5. Hate You
Virex:
Your number.
I stared at my phone for ages when the message came through.
After nothing all day, I’d come to the painful conclusion that he might not even want to see me again.
I’d considered deleting my dating profile, but I kept it just in case, hoping for him to reach out.
Determined to give him space and let him decide if and how we move forward.
What happened on Saturday was shocking enough for us both, but for Oliver, it must be even worse. Not only because of the way we met, but also because of the implications.
I moved back to Portland, but I didn’t contact him, so he must think I don’t care about him at all, which is far from true.
I just… couldn’t. The past is too painful, and I figured he might be away for college.
Even if he wasn’t, I didn’t want to pop back up in his life and risk hurting him again.
I decided he was better off without me. Part of me still thinks that’s true, but he deserves to see me if he wants to, even if it’s just to yell at me.
After I sent him my number, we decided to meet on Tuesday at twelve. Lunch break for me. Maybe for Oliver too? I have no idea what his life is like now—if he works or studies, where he lives, what he does day to day. I know nothing about him, except that he apparently likes men. Men like me.
The thought sends a slew of unsettling emotions through me as I drive to South Waterfront Park. Oliver sent me a GPS location for where he wanted to meet. Very specific.
An unbidden smile stretches my mouth. Six years may have changed his appearance, but not his inherent technical knowledge and stubbornness.
If I allow myself to think about how things used to be—how he used to run and hug me after work, or how he used to sit in the uncomfortable chair in my garage just to be near me—I don’t know if I can do this.
It’s too painful to remember. I have to set the past aside in my mind, focus only on the here and now, and see Oliver as the young man he is and not the child he was.
I owe him that, at least. I owe him so much more, but I’m not sure if I can give it to him.
I park my car nearby and find the location.
This spot is quieter than the main park area, but even so, I don’t understand why Oliver wanted to meet here.
The muffled roar of the highway looms above my head, ruining the otherwise peaceful little overlook.
The water glistens in the last rays of warm summer sun as I lean over the railing, looking out over the river to the east side of the city.
Behind me, there’s the scrunch on pavement of a bike sliding to a stop. I know it’s him without looking, and I try to keep my heart from racing, try to be the calm and reassuring presence he needs. My heart thumps regardless, and my hands shake a little as I grip the railing harder.
Leaving his bike by the wayside, Oliver leans on the railing beside me. I turn my gaze to him slowly, as if trying not to spook a wild animal.
It’s surreal, seeing him like this. He’s not a boy anymore, but not yet a man. His mouth is set in a tight line, his jaw tense, and the wary, searching look in his eyes gives me pause.
I can’t screw this up; I doubt I’ll get any more chances. I have so many things I want to say to him, so much to explain, that I hardly know where to start.
He scrapes his shoe against the asphalt. “Hi.”
I turn fully toward him, but the frown between his brows as he looks up at me pains me more than anything. I lean back a bit, trying to make myself smaller, less threatening.
“Hi, Oliver. It’s nice to see you.”
“Is it?” He sounds bitter. The wind catches on the sandy locks of his hair, blowing them into his face and obscuring his expression.
I want to reach my hand out and brush his hair away, but if I did that, I bet he’d jerk away.
Too much. Too soon. And yet, I can’t help the inherent need to reassure him.
It was always like that between us, and now that I see him, those feelings rear up even stronger than before.
I smile gently. “Of course it is.”
“Then… why?” He already sounds close to tears. Oh, how I would wrap my arms around him and let him cry into my shoulder if I could. If he wouldn’t push me away and run and hate me more than he already does.
The unspoken questions hang in the air. Why did you leave? Why didn’t you answer my texts? Why were you the stranger I arranged to meet?
I decide to start with the last one. It’s the easiest, even though it’s in some ways the hardest.
“Oliver, you have to understand… I didn’t know. If I’d have known, I…” I swallow against the lump in my throat. More than anything, I need to make this clear. “I never would have met up with you if I’d known.”
He still looks hesitant, as if he’s thinking about something else, so I get ready to continue, to explain further, but he beats me to it.
“How often?”
“What?” I raise a curious brow.
“How often do you meet up with guys like that?”
“Uh.” It’s the last question I expected him to ask, so I take a while to answer. “Not often.”
“How often?” His words are barely more than a whisper, and I have to lean forward to hear him at all over the roar of the highway.
He looks anywhere but into my eyes; the pavement below our feet, then out toward the river and the tall grass growing by the shoreline.
The wind picks up, ruffling his hair and making him shiver.
I consider taking off my denim jacket and giving it to him, but even that would be going too far, wouldn’t it?
I’m stalling at his question, and eventually, I decide it’s best to tell him the truth. When he was small, he wasn’t old enough to hear the truth sometimes. Parents tell lies all the time to their children. But he’s not my child. He was once something close to it, but he’s certainly not now.
“A few times a month.”
I can’t tell if he’s disappointed or relieved. He just looks distressed, sad, and angry as he pulls up the hood of his dark blue sweater and tucks his hands into his pockets.
“Are you cold?” I make a move to remove my jacket, even though I decided not to. It’s automatic, the need to take care of him.
“No,” Oliver says, though he shivers visibly. “Next question: why did you leave us?”
His tone is demanding, full of hurt and anger and frustration. I hear him, but I don’t know if I can give him the answer he craves.
“I promised your mother not to tell you.”
“What?” His lower lip trembles.
“You were too young, and what happened was between me and Kim. We didn’t want… we didn’t want to drag you and Mason into it.”
“But I was dragged into it,” he protests. “You left me. Don’t you think that affected me?”
“Of course it did. But you had your mother still.” If you knew the truth, I worried you might lose her, too. I seal my lips shut, not knowing how much of this story to tell, fearing again what I feared then.
His eyes glaze over with tears. “You said you’d keep in touch. Why did you lie? Why did you just cut us off?” His voice breaks, and a few tears leak out. He wipes furiously at his cheeks with the sleeves of his hoodie.
I want to hug him, even though I know I shouldn’t. Still, the desire is so strong that I open my arms, but I close them again just as quick. I reach out for his face instead, and the moment he realizes what I’m about to do, he takes a step back—rightfully so. Too close. Too soon.
I don’t deserve to touch him like that. I don’t even deserve to console him.
“Just answer the question, please,” he whimpers, and it breaks my heart.
He fights so hard against crying, to keep his voice steady, but it’s all for nothing. I want to say he doesn’t need to be strong for me, that I understand, but even saying that would be to upset him further, because I don’t understand everything. I don’t know everything he’s been through.
So I decide to tell half the truth. Half a lie.
“I couldn’t.” My stomach twists at my own cowardly words. “It was so painful to… to lose you as a son that it was easier to try to forget you. I’m so sorry.”
It doesn’t seem like the answer he wants to hear.
He wipes at his tears once more and glares at me, eyes blazing.
Even when he’s angry and hurt out of his mind, I can’t help but think he’s grown up to be a beautiful young man.
Delicate but strong features, like the cupid’s bow at his upper lip, the long lashes around his hazel brown eyes, and the intensity in his gaze.
Beautiful—all of him is. And of course, his profile pictures on the app caught my eye. They were beautiful, too, with his lean torso, smooth skin, and dusty-pink nipples…
Don’t. I blink the images out of my head. Don’t think about him like that. Especially not now.
“How could you?” is all he gets out, teeth gritted and jaw tense. “How could you be so selfish?”
“I’m so sorry, Oliver.” I won’t dispute what he’s saying, but I’m not sure my apology was the right move either. He’s trembling harder than before, his whole little body shaking as he tries to hold back his tears.
“Did you even love me?” His whimpered words are like a stake through my heart.
“Of course I did.”
“Then how?” he whispers. “I don’t understand how.”
I don’t know what to say that won’t upset him further. I can’t tell him what really happened. Can’t tell him the truth. So what I end up saying is meant to protect him, to shut down the conversation, but I know it’s the opposite of what he wants to hear.
“You’ll understand when you’re older.”
His mouth drops open. “I’m already older! I’m nineteen. I’ll be twenty in a few months.”
I can’t help the bittersweet smile tugging at my lips. His words do nothing but reveal how young he is. I remember what it was like to be that young—how often your mind changes, how sure and how unsure you are.
If he understood where I’m coming from, then he’d understand why I’m smiling. Instead, his face twists with rage, and he spits the three words that I deep down feared he would, full of hurt and bitterness and the impulsivity of a hurt nineteen-year-old boy.
“I hate you.”
“Oliver—”
“No.” He yanks his bike from the ditch, and before I have time to say anything else or unknowingly hurt him some other way, he pedals away furiously, leaving me alone under the bridge with all my thoughts and regrets, all my bittersweet memories, and the wish for things to be different.
At least we had the conversation that needed to be had.
That’s my only solace. Now I need to wait again.
Give him space. Even though I’d like to make things right as soon as I can, it’s not the right thing to do.
When we meet again—if he even wants to see me again—it’ll be on his terms and his terms only.
With a heavy heart, I turn and make my way back to the car.