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“What if I showed you some cooking basics, hmm? Then you can practice and ply me with delicious home-cooked meals and bottles of wine?”
Rolling his eyes, Oliver spun toward the bed just as Gabe was securing his binder on. “Is this your secret, subtle way of telling me you’re a high-maintenance boyfriend? Posh dinners and breakfasts in bed?”
“Oh dear,” Gabe said, stepping onto the floor to find his jeans. “He’s found me out.”
Oliver snorted, grabbing his shirt by the hem, and he pulled it off without realizing what he was doing. In fact, he didn’t notice anything at all until he caught Gabe’s eyes fixated on his right arm and side of his torso.
Bile rose in his stomach and he spun, grabbing his fresh shirt and quickly pulled it over his head. He cleared his throat, saying a silent prayer Gabe wouldn’t ask.
But his luck had never been any good.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” he said sharply. Grabbing the side of the closet, he clenched the door so hard his hands ached, hoping the pain would anchor him. “If it’s all the same…”
“Just…what happened? You know I’m not going to judge you. You can talk to me.”
Rage and pain from his past eclipsed everything he felt, or might have felt, for the man standing beside his bed, erasing every moment they’d just experienced together.
Instead of understanding that Gabe simply cared, he was furious. “How big of you. How fucking pragmatic. You’re not going to judge me.” Oliver’s jaw was clenched so tight his head began to ache. “You know what, I think I’m going to go for a walk. And when I get back, you should be gone. I don’t…this isn’t going to work out.”
Gabe called out a loud protest, but Oliver was running now. He was only half aware of what he was doing, where he was going. He felt the door slam as he left the house, and his feet were bare on the chilled pavement. But he was going now, half-dressed, tears in his eyes, memories he’d locked away years ago threatening to break the surface.
This. This was why he didn’t date. This was why he didn’t get close to anyone.
He liked Gabe, and the thought of seeing that look on his face when he found out what happened, what Oliver had gone through…he couldn’t take it. He couldn’t stomach it. Not from anyone, but especially not Gabriel.
He felt like he’d run for miles, and when he finally stopped to look back, Gabe wasn’t there. He hadn’t come after him. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or broken, but his chest was aching, and he had to stop. He collapsed against a garden wall surrounding a large house, and crooked one knee up to his chest.
Resting his head forward, he wondered how it could all go so badly wrong so fast. He’d been falling for Gabe, in such a short time, but there was no turning back now. He knew the other man wouldn’t understand—couldn’t understand. No one did. No one would be willing to accept why Oliver had done what he did.
He was destined to be alone. This only served as a reminder of why he didn’t get close to people. Because when you cared, when you wanted something, it hurt that much more when it was ripped away.
* * *
A tiny partof him hoped Gabe remained at the house. That maybe he was someone who would fight to stay together, but the front door was open and there was no sign of anyone anywhere. With a resigned sigh, he slammed the door, turning to give the nearby arm chair a kick for good measure.
“Fucking good,” he lied to himself, then rushed up the stairs, pulling his sheets from the bed and stuffed them into the wash.
It was for the best, he reminded himself. When you were alone, you couldn’t get hurt.
Though, he wondered as he fixed himself tea and stared at his phone which hadn’t made a peep all morning, if alone avoided pain, why did he feel like this?
His sibling texted late into the evening as Oliver sat in front of Netflix, a bag of chips open in his lap, though he hadn’t touched them.
What the fuck did you do?
Oliver sighed, staring at the screen, and decided not to answer. He was making good on his promise to let Leo have his space, and he wasn’t going to bother his sibling with his romance problems. He would just wallow, trying to erase the lingering scent of Gabriel which clung to almost all of his things. He tried to stop seeing him every time he closed his eyes, and stop feeling him every time his mind wandered back to that morning with warm hands, soft lips, and the most careful embrace.
Self-hatred was his home away from home, it seemed.
Sunday came around, and with the afternoon came the return of Leo, who was scowling as he dropped his bag by the front door. Oliver, who still hadn’t moved from the sofa, rolled his head to the side and let out the tiniest sigh of relief that Leo looked not only fine, but well-rested.
“So, how’d you cock this one up?” he demanded, sinking into the chair near the sofa.
Oliver rolled his eyes, then his head away from his sibling. “No idea what you’re on about.”
“You’re such a fuckwit, Oliver. The one good thing that happens to you, and you turn into an arse.”
