Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Damian

It took me a long month to summon the courage to come out to my brother and sister. A month of rehearsing words that felt both foreign and too familiar, a month of twisting my stomach into knots at the thought of their reactions. I chose a family dinner, while we were still in the kitchen cooking, before their spouses and children arrived and the space filled with the noise of their lives. It was the safest moment I could find, though it hardly felt safe. Their reactions, as different as their personalities, somehow met me in the same place: support. Not perfect, not without hesitation, but support nonetheless.

By the end of the night, I made a decision. Therapy. A step toward understanding myself before I braved the wider world with this truth. The truth I’d kept locked so tightly that even saying it aloud felt like prying apart rusted hinges.

After years of hiding, of wearing a mask that was never quite convincing, I feel awkward in this new honesty, like I’m a stranger to my own reflection. And yes, I suppose I was a liar. A liar out of fear—fear of rejection, fear of losing the people I love, fear of standing alone in the aftermath. But now that my family knows, now that their love has held me steady even for this fleeting moment, the fear doesn’t feel quite so crippling. If I have to leave, if I have to carve a new life out of somewhere unfamiliar, I will. This time, I will.

The therapist’s office is silent in the way a church can be silent—heavy, expectant, almost sacred. It isn’t peaceful, though; it’s too sharp for that. The kind of silence that presses against you, daring you to speak. The kind that knows every secret you’re hiding and waits, patient and unyielding, for you to confess.

The soft glow of the lamps’ pools gently across the room, casting a warm but muted light on the pale green walls. It’s the kind of illumination that tries to be comforting, but instead feels oddly intimate, like it’s spotlighting all the things I’d rather keep in the shadows. The quiet hum of the room amplifies the weight in my chest, the tight coil that refuses to unwind. My fingers dig into the fabric of my jeans, a futile attempt to ground myself. Here, there’s no mask to wear, no easy exit. Just me, my truth, and the heavy stillness daring me to face it.

Dr. Patel sits across from me, her tablet balanced on her knee, her gaze calm but piercing in its quiet focus. It’s her superpower, I think—this ability to make you feel seen without a trace of judgment, all while effortlessly dismantling the walls you thought were impenetrable.

“You’d think coming out would be the hard part,” I begin, my voice hesitant like I’m tasting the words before they leave my mouth. “And yes, it was hard. Saying it—those three little words—felt colossal. Like I was shoving open a door that had been bolted shut for years, the hinges screaming with the effort. But now that it’s done?”—I pause, taking a deep breath— “It’s not easier. It’s harder.”

Dr. Patel doesn’t interrupt. She doesn’t rush to fill the silence between pauses or guide me to some neat, tidy conclusion. She just waits, her pen hovering over the page, as though the silence itself is part of the work.

“Knightly was fine,” I say, my fingers curling into the armrests as if holding on for dear life. “She hugged me, told me she loved me no matter what, and—typical Knightly—even managed to crack a joke about my taste in bad wine. She made it easy. But Bishop . . .” I stop, the image of his face flashing in my mind: cool, unreadable, and so fucking distant it felt like a slap. “Bishop wasn’t exactly thrilled.”

“What did he say?” she asks, her voice gentle but deliberate, drawing the words out of me.

“That I’d have to do better than just saying, ‘Oh, by the way, I’m gay,’ if I wanted him to take me seriously. Like my entire life wasn’t already a fucking performance.”

The bitterness in my voice comes out raw, like a blade dragged across skin. I let it spill, unchecked, because smoothing it over would mean swallowing it back down, and I can’t—not this time. “He didn’t yell. He didn’t even look surprised. He just . . . stared at me. His eyes pinned me there, and it wasn’t anger or disappointment that hit the hardest—it was emptiness. Like he was staring at a stranger. Like he’d realized I wasn’t the person he thought I was, like I’d lied to him every single day of my life.”

“Had you?” she asks, her head tilting slightly, her gaze piercing but calm.

A bitter laugh escapes me, humorless and raw. “I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, I’ve been pretending for so long, I thought I’d fooled him along with everyone else. I was the fixer, the guy who swooped in and made everything right. Took on everyone’s problems so they wouldn’t have to deal with their own shit. And now?” My chest tightens, the words tasting like poison on my tongue. “Now he looks at me like I’m the problem.”

Dr. Patel doesn’t flinch at the venom in my tone. She’s unshakable, grounded in a way I can’t fathom. “And how does that make you feel?” she asks softly, as if the question itself isn’t a bomb waiting to detonate.

“How do you think it makes me feel?” The words snap out of me before I can stop them, sharp and bitter. Regret floods me immediately, and I tighten my grip on the armrests, grounding myself against the rising tide of anger. “It makes me feel like shit. Like I finally took off the mask, and it wasn’t enough. Like I’m not enough.”

Her stylus taps lightly against the screen, the faint rhythm somehow louder than the pounding of my heartbeat. She doesn’t look up, doesn’t even pause, as she asks, “And what do you think Bishop wants from you?”

The question hits like a stone dropped into still water, sinking straight to the core of me. I open my mouth to answer, but the words tangle, caught in the swirling mess of resentment, guilt, and fear. What does he want from me? And why does it feel like no matter what I offer, it will never be enough?

I exhale hard, dragging a hand through my hair, tugging at the strands like I might pull out the answers hiding in my skull. “Hell if I know. Forgiveness, maybe? For not being the person he thought I was? For all the times I hurt people, hurt him. I hurt his brother-in-law, pissed off his wife. Maybe that’s why he’s acting like this. Or maybe he just wants proof. Proof that I’m trying, that I’m not the same selfish asshole I’ve always been.”

The words tumble out, raw and jagged, but they barely scratch the surface of the storm inside me. Dr. Patel doesn’t push, doesn’t react. She just watches, letting the silence stretch like it’s an invitation to keep digging.

She already knows about Paul—there’s no point in dredging that up again. But the rest? I don’t know if it’s new to her, but it feels like I’m standing in front of the same mirror, staring at the same cracks I’ve been trying to ignore for years. I’ve always been the one who fucked up, but who was there when Bishop and Knightly were younger, making sure they weren’t missing Mom? For fucks sake, Lee was just a baby. I was there for them. I covered for Dad so they wouldn’t miss him. It was always me.

“And are you trying?” she asks, finally meeting my eyes, her voice soft but direct.

The question blindsides me; cuts deeper than I expect. My chest tightens, and I nod a little too quickly. “Yeah. I mean, I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t, right? I wouldn’t be sitting in this goddamn chair, spilling my guts to a stranger.”

“You’re not here for Bishop, Damian. You’re here for yourself. Remember that.”

Her words slam into me, leaving a hollow ache in their wake. I stare at the corner of her desk, the cheap wood grain blurring. “I don’t even know who that is anymore,” I admit, my voice quieter now, like I’m afraid to hear it out loud. “I’ve spent so long being what everyone else needed me to be, I don’t know who I am without that.”

She nods, her expression a blend of understanding and expectation, like she’s seen this exact wound a hundred times but knows every cut is different. “Then maybe that’s where we start this session.”

A bitter laugh escapes me, unsteady and dry. “This session feels eternal. Like I’m stuck in a loop, saying the same things, feeling the same things, and getting nowhere.”

“We’ll get somewhere, be patient,” she reminds me.

“You want me to go back to the beginning when we’re already discussing Bishop.”

“And what do you want him to see, Damian?” she presses, her words deliberate, like she’s prying open a door I thought I’d nailed shut—again and again, just to be sure.

I look down at my hands, at the faint tremor in my fingers as I clench and unclench them. The room feels too quiet, too close, but I force the words out anyway. “That I’m more than the fuckups he’s cataloged over the years. That I’m not just the guy who ruins family dinners or dodges his phone calls. That I’m . . . worth knowing.”

The silence that follows isn’t crushing like before. It feels open, like air moving through a window you didn’t realize was stuck. Dr. Patel sets her tablet down, folding her hands in her lap with deliberate care.

“It sounds like you’re already making progress, Damian. You’re here. You’re opening up. That’s something.”

Her words linger, neither comforting nor dismissive, just… there. I meet her gaze, and for the first time, something stirs in the space where shame usually lives. It’s not relief. It’s not hope. It’s something quieter, more fragile. A flicker of something I might even call a beginning.