messy, sandy-blond hair in a cut with bangs that I haven’t really made peace with yet.

Good. Focus on that.

I fix my hair, smoothing out the unruly locks that always stick out behind my ears, and open the door.

The scent gets stronger out here, but so does my resolve.

Ignore it. With time, I won’t even notice it, and my mind won’t go to places I don’t want to visit.

I’ll need a few days, a week max, and I’ll get desensitized to it. Hopefully.

If not, I’ll need some other way. I have a few ideas—none of them ideal—but at this point, I’ll do whatever it takes.