Chapter 302: My Heart Needs Adult Supervision

[Oliver Reyes]

I wasn’t sure how to process what I’d just overheard. I’d wanted answers for four years. Maybe I should’ve been more careful about what I wished for. Classic me...order the existential crisis special and then complain when it arrives with extra trauma on the side.

The rest of the afternoon dragged on in an awkward silence that could’ve powered a small generator. Dad was in the living room, watching soccer and occasionally yelling at the television over players’ poor decisions like they could actually hear him through the screen.

I sat at my desk for almost an hour, pretending to work while reading the same paragraph over and over again without really grasping any of it. My brain had decided productivity was cancelled indefinitely.

Each time I tried to focus, Damien’s words echoed back like a particularly persistent notification I couldn’t swipe away. His own family had threatened him, they threatened me, they threatened Dad.

That’s why he couldn’t contact me. He had been watched. He waited four years to ensure they couldn’t take everything away again. I wasn’t privy to the whole story yet, just the bits I’d overheard.

And as I thought about it, my anger became more complicated...like trying to untangle headphones that had spent four years in a pocket. If Damien was telling the truth, I had been wrong about something significant.

Damien hadn’t left because he didn’t love me. I’d asked him to choose his future, insisted I didn’t want to be the reason he lost everything, I’d held onto him while urging him to leave. The thought twisted in my stomach like a bad plot twist I wrote myself. If I hadn’t pushed him towards that choice, into going back to his terrible fucking family, would any of this have happened?

The question weighed heavily on my mind, and I didn’t like it one bit. Self-reflection was overrated.

By the time I made my way downstairs to start dinner, I had convinced myself that cooking was a good distraction from thinking.

As soon as I entered the kitchen, I found Damien already there. He turned when he heard me.

"Can I help with dinner?"

I paused, Damien was wearing the same clothes from earlier, minus his jacket, with his sleeves rolled up a bit. He looked different without the formal attire he usually wore in public, and for a brief second he reminded me of the Damien from Preston Hall.

The one who would complain when I snuck into the kitchen, stealing bites of whatever was on the stove before the food was even ready.

The Damien who leaned against the counter and listened as I vented about university. The Damien who once banned me from making pancakes because the first try had somehow ended up both raw and burnt.

My brain helpfully supplied a highlight reel I did not ask for and I turned away before it could start a full documentary.

"You can chop the vegetables." I said.

Damien looked a bit surprised that I let him stay. "...Okay."

I handed him the knife, our fingers nearly touching, and we both noticed. Neither of us spoke. I turned back to the stove, focusing on the sauce like it held the secrets of the universe, while Damien worked alongside me.

The silence was a little awkward but not unbearable...almost familiar somehow, like slipping back into an old shirt that still fit after a long time and realizing it still had that one mysterious stain.

After a few minutes, Damien glanced at my cutting board. "You’ve improved."

I met his gaze. "At what?"

"At cooking."

I glanced at the veggies and scoffed proudly. "Obviously, I am a genius after all."

He laughed, the sound hitting me harder than I expected. I hadn’t heard that laugh in years. My traitorous heart did a little flip like it had been waiting for the punchline.

I concentrated hard on stirring the sauce, as if the sauce had personally offended me. "What? You think I’m stupid or something? Go away."

"Wait, I’m helping!"

"I’ve changed my mind." I rolled my eyes, "I can chop the veggies myself."

He shook his head. "No, I’ll do it."

I glanced at him. There was something warm about Damien’s expression. For a second, all the years that separated us seemed to melt away like butter on a hot pan.

But then reality hit hard, the way reality always does when you’re trying to enjoy a moment. I looked down at the food. We finished dinner without bringing up the earlier conversation. Maybe neither of us was ready yet. Maybe we both knew once we started, it would be impossible to stop.

So we let the topic hang between us, fragile and untouchable, like a really expensive vase in a house full of cats.

When we wrapped up cooking, I reached for a bowl simultaneously with Damien. Our hands brushed, and I pulled back quickly. Damien did too and the air between us could’ve powered a small awkwardness generator.

Dad shouted from the living room, "Is dinner ready, yet?!"

"Y-yes, Dad!" I responded.

"Good! I’m starving!"

I exchanged a glance with Damien. "You’d think I hadn’t fed him since yesterday."

Damien grinned. "He enjoys your cooking."

I shook my head and carried the bowl into the dining room. We had dinner together without touching on the conversation that loomed over us like an unpaid bill. Dad was perfectly content, discussing the soccer match and criticizing one of the players while Damien listened and chuckled now and then.

It felt almost normal, that was the strangest part. Almost-normal was apparently the new normal, and I was not emotionally prepared for the upgrade.

After dinner, Dad eventually headed to bed, leaving Damien and me alone in the living room. The house fell into quiet, and I stood awkwardly, unsure what to do with my hands or my entire existence.

Damien glanced at me. "You should get some sleep."

"Yeah, I know."

Neither of us moved...then Damien spoke softly, "About what you heard..."

I met his gaze. "We’ll talk about it."

His expression softened. "When?"

"I don’t know."

"Okay."

I expected him to push, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked toward the couch. "I can...I can sleep here."

I stared at the couch. It looked innocent enough until you actually tried to sleep on it and realized it was a betrayal to your spine. A furniture war crime. "You’ll hurt your back."

Damien met my eyes. "I’ve slept in worse spots."

"That’s not comforting at all."

A faint smile crept onto Damien’s face. I sighed, the sound of a man who knew he was about to make a questionable decision. Damien paused before stepping closer.

"Can I sleep in your room tonight, Sunshine?" He asked.

My heart raced as if it had forgotten how to behave and was improvising under pressure. I gaped at Damien. There was no teasing in his tone this time, no smug smile, no assumption that I would say yes. He just waited, looking almost uncertain. I glanced toward the hallway, then back at him. Part of me wanted to refuse.

Part of me was still mad. Part of me was still hurt. But there was another part of me...one I’d tried hard to suppress over the last four years, that couldn’t bear the thought of Damien spending the night on that terrible couch when my room was just a few steps away.

My dignity filed a formal complaint, but I hung my head in defeat. Then I nodded.

Damien’s face lit up. "Thank you."

I turned away to hide my expression, because apparently my face had decided to stage a full emotional broadcast. "Don’t make it weird."

"I won’t."

"And don’t think this means everything’s forgiven."

"I know."

"I really mean it."

"Aright, Sunshine."

I started back toward the kitchen, as if I’d suddenly remembered a ton of dishes waiting to be cleaned despite having already cleared the table.

Behind me, I heard Damien chuckle quietly. I didn’t look back...I should have said no, but instead I nodded, and the weight of that decision settled over the kitchen like another undisclosed secret we weren’t yet ready to acknowledge.

Future me was going to have words with present me. Strong ones.