Page 10

No, it couldn’t be... could it?

“What happened?” My voice is tight, and Declan throws me a sideways glance as Paige shakes her head.

“I don’t know exactly. He wouldn’t tell me all the details, just that the guy was an asshole. Treated him like shit afterward. Someone he picked up while driving for Uber.”

The breath leaves my lungs as hazy memories from that night filter through my head.

Shilo’s nervous tics. Fidgeting with his clothes, avoiding my gaze. His embarrassment when he came too quickly, the way he’d wanted to keep his shirt on. That sweet, nervous flush on his cheeks.

And my fucking irritation at not being able to fit inside him. Jesus Christ.

I thought it had all been an act. I thought he’d been just another hookup.

I was so very, very wrong.

It was me.

I’m the one who broke the doll.

“I’ll go in and talk to him,” Declan says, reaching for the door handle, but my hand stops him quickly.

“No. I’ll do it.”

Two sets of eyes snap toward me, and I vaguely register the differences between Shilo’s appearance and his sister’s as she blinks in surprise.

“No offense, Ry,” Paige begins, curling her lips, “but... you?”

She’s got a point. I’m the last person Shilo should be around. All I ever do is drag people down into my darkness, and he’s already had a taste of that. But I need answers. Closure, or whatever the hell you want to call it.

Lifting a brow, I look between my brother and his girlfriend. “Isn’t this what you wanted from me? A ‘gay influence,’ you said?”

Declan makes a small noise, throwing me a knowing look, but Paige’s expression softens. “Yeah, you’re right. Okay. We’ll stay out here.”

Fighting back a heavy sigh, I give her a tight smile before pushing open the bathroom door. My ears are immediately assaulted by the sound of someone puking their guts out.

Guilt and shame swell in my chest as I lean against the row of black marble sinks, waiting for him to finish. It takes a while—his breathing ragged as he coughs and gags—but finally, the choking noises subside, leaving an uncomfortable silence.

“Shilo,” I say quietly.

There’s a whimper, followed by the scrape of a lock sliding back. The stall door creaks open a sliver, just enough for him to peek out. The moment he spots me, he slams it shut again.

How very fitting.

Trying again, this time more forcefully, I speak his name louder. “Shilo.”

He squeaks in response, then cracks the door open, a strained smile plastered on his face.

“Oh, Mr. Callahan, I didn’t see you there.” His voice is rough, no doubt from all the puking. Avoiding eye contact, he steps up to the sink to wash his hands.

“Mr. Callahan is my father,” I grit out, watching him closely. “You can call me Ryann.”

Something in my tone makes him freeze. His shoulders stiffen under that oversized shirt he’s wearing, looking thinner than he did two months ago.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” My words come out harsher than I intend, but I don’t care. I feel duped.

“Hm?” He shuts off the water, carefully drying his fingers, giving me a glimpse of chipped, purple nails. “Tell you what?”

What is it with people who like purple making it their entire personality?