Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

Alex

HENRY'S TASTE LINGERS in my mouth during my walk home.

I didn't realize that was a thing I could enjoy so much. I need a shower and a toothbrush, but part of me kind of wants to put those things off as long as I can.

Gross, Alex.

Yeah, maybe it is, but more and more I'm okay going with feelings over logic on this one. And my feeling is that I want Henry to stick to me for as long as possible.

I've felt this way before, but not in a long, long time. Probably not since my first girlfriend in high school, the one I thought I'd be in love with forever. It was a childish whim burning hot with the kind of dogmatic fervor that fades as you get older, so it scares me a little to realize this sensation buzzing inside me reminds me of that infatuation more than anything else. Would I call Henry an infatuation? It feels like it in the moment. Being around him makes me want to get on my knees, makes me want to do things I've never contemplated before, and the more I experience, the more I want.

I shiver, even though the sun is already warming up the sedate spring day glowing into wakefulness around me. Henry must have reached the café by now. He's probably feeding the cats, tending to each in turn and by name. He has such a capacity for kindness that it's startling to witness sometimes. Like last night, when my parents started laying into him simply for existing in that bar and supposedly interrupting Ellie and I's "date." Henry didn't flinch, answering Mom's questions as though they were sincere. It was me who snapped, not him.

If only my parents knew how the rest of the night went.

I shake my head at myself, a nervous jitter quickening my steps. Better if they don't know. Better if they never know. If they could be that cruel to Henry for no crime worse than having a drink at a bar, I shudder to imagine how they'd react to him inviting me into his bed.

Or, well, I suppose I kind of invited myself.

It's weird realizing that guy in my memory is me . I'm the one who crept into Henry's room last night hoping he would let me crawl into bed with him. I'm the one who pushed him against the wall this morning and dropped to my knees.

I scrub a hand over my face, but the fresh morning air isn't slapping me out of my memories. Still, each breath is a little sweeter here in a small town cluttered with trees than it is back in the city. My morning walk definitely wouldn't be like this in San Francisco. Not that I don't like the city. But my heart has always belonged more to places like this.

When did I forget that? When did I lose it? Probably around the time my parents started telling me my environmental sciences degree would be useless if I didn't go on to get a law degree as well.

Fuck, this trip home is messing with me. My job, my future, my sexuality — I thought I'd settled all that shit. I thought I had a plan. Somehow that plan has crumbled into pieces in a couple brief, strange weeks.

I'm still wondering how this place managed to turn my life upside down when I reach my parents' street. Their house lies down the road. It blends in among the others dotting this street, but the sight of it twists my stomach into a knot. Good thing I didn't eat this morning. I mean, I guess my stomach technically isn't empty empty. I don't actually know. I've never swallowed cum. Does that count as breakfast?

I shake my head again. I can't walk into the house grinning stupidly at myself. They'll immediately know something is up. God willing, the whole house will be asleep and they won't even know I didn't come home last night. I can pad downstairs in a few hours rubbing my eyes and claiming I'm exhausted from getting home super late. They can fill in the blanks with whatever makes them happy.

I creep closer to the house. The car sits in the driveway, but I wouldn't expect otherwise this early on a Saturday. I pause at the door, listening. I don't hear anything on the other side, but I wait anyway, double and triple checking. Nothing but silence.

Feeling somewhat safe, I fit the spare key into the lock and turn it slowly enough that it doesn't click. I creak the door open, pausing again when I can barely peer inside. The living room is dark. No lights anywhere. All clear. I push the door open a bit wider and slip in, then spin so I can shut it as quietly as I opened it.

I've only just relocked it when a voice makes me jump.

"Well, he returns. How good of you to come home."

I whirl to find my mother padding down the stairs in a robe, a scowl already firmly etched into her face. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She had to wake up right now , didn't she? Couldn't wait five more minutes so I could sneak into the bedroom upstairs and pretend to be asleep, could she?

"Hey, Mom."

Her lips flatten into an even harder line. She stalks down the stairs and past me to the kitchen. I consider slipping away, letting her stew in angry silence, putting off the inevitable confrontation until later, but she's not about to let me off that easy.

"And where exactly were you all night?" she calls from the kitchen.

The living room stands between us, but it's not enough space to save me. I linger in the hall that leads past the living room and into the kitchen.

"Dad's sleeping," I say. "We shouldn't yell."

"Then come in here and answer the question," she says.

"No, I'm tired. I'm going to sleep. We can talk about this later."

She stomps out of the kitchen, her mouth pinched with fury. "We are not talking about it later, Alexander. We're talking about it now. I'll scream if I have to, or you can come into the kitchen and discuss this like adults."

Like adults, right. Like adults who threaten to throw a literal screaming tantrum if I don't do what they want.

I don't have any fight in me this morning. Everything was so warm and relaxed and good until now. Waking up with Henry, touching him first thing in the morning — it lowered my defenses enough that I can't put up any fight. I slouch into the kitchen at her command. I stand just inside it, leaning a hip against the counter and crossing my arms over my chest. I'm in yesterday's clothes. I haven't showered or even brushed my teeth. What I did last night has to be painfully obvious.

"Mom, please, can we not do this?" I say. "It's early."

"I'm not doing anything. You're the one who was doing something. You didn't even come home last night."

"You guys left the bar. I had to get a ride back. What do you want?"

She slams a pot under an automatic coffee maker and spins to glower at me. "I want you to at least tell us where you are. Do you know how worried I was?"

"You're the one who left!" I can't help raising my voice. She can't be serious. Her and Dad decided to leave that bar without me. It's not my fault I stayed out last night.

"Because you were being rude and disrespectful to your father and I."

"I—"

I clamp down on what I want to say. If I retort, I'll bring up how mean she was to Henry, and I really don't want him involved in this conversation in any way. Hopefully, she doesn't even remember Henry exists. Hopefully, she'll never remember he exists. He doesn't need to get dragged into this disaster of a family.

She jabs at the machine, and water gurgles as it heats up to boiling and begins dripping into the coffee pot. The smell hits my stomach like a punch, but I don't dare ask for a cup. Instead, I grit my teeth and fight for calm. I'm not going to get anywhere fighting with her, but I might manage to slip away if I seem remorseful. It worked when I was a teenager, at least, and she evidently sees me as that same kid even now that I'm an adult.

We stand in tense silence as she fixes herself her morning coffee. I don't bother believing I can slink away while she pours a cup, then adds milk and creamer. She stirs it, the clinking of the spoon like the tolling of some mournful bell, then turns toward me with her mug clasped in her hands.

"So are you going to tell me where the hell you were?" she says.

I open my mouth, close it again. Am I? Am I going to tell her? I'm twenty-five years old. I've done everything this woman wants. I went to school. I went to more school. I got the kind of job her and Dad approve of. Then I dropped it to fly up here and help both of them when Dad had his heart attack. Do I owe her my personal life as well? Do I owe her Henry?

The idea turns my mouth sour. There's something profane about taking those warm, safe, startling moments in Henry's bedroom and laying them out before her. It feels like I'd be carving open my chest and letting her poke at the vulnerable organs. Those things are not for her. Henry is not for her. I already know what she'd think, and Henry doesn't deserve her scorn. He's been the one bright spot in all of this, and I'm not turning him over for her dissection.

"No," I say.

"No?"

"No. I'm not. I'm not going to tell you. Think whatever the hell you want."

I turn on my heel and march out of the kitchen. After a beat, her footsteps slap on the linoleum, chasing me.

"Alexander," she snaps.

I whirl on her, and she startles back at the fury on my face. "What?"

For the first time in my life, my mother is speechless. Unfortunately, she recovers quickly.

"You're supposed to be here helping," she says. "You can't disappear without a word."

"You left me at the bar. I found a way home."

"With who? Not with that little boy at the bar."

Little boy at the bar. Jesus Christ. I ball my hands into fists, nostrils flaring, and turn away from her, meaning to charge up to my childhood bedroom and lock the door for the rest of the day.

"If you aren't here to help, you shouldn't be here at all," she calls after me.

And that's it. That's all I can take. After everything I've done, after I've put my whole life on hold to be here helping, she's actually threatening to kick me out because I didn't go on a date with the girl she wanted me to date, like I owe her even my love life, even my most private, intimate moments. As though my choices in that arena are yet another disappointment, yet another failure.

Nothing is ever enough for her.

Nothing will ever be enough.

And I'm just about done with it.