Page 2 of Ruined

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.