Page 39 of Oliver

“Three hours,” I tell him, and he nods.

“Want me to drive?” he asks, but he can’t be serious. There’s no way after the events of last night I’m going to let him get behind the wheel.

“No, I can do it.” He nods again and then moves to take a shower, leaving his dishes in the sink. I wash them and put them away while he dresses, hating how the atmosphere has changed between us.

I don’t know if last night actually helped him in any way like I’d hoped it would, or if I’ve simply caused more emotional damage to a man who has dealt with enough trauma to last him a lifetime.

“Oli?” I say when we’re finally on the road and he’s staring out the window. “If you need to take a nap or anything, you can. I’ll be fine. You don’t need to keep me company.” I see him wiping his cheek through the window and feel a pang in my chest.

When he turns he gives me a sad smile. “I’m okay.”

I don’t press him further. I have a feeling whatever last night was for him he’s still processing it and isn’t ready to talk. He may never be ready to talk, at least not to me.

It’s the longest three hours of my life, but finally we make it to Atlantic City. Part of me is tempted to just drive straight home and forget staying here, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Not only am I exhausted but I’m fucking selfish, and not ready to let my time with Oliver be over. Sure, if we wanted to we could still fuck back home when Mom is at work, and even though we probably will, it’s not the same.

Oliver makes us dinner again, and we eat outside. He reads and sips his tea afterwards, still barely speaking but he seems to have perked up a little bit. I just wish I knew how to help him. It kills me that he’s hurting so much.

Mom Facetimes again to tell us she is looking forward to seeing us in a couple of days.

“You, too, love,” Oliver tells her, that fake smile ever present.

He runs his hand through his hair after we hang up and then tells me he’s tired and heading to bed early. When I get to the bed a couple of hours later I can tell he’s still awake, but don’t say anything. I hesitate, not knowing if I should scoot closer and hold him, but I can’t not.

I shuffle over and curl into him, draping my arm over his body and letting his ass rest against my crotch, his back pressed to my chest. I hear his breath hitch slightly but don’t say anything. Only seconds later, he’s snoring softly.

I let Oliver sleep in the next morning. We’re not in any rush. When he wakes he seems to be doing better. And though it’s small I even get one of his genuine smiles.

I have blueberry muffins ready for him along with his tea, as well as strawberries and melon, which he eats a healthy serving of.

We shower and then make our way out into the city. I hadn’t planned it, but since Oliver has been feeling so down lately I decided to take us to a spa. I think he could use some pampering and he deserves it. We get massages and then facials afterwards, and when we leave he seems almost back to his normal self.

We eat lunch out and do some shopping on the boardwalk, then head to a drag show taking place that evening. Oliver seems a little hesitant at the idea but he’s relaxing and smiling as soon as we walk inside.

We sleep curled up again that night and the next day we relax at our campsite, swimming, fishing, and soaking up the sun.

After dinner, I’m sitting with his head in my lap as we watch the sun disappear behind the trees. It’s been a wonderful day and my heart is so full my chest feels like it will burst with how much he means to me. I know he might not be ready to hear it, he may never be ready to hear it, but I can’t let this trip end without him knowing how I feel. Maybe it’s foolish, because it won’t matter in the end anyway. He’s still engaged to Mom and even though we’ve been enjoying ourselves on this trip I have no reason to believe his feelings for me go as deeply as mine for him. But maybe if he knows he won’t make the biggest mistake of his life. So even if it’s selfish, I stroke my fingers through his hair, my heart pounding, and say, “Oli?”

He looks up at me, “Hmm?”

The words catch on my tongue and I clear my throat. Why is fucking him and calling him my good boy so much easier than this?

Because I’m not risking my heart, that’s why.

But as I sit there and look into pale blue eyes and a freckle scattered face I realize it doesn’t matter, my heart stopped being mine the day I met him. I’ve been fucked this whole time, because Oliver fucking Jones doesn’t just own my heart, he is my goddamn heart. “Oli, I…I think I’m?—”

He jerks upright and rolls away so fast I barely have time to blink or realize what’s happening before he’s standing and brushing his pants off, stuttering, “I’m tired. I’m sorry, I…I’m going to head to bed. Goodnight, Hunter.”

I don’t even have the chance to respond before he’s inside and I’m left sitting there alone, feeling more foolish and hurt than I have in a long time. Tears slide down my cheeks and I wipe them away.

“I love you,” I whisper into the night. And of course, there’s no answer.

If I thought the three hour trip to Atlantic City was miserable it’s nothing compared to the two hour one back to Scarsdale. I don’t think this trip could have ended on a more miserable note. Oliver won’t even look at me, and it’s so painful I want to fucking scream. Scream at him to live his own life, to let me love him, to be the man I know he is. The one who’s brave, and kind, and caring, and who is an absolute pillow princess. The one who loves gay romance and stargazing and holding my hand. The one who thrives on praise and loves being the small spoon.The one who loves plants and has a childlike curiosity about him that melts my heart. I don’t want him to lose himself when he’s finally just found himself.

It’s lunch time when we arrive back home. We return the RV and settle into the house, each going to our separate rooms to unpack. I turn with a start when I hear a knock on my door frame. He’s standing there like he hasn’t been ignoring me all day. Like I didn’t try to tell him I love him and have him run away like his pants were on fire.

“I can make us lunch, if you—” he starts

“Don’t marry her,” I say, and his eyes widen, his shoulders tensing. “Don’t marry her, Oli,” I repeat and tears fill my eyes.

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