Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 118125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
I can’t deal with that right now.
Stuffing the bread slices in the toaster and shoving the lever down, Damon grunted, “What?”
“It... I...”
“Spit it out, Falwell.”
Rian let out a frustrated sound, this glottal, upset thing in the back of his throat, then blurted, “It’s okay to be upset.” He stopped, breathing in heavily, and Damon glared over his shoulder to see those skinny shoulders rising and Rian lifting his chin like he was nerving himself to do a fucking recital. “It...it really is. I know you’re angry, but you almost seem more angry at yourself.”
“Why the fu—” Damon caught himself short of snapping, reined himself in, and clamped down on the snarl that wanted to rise. “Why would I be angry at myself?”
Rather than snap back at him, though...
Rian only smiled, wistful and small, giving a helpless little shrug. “Because you think of those boys as yours,” he said. “And you’re the kind of person who would blame himself for letting something happen to Chris.”
“Why would I—”
For the second time, Damon had to force himself to stop.
This time, because Rian was fucking right.
He was fucking right, and it pissed Damon off more than it should that Rian could see right through him that way. That Rian could tell Damon was grinding himself up into pieces and goddamned well tearing himself apart looking through every memory of Chris’s freshman year, every practice, every conversation Damon had had with him, searching for some warning sign that would have told him Chris was in trouble and might need something. Something Damon had missed; something Damon could have stepped in to prevent if he’d been aware enough just a little bit sooner.
Deep down he knew there was fucking nothing. That sometimes shit just happened, and Chris might not be a good liar but he didn’t have to be to keep shit hidden in a busy school with only so many faculty to keep an eye on the boys day and night.
It wasn’t Damon’s fault.
That didn’t stop him from wanting to blame himself anyway.
But he could at least not lash out at Rian over it, and Damon blew out through his nostrils, scrubbing both hands over his face before forcing himself to say, “No. Never mind. Just drop it.”
“Okay,” Rian whispered, but then...didn’t fucking drop it. “But it’s not your fault,” he added. “We’re trying. We’re trying our best. It’s not our fault that it’s not enough.”
Damon dropped his hands, glowering at Rian. “Not enough isn’t good enough. Period.”
“Then what do we do next?”
“I—” Damon closed his mouth with a frustrated sound. “I don’t know.”
Rian just looked at him. As if Damon had any answers; as if Damon could do anything about that quiet entreaty in Rian’s eyes.
He couldn’t.
He couldn’t even help one fucking kid; what was he supposed to do about Rian?
The toaster gave its little metallic-sliding chk-chk, saving him from answering, and he turned away, snagging a plate right from the drying rack next to the sink and dropping the hot, lightly browned slices atop it before dipping into the fridge for the jar of strawberry compote. The coffee pot would be done with the hot water soon; focus on that. Just make his damned breakfast, and get his head on straight before he tried to do anything else.
He wasn’t even sure why Rian was still here, the silence between them awkward and strained, punctuated only by the sounds as Damon scraped strawberry compote out onto his toast, slung a teabag and sugar into his mug, did everything with a little more force than was necessary just because it helped vent some of his mounting, unreasonable frustration to snap the cap on the compote jar just a little too hard or crash the cabinet door when he put the sugar bin away.
He was being an oversized child.
He didn’t care.
Making himself feel better by banging a cabinet door was better than taking his frustration out on anyone else.
And sometimes?
Sometimes, you just needed to slam something.
But he nearly slammed his own hand in the refrigerator door as Rian broke the silence between them, asking out of goddamned nowhere:
“Have you ever looked at adoption registries?”
Damon knocked the fridge closed sharply and straightened, whipping about to glare at Rian. He felt like a nuclear reactor on the verge of meltdown, and one more ounce of pressure and he was going to blow.
“What?” he demanded. “Why are you asking me that?”
“I... I was just wondering...” Rian recoiled, before his throat worked in a swallow and he looked away. “I don’t know. I just wanted to help, that’s all. If...if you wanted to find them. Your parents.”
“I don’t want help with that,” Damon snarled.
Then, for the millionth fucking time, forced himself to take a deep breath and calm the fuck down.
He should be used to this by now, anyway.
Everyone wanted to stick their fucking noses in and fuck around with a thing they just didn’t goddamned well understand.