Chapter 24

24

ALEX

I look round just before I head around the corner toward the subway, watching Des's arm raised as a yellow cab pulls up beside him. A streetlight catches his blond curls, making them look white. I want to run over and jump in with him. He opens the door and slides into the back seat. He didn't lean in for a kiss in the way he does when we part now. Why am I heading home? I should be going back with him, staying with him. A text from my mother asking what time I'd be back seems to burn through my palm as I hold on to my phone. The urge to sprint over to him is so strong, but then he slams the cab door and it takes off up the street.

I turn away, heading down the street toward the Fulton Street subway, and in minutes I'm in the warmth of the station, through the barriers to catch the 2 uptown to Penn Station.

Why did Tom turn up like that? And why now? His messages had been getting increasingly irate, but I hadn't heard from him for a while. Never did I think he'd turn up at my work and follow me. He messaged me every day for a while after everything blew up, and I tried to sympathize and apologize, but it just seemed to make him angrier. And since then it's been these intermittent messages that have got more and more strident.

The familiar rattle of the subway echoes down the line, and I'm grateful when I see it's an express train. I should make the 10:17 p.m. to Great Neck if I hurry.

I should have told Des about Tom ages ago, but I didn't want to explain how everything went down, how our parents waded in and made all the decisions for us … I could only expose him to how bad getting together with me might be one awful step at a time. I knew I'd have to explain about my family and the mountain we have to climb with them—but who wants to say that to someone as amazing as he is so early on? The whole thing feels awful to me, so God knows how bad it would feel to him. I know I'm hiding who I am, but I hope he doesn't really think I'm a liar.

He seemed to accept my explanation tonight, so maybe he'll be okay with it all?

I hang on to the rail on the train as it sways. A girl lurches into me and apologizes, drunkenly grinning at me as I help her stand up straight, and her friend giggles. The idea that I'm gay has been rolling toward me like a tsunami wave for years, and admitting it to Des for the first time tonight was like a huge weight lifted off my shoulders. But the idea of saying it to anyone else, to my family … my father ! A shudder runs through me. Could I ever see myself doing that? Being brave enough. Fuck.

The cab is full of drunk merrymakers heading home, and a guy starts singing farther down the cab as his friends berate him for his awful voice. The uneasy feeling I had when I left Des hasn't dissipated, so once I'm on the train to Great Neck and through the tunnel out of Penn Station, I pull out my phone and press the button to call him. But it rings and rings and then goes to voicemail.

I stare at my reflection in the window against the dark night outside. Why would he not be answering? I glance at my watch: 11 p.m. He must be home by now, surely? I try twice more as the train weaves its way under bridges and past half-built tower blocks toward home, but there's no reply.

The long walk from the station is dark and cold, and when I open the door my father appears in the door of the lounge, a sheaf of papers in his hand. He glances at his watch.

"Working late?"

"I messaged Mom to let her know I was going out for a drink."

"You've been out drinking a lot of evenings lately." He raises his eyebrows at me.

I don't meet his eyes as I toe off my shoes. "It's important to keep up with the internal politics. Didn't you ever go for drinks with your coworkers?"

He harrumphs. And his gaze roams my face for several seconds. I try and meet it with a steady stare. "You should be here, working on companies." He shakes the papers at me. "Working alongside me. That's the way to get ahead."

I don't say anything. Anxiety about what happened tonight is still alive in my veins, and I don't trust myself not to let this descend into an argument.

"Don't ever get drunk with your coworkers. You hear me? They are not your friends." He turns back around and disappears into the lounge, and I suck in a sharp breath as I take the stairs two at a time.

I close my bedroom door and lean back against it, taking in the single bed I've slept in for most of my life and the desk I studied at to get into college. I've had the same duvet cover since I was fourteen years old when my mother agreed I was too old for superheroes. I want to set fire to it all.

When I'm undressed and showered and settled in bed I take out my phone, and the lack of calls and texts makes my stomach hollow out. If I send a message to Des, maybe he'll respond to that? But nothing comes back as my messages get more and more desperate. This welling, hot feeling I have for him makes me want to spill all my feelings into an empty text box, but I suspect that will only make the whole thing worse.

I turn off the sidelight and slide down and turn on my side. I've fucked this up and I don't know what to do to put it right.