6. Making It Weird
There’s a rock behind my elementary school that I used to climb as a child. Things are usually bigger when you’re young, so back then, it seemed gigantic—the largest boulder I’d ever seen. When I walked past it a few months ago, though, it looked like a regular old rock.
But he… he appeared giant when I was a kid, and he’s not any smaller now that I’m grown.
Looking up at him when standing close made my neck hurt.
So tall. So broad. Even though our conversation didn’t warrant such a thing at all, I couldn’t help the pull in the pit of my stomach.
The forbidden need I’ve tried to suppress.
In hindsight, I don’t even know what I expected him to say.
To explain himself? Yes.
To say sorry? Yes.
To dismiss my questions with half answers? To smile at my distress and treat me like I’m still the thirteen-year-old boy he left behind—like I’m still too young to hear adult answers to adult questions? No. And it kills me that he did.
I might not be as old as him; that doesn’t mean he can treat me like some kid, though. I wanted to give him a chance, but I don’t know if my heart can take it. It hurts too much, and I’m not strong enough for more rejections, more losses, or more dismissive smiles.
Days pass in a blur. I spend most of them working, pinned under Guillaume’s thumb. “Table two needs clearing.” “Careful with the wine glasses.” “No, not like that, silly boy!”
When I come home, I fall asleep in an exhausted heap, with barely enough energy to eat or even shower.
Luckily, I don’t need to worry about what to eat.
Luca cooks most days—huge pots of ratatouille with pasta or trays of lasagna that we eat for days.
I still haven’t told the twins what I did—or rather, what I tried to do—on the night we were drinking orange juice and vodka.
Nico looks at me strangely sometimes, as if he knows I’m hiding something, but thankfully he hasn’t asked me anything outright.
It’s a good thing I’m busy working—or else I’d be busy thinking about Logan. To be fair, I still think about him day and night, but if I weren’t so busy, I’m sure I’d think about him even more.
Lane and I game online for a couple of sessions with headsets on.
In case Mason is lurking nearby, I tell him about Logan using silly gaming code words.
In my story, Logan is a boss I haven’t yet defeated.
I tell Lane I tried to battle him on my own but suffered a loss and plan to level up before I try again.
The truth is, I have no plan. All I know is that I can’t stop thinking about him.
On Thursday night after a late shift at the restaurant, sleep refuses to come. Eventually, I grow sick of tossing and turning. I reach for my phone, and without thinking, I open the hookup app and navigate to North43’s profile. My heart beats hard and fast as I stare at his profile picture.
His broad shoulders and hairy arms, his thick thighs as he spreads his legs… It’s a complete mindfuck to connect that picture with the Logan I grew up with. I never saw him like that. Never saw him be sexually suggestive, least of all with me.
We used to hug all the time when I was little. What would it feel like to hug him now? To press my body against his and inhale his scent?
My dick stirs between my legs in no time, and just as fast, my body grows hot with panic and shame. I lock my phone and slam it onto the bedside table, but it doesn’t stay untouched for long. I already know what I’m about to do; there’s no stopping it.
Grabbing my phone again, I navigate once more to Logan’s profile.
With my free hand, I reach down under the covers, into my briefs, and grip myself where I’m already hard and straining.
I let out a whispered “fuck,” and my dick swells at my touch.
With every stroke, the shame and arousal mingle in my mind until I can’t tell the difference between them anymore.
It might be fucked up to lust over the man I used to call Dad—beyond fucked up—but in this moment, at three in the morning when the world is quiet and my mind is churning, I don’t care.
Despite my endless attempts to stop it, I still long for him as much as ever.
More, now that I’ve seen him again. My whole body tensing up with arousal, I spit into my hand and work my dick with desperate strokes.
Forbidden fantasies flash behind my eyes, and just this once, I ignore that it’s wrong, that it’s twisted, that it’s dirty.
One single word tumbles from my lips as I reach my peak, more forbidden and wrong than any other.
“Daddy.” I arch my back, spilling into my briefs and whimpering as I do. “Daddy,” I whisper again, aching for him with my whole heart, my whole body, everything.
God, if only he’d want me back.
The following day, I try my best to forget what I did under the cover of night.
It’s not the first time I’ve touched myself to thoughts of him, but last night was different.
More real. The previous times, I didn’t know if he’d ever come back, even though I wished for it.
He was like a phantom in my brain, existing only in my fantasies.
Now, I’ve seen him, though. Smelled him. Heard his voice and gazed into his eyes.
That word echoes in my head whenever I think of him now. Daddy. And I don’t know what to do about it. The longing in the pit of my stomach only grows the more I think about it. Him.
I should delete that damn hookup app, but instead, I screenshotted his profile pic and saved it to a secret folder. My 3AM brain is really something else.
I have the evening shift today, working from 6PM to closing time at twelve.
Swinging my leg over my bike, I resign myself to another night of work.
I’m a bit late, so I pedal hard, standing up on the bike and whooshing past the intersections.
It’s rush hour, which means a lot of traffic.
I try to swerve past it as best I can, but then I come across a part of the road lacking a bike lane.
It happens so quickly. A truck on my left runs a red light, and I’m forced to swerve to avoid smashing into it. I lose balance, crash into a garbage can, and slam face-first into the pavement.
My vision goes black for a moment. When the world comes back into focus, my bike is by my side, and my foot is hurting. My palms are hurting as well, and a young couple has gathered around me with looks of polite concern.
“I’m okay, I’m okay.” I accept the helping hand that gets me to my feet and try not to show the pain on my face. Once they’ve helped me upright, the couple leaves.
Heart pounding, I assess the situation. My bike is fucked. The steering wheel is twisted to the side, and somehow, the front tire is flat. Shit.
My first thought is I’ll be late for work. I can’t ride my bike in this state, and blood is running down my leg. When I put weight on my foot, my ankle throbs with pain. I must have twisted it.
I look around the street frantically, trying to orient myself. When I realize where I am, a mix of dread and hope ignites in my chest. It was dark and raining that day, but I still recognize the opposite building and the convenience store to my right.
I’m only a few hundred feet from Logan’s apartment. He can help. I don’t have much of a choice, anyway.
Before I can second guess myself, I start making my way toward Logan’s building. I’m limping from the pain in my ankle, and I probably look miserable and hurt and embarrassed as I stand before the entrance.
Last time, I managed to slip in without having to call the intercom. This time, there’s no such luck. I press the button for “Baker, L.” and wait, heart pounding.
What if he’s not home? Or what if he is? Both possibilities seem just as scary. I’m about to say fuck it to the whole thing and limp my way to a bus stop instead, but then there’s a crackle, and Logan’s voice nearly makes me topple over.
“Yes?”
“I’m—” I cut myself off, eyes filling with tears, both from the pain and the relief of hearing his voice.
“Ollie?”
“I fell off my bike.” I choke the words out, holding back a sob. It hurts. It really hurts.
No more than a second passes before the door beeps and opens, and I wheel my fucked-up bike into the elevator and up to the fourth floor. The hallway smells like fresh paint, dust, and a little like motor oil.
When Logan opens his door, he looks the same as he did when I last saw him. Gentle brown eyes above a thick salt and pepper beard, broad shoulders, and an immediate calming presence that I can’t describe.
His brow furrows in worry at the sight of me. I must look pathetic with my ruined bike, bloody palms, and teary eyes.
“Come in.” He takes my bike and sets it aside in the hallway, and I limp inside without thinking too much, without considering what this means or what lines I’m crossing.
Only days ago, I ran away from him in a fit of hurt and anger, but now I show up at his apartment, injured and needing help.
His help. It was the convenient choice, but it’s not random.
My body and mind would lead me to him sooner or later.
Whether I’d come to him bruised and bloody or whole but still in pain, come to him I would. Inevitably.
His apartment is simple and modern, with a dark gray sofa near the window, a big screen TV, and a kitchen island separating the living room from the kitchen. The bedroom door is cracked a bit, allowing me a glimpse into a small space with black-out curtains and dark, rumpled covers.
When he leads me to the kitchen, Logan elbows the bedroom door shut, and I tear my gaze away from the intimate space.
“Come sit.” He points to a kitchen chair, and I obey, feeling a bit embarrassed about coming to him like this. He doesn’t look happy to see me; he just looks concerned.
He gets out a first aid kit from a kitchen drawer. When he sits down on a chair beside me, it creaks with his weight.
“Where are you hurt?” he murmurs, gaze roaming over me, as if he’s wondering it mostly for himself.