23. Let Go
When we walk out of the café, it strikes me that we were supposed to have lunch. All our plans got sidelined by what just happened, and now, I’m not sure what to do.
Oliver said he was hungry nearly an hour ago, and I want to feed him, but at the same time, it’s hard to even look at him right now. The guilt that’s always simmering inside me is roaring in the wake of Mason’s words.
“You can care about him without sleeping with him.”
“You really couldn’t have picked anyone else?”
He’s right. He’s right about everything.
Seeing him again was like looking into a mirror of my past. The last time I saw him, he was sixteen, which means he must be in his early twenties now.
I met the boys’ mother when he was ten, and he never really warmed up to me the way Oliver did.
Never really accepted me as his father figure.
Even at ten, he was independent beyond his years, and he didn’t need me the way Oliver did.
Since he never warmed up to me in the first place, it’s no wonder he reacted the way he did.
I don’t blame him for it, and there’s nothing I can say that I haven’t already said.
My justifications for doing what I’m doing are weak in the first place; I know that.
Mason only hammered home what I already knew, jabbed his finger into bruises I already had.
As for Oliver… I know I hurt him by rejecting his kiss, and in hindsight, I could have granted him a small one, a peck, but I couldn’t.
It wasn’t because of the people around us this time.
Rather, the confrontation with Mason made me remember the boy Oliver used to be, and connecting that boy with the young man I take to bed just became too much.
All the thoughts running through my head as we walk back to my apartment are almost too much to take, the guilt like a hand squeezing my heart.
Oliver is quiet all the way home. I know today shook him too, though I doubt he’s as tormented by it as I am. He looks at his phone while we walk, and I glance down at him, curious to know what’s holding his attention.
“The twins are sending stupid memes,” he mutters, but I can’t help but notice the reluctant smile at the corners of his lips.
A lump forms in my throat. He should be with them, not me. They’re his friends, but they’re his own age, and they’re not… wrong. Like I am.
The more I think about it, the more certain I get.
Oliver was supposed to stay with me all weekend, but after what happened, I think we both need some space.
I don’t know if they’re my thoughts or Mason’s or something in between, but it doesn’t matter.
He shouldn’t be with me. This is for his own good.
God, I don’t want to send him away, but I can’t be what he needs when my mind is spinning like this.
I can’t be his daddy. I can’t be anything, and he deserves better.
When he’s here with me, I need to be able to focus all my energy on him, and I can’t do that right now.
What I want doesn’t matter; his well-being always comes first.
When we arrive at my apartment building, I open the entrance door and let Oliver inside. In the elevator, I don’t press the button to my floor, though; I press the button to the garage.
Oliver puts his phone away. “Are we going somewhere?”
When the elevator doors open, I walk toward my car. “I think it’s best if you sleep at your place tonight.”
“But… I have the weekend off. I thought we—”
“I know. We can see each other tomorrow.”
“Why not tonight?”
I open the door to the passenger seat. “Come on. I’ll take you home, and you can get some rest.”
I expect him to argue more, but his mouth sets in a hard line, and he climbs into the car and slams the door.
I’m doing this for him, I tell myself, hands clenching around the steering wheel. Not for me. Okay, it’s a bit of both. After what happened with Mason, I wish I could act like nothing’s wrong and give Oliver all the affection he craves from me, but I can’t. Not tonight.
After the short trip, I come to a stop outside his apartment building. The car is dead silent when I kill the engine, and Oliver doesn’t undo his seatbelt.
I sigh, hands resting on the wheel. “I’m not sending you away.”
“You literally are,” he mutters.
That stings. In some ways, he’s right, but I don’t know how else to protect him.
“I’ll come pick you up tomorrow.” My voice is subdued, thick with everything I want to say, torn between the need to be near him and the need to give him space.
Once he’s away from me, even for a night, maybe he’ll change his mind about me—about us. As Mason needlessly reminded me, he’s nineteen years old, and the way I remember, the mind can change quite often at that age.
I don’t want him to change his mind about me, but I don’t know what else to do to lessen the guilt in my heart.
“Fine.” He unbuckles his seat belt, opens the door, and climbs out. Then he slams the door shut, the car rattling with the force.
No hug. Not even a goodbye.
I watch him practically run upstairs, and my heart aches when I imagine him holding in tears in front of me and then letting them go when he’s alone. When he was younger, he was a sensitive child, and he used to cry in my arms over the smallest thing.
I left him once, and I don’t want to leave him again.
“If you walk away from him again, it will destroy him.”
I’m afraid Mason is right—not because I’m right for Oliver, but because having and losing is worse than not having in the first place.
And he’d lose me twice. He’s the boy I left in tears, not because I wanted to, but because I had to, and he’s the young man who looks at me like I’ve hung the moon—who thinks far more highly of me than I deserve.
I’d leave them both, and both times, it wouldn’t be because I wanted to, but because I had to.
I drive home half-blinded by tears, the thought of losing Oliver like a stake through my heart. I don’t want to let him go. Not now, and not in the future. But is that my own selfishness talking, or is it what’s best for him?
When I’m old and tired, he’ll still be a young man, in the prime of his life. Would I be holding him back? Am I already holding him back?
Sometimes, I feel like he’s more mature than his years would imply, but other times, he shows his age in the most adorable and sad ways. Sad, because it creates a distance between us that I’m not sure we can overcome.
I could regret what I’ve done, regret giving in, but there’s no point. It’s done. And now I have to deal with it.
That night, I toss and turn, unable to fall asleep.
It’s becoming clear that being with Oliver requires a certain amount of bravery, and right now, I feel like a coward.
I did it again. I pulled away instead of talking to him.
Taking a step back felt like the right thing to do, but now I’m not sure anymore.
Through my misplaced need to take care of him, I hurt him instead. I’m such an idiot.
The next day, I text him “good morning,” but he doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even read my message. My heart clenches with worry, and the need to be there for him, to care for him, rears up stronger than ever.
Because we belong together. That’s what Oliver said, and would it be foolish to hope that he’s right? I want to be with him so bad, but I still can’t tell if I’m being a selfish idiot for wanting him—I still can’t tell if I’m bad for him. Simply wondering that probably means it’s true.
And yet, by dinnertime, my emotions get the best of me, and I get into my car and drive to Oliver’s apartment. I told him I’d pick him up today, and I can’t break my promise, even if he’s hurt—especially if he’s hurt.
I text him and say that I’m outside. No reply, so I park the car, determined to make things right.
I don’t even know what floor he lives on, so finding him requires a bit of detective work. There’s no O. Williams as far as I can tell; however, two tenants with the surname Valenti live in the same apartment. Must be the twins.
I ring the doorbell, eager to see Oliver and make things right. Instead of Oliver, though, a young man with black-and-green hair opens the door. He’s got a toothbrush in his mouth, and he looks like he just got out of bed.
“Oh.” His piercing green eyes look me up and down. “It’s you, isn’t it? The stepdaddy.”
I clear my throat. “Yeah.”
“Damn, you really are big.” His lips quirk up at the corners. “Well, come in, then. Oliver’s moping in his room. I’m Nico, by the way.”
He shows me into a large living space, then points at the door to Oliver’s room. I knock, but there’s no reply. I knock again, and my pulse picks up. Why isn’t he opening the door?
Finally, the handle twists, and Oliver appears in the doorway. His eyes are tinted red, like he’s been crying.
“What do you want?” he mutters.
“I’m here to pick you up.” I keep my voice steady, but on the inside, I’m kicking myself for making him cry.
He casts his gaze to the floor and doesn’t speak.
“Can I come in?” I ask.
“It’s messy,” he warns, but he opens the door fully and lets me inside.
Messy is the right word. Clothes are strewn all over the floor and the unmade bed, and dirty dishes litter his desk, along with a handful of empty cans. The blinds are drawn, and there’s a stale smell to the air.
Oliver slumps onto the bed, gaze fixed on the floor.
I’d sit on his desk chair to give him space, but it’s occupied with a heap of clothes.
Instead, I take a seat beside him on the bed, near enough to let him seek my touch if he wants to, and far enough away to not force him into anything he’s not ready for.
He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and I can tell he’s trying so hard to hold back his tears. The signs are subtle, but I know him. He was like this even as a kid. Sometimes he needed a little push.
“It’s okay,” I say, voice low. “It’s okay to let go.”
That does it. He gives a small, whimpering noise and sniffles as tears drop into his lap. His shoulders slump, and it takes all the resolve I have not to pull him into my embrace.