Page 90 of Bruised

“But you…” His mouth closes and opens again, several times before he gets the rest of the sentence out. “But you acted like it didn’t matter.”

“What was I supposed to have done? Break down like you did? I was older than you; I was supposed to have it together. Mom was a mess. For a while there after he left, I had to take care of you both.”

I remember how Mom would suddenly burst out crying out of nowhere, and I’d have to console her, telling her it would be okay. We didn’t even get a goodbye. One day, he was just gone, and Mom sobbed as she told us he didn’t love her anymore, and that he’d quit his job and gone back to his hometown. Foolishly, like the child he was, Oliver held out hope for years that he’d come back, but I always knew he wouldn’t.

He was our dad for six years—from the time Oliver was seven to thirteen and I was ten to sixteen. To me, he was more of Mom’s boyfriend than a dad, and I sure didn’t put him on a sky-high pedestal, unlike Oliver.

“Don’t you remember?” I ask.

Oliver shakes his head. “Not really. That time is kind of… blurry for me.”

No surprise. He started high school that summer, but he did so badly in his junior year that he had to repeat it.

“Did you really take care of me?” he asks. “The way I remember it, you just mocked me.” His eyes grow distant as he’s probably remembering some faraway memory I’ve long since pushed aside.

I scratch the back of my head. “Well, that’s because it’s how I deal with stuff, I guess. It was my way of trying to make you realize you should move on. In my own fucked-up way, I was trying to help you.”

Oliver scowls. “Well, it didn’t feel very helpful at the time.”

I remember how upset he’d get whenever I told him Logan wasn’t coming back, and that he should stop hoping. Soon enough, I graduated high school, got my first job, and left home, and I suppose we didn’t really have time to reconcile after that. Maybe that’s why he’s glaring at me like that right now, with that murderous look in his eyes.

I suppose I deserve it. Even when I’m trying to help, I’m being an asshole. Even when I’m trying to be nice, it comes off wrong. And when I’m trying to connect with someone, like I did with Lane, it all goes to shit in the end.

“Hey,” I mumble, laying a hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I made you feel childish for hoping. I’m sorry I tried to push you to move on when you weren’t ready.”

Oliver’s lip quivers, and he looks so young and broken that I suddenly want nothing more than to hug him.

I take a step forward and wrap my arms around his shoulders, expecting him to push me away, but instead, he leans into my chest and wraps his arms around my waist—hesitantly, but he does it.

So of course I have to ruin the moment by saying, “And if you had a tiny crush on him, so what?”

Oliver withdraws and shifts his gaze, and for a moment he looks so… sad. Warning bells ring as an uncomfortable thought slithers into my mind.

I put a hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “Hey, he didn’t… do anything to you, right?”

Oliver looks up. “Do anything?”

“Like… hurt you? Touch you?”

“What, you mean…?” His eyes widen slowly in realization. “God, no. It wasn’t like that. Not at all.” He seems puzzled I’d even think that way.

I exhale in relief. “Good.”

Oliver shakes his head. “He had no idea how I felt. Hell, even I didn’t get it until much later on. How I felt, I mean.” His cheeks redden.

I smirk. “Puppy love, eh?”

Oliver scowls and crosses his arms. “Something like that. Anyway, don’t mention it again, okay? It’s embarrassing.”

“Yeah, and he’s long gone anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah,” Oliver mumbles. “It doesn’t matter.” He looks sad again.

I figure it’s better to be embarrassed than sad, so I speak up, a little too loud. “So you were crushing on our stepdad—good to know.” I spread my arms in a placating gesture. “Now, are you going to let me talk to my crush?”

Oliver fixes me with the same suspicious glare he always gets whenever the subject of Lane comes up. “Depends. What are you going to say to him?”

I shrug. “I have a whole speech planned out, but if I know myself, I’ll go off script.”