Chapter 2

Reece

When I open my eyes, I'm curled up in Abby's rocking chair. I don't remember falling asleep.

A throw covers my body, warding off the evening chill. The sun is long gone, and the quiet is eerie, but I don't mind. The movers must have left for the day. Elaine too. The door is left slightly ajar. She must have come in and covered me.

I'm only almost twenty-eight years old, but my bones creak when I untangle my limbs, screaming fatigue like I've lived seven decades. My head pounds and my eyes are scratchy.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. The quick succession of the text messages coming in tell me exactly who the sender is. My stomach moves with dread.

I already know how far from the tree I've fallen. My father doesn't need to remind me, although he frequently does. I don't need to be reminded of how he wished his only son was stronger. Not such a crybaby about everything. So weak. " Pull yourself together. You'll have other children and even if you don't, maybe that's a good thing ". And, "Why can't you just be normal like everybody else?"

I wanted that too. I wanted to be normal too, but I didn't know what normal was. Abby was our one and only chance to be normal; a normal family.

Because of my father, I learned early on not to make a big deal of things. Why would he take time off from his job to go and watch me get a participation award, he told me one day. It's not like I earned any kind of academic achievement. If I'd gotten a real award maybe it would've been worth his time. And why would he come to watch me be a blade of grass in the background when I got chosen for a part in The Lion King in middle school? It's not like I was Mufasa or Simba , "or even that hornbill, what's-his-name. Jesus Christ."

I secretly loved it when Asher and his parents acted like I went to the moon all by myself when I scored a C on any of my tests.

I ignore the next string of text notifications that comes through.

Sometimes, I wish my mother hadn't given me up so easily after my parents divorced. But I guess with a bully like my father, I couldn't blame her for leaving me in his custody when I was four, and fleeing to the other side of the country. Wherever she is, I hope she's happy.

I walk to the door, pulling it open. They'll leave the nursery for last. I'm sure the bedrooms have been packed. Maybe I won't go back to the hotel tonight, where I've been staying for the last few weeks. Maybe I'll sleep in Abby's room.

In the kitchen, I go to the fridge for a bottle of water. A DoorDash takeaway bag with the words Urban Taj on it sits on the counter along with a note from Elaine: Please eat something . The last thing I ate was a spring roll from the hotel's breakfast buffet. It's now past six o'clock. I should be hungry. I'm sure there's chicken teriyaki inside the bag, but I can't stomach the idea of eating it now.

I place the food in the fridge. Carrying the bottle of water in my hand, I drift through the house. The living room is still intact – overstuffed couches for Abby to jump on. The plush, robin's egg blue center rug, perfect for a lazy golden retriever puppy. Julie said she would die of sadness if she didn't have that rug and a golden retriever puppy. The robin's egg blue went perfectly with the dark brown marble mantel above the fireplace, she said. And every family – every newborn baby, to be clear – needs a golden retriever puppy. We were going to get the puppy after we brought Abigail home.

The evening chill, despite the approach of spring, finds its way into my bones, and dusk settles. In another life, perhaps Julie, Abby and I may have taken a walk to enjoy the crisp air.

The familiar roar of an engine disturbs the quiet. My muscles stiffen inside my body, and I quickly make my way to the main entrance.

My father brings his SUV to a stop next to one of the moving trucks. "You didn't see my texts?" he barks, stepping onto the gravel ground.

He is a handsome man. Attractive build and height. Expressive eyes and a confident gait. I inherited nothing from him, physically. I'm a carbon copy of my mother: tall, but lean enough to still be considered small , delicate. Pointed chin, almond eyes. Curly, brown hair. More pretty than handsome. More soft than strong and masculine. More stupid than smart.

"Oh. I must have missed them," I answer, my voice, as usual, subdued and a little shaky.

He comes to a stop in front of me, his hands on his hips, and his eyes searching my face with a disapproval I've long become accustomed to. It's hard to become a better son when your very existence falls short of your father's expectations. "So, what's the plan?" he says curtly.

"I—I'm staying at—"

"You need to get yourself an apartment. Lease it for now. No use buying again if you and Julie work things out and have another baby." Logical solutions. A man of action. No time for sadness.

"Dad, Julie moved to California. I told you last month, remember?"

He dismisses me with a wave of his hand. "Yeah. Well. Things change. There wasn't any good reason for you two to get divorced."

Yes. Except for the fact that I am not, and have never been, attracted to Julie, or any woman for that matter. A fact Julie accepted with love and compassion when I finally gathered the courage to tell her. A fact my father refuses to accept. I denied it for years after he found that journal when Asher and I were teenagers, but I couldn't go on like that anymore. So, I came out and told him the truth right after I told Julie. Yes, Dad, I'm gay. Yes, Dad, I was in love with Asher Cameron. I still am.

"Take a few more days, sort things out in your head, and come back to work. Life goes on, Reece. You can't mope around forever."

"Okay, Dad." I learned a long time ago it didn't do me any good to argue. He thinks I'm an idiot who'd be lost without his interference in my life. Maybe he's right. I couldn't even keep my family together.

He turns to leave, then comes back. "Oh, and Reece? With this whole divorce thing, just don't do anything stupid. I swear to God, if you do anything stupid, I'll cut you off from your trust fund. Or I'll fire you, or both. Just don't be like your mother. You're a man. You can't fall apart at the first sign of trouble."

I give him a sharp nod. Yes. Can't fall apart at the first sign of trouble. I'll try to remember that. I want to not fall apart. I don't know how they do it, people like my father. I don't how they don't cry when they're sad, or helpless, or in pain. Even as a teenager, I cried over everything. My father hated it.

But this time I'll try. I'll try to be a man. Abby should have a father who's strong and confident.

Inside, I take the stairs, my feet dragging me up to the bedroom where Julie and I slept for three years. The closet is empty. Almost empty. All of Julie's clothes are gone, but some of mine still remain. The linen closet has been cleared by the movers. The bedding from the bed has been removed, and only the bed remains. The dresser is no longer in the corner of the room.

I sink onto the mattress.

Why couldn't we just have this? I gave up the life I wished for. I gave up my best friend. My father wanted me married so I would have a stable family life. I appreciated that, and Asher was long gone by then, so I married Julie. She loved me and I loved her, and when Julie became pregnant, I was more committed than ever before to the life that I had chosen over the life I wished I could have chosen.

Why couldn't it all have just worked out?

Maybe this is my punishment for not truly loving Julie the way I should have. Or maybe because, although good things are possible, they're just not for me. Nothing can ever just work out for me. I have access to everything I could ever want but I can never truly have them.

Prestigious schools? Yes, but you'll barely pass anything.

Wealth? Yes, but it will be used as a weapon to keep you in line.

Best friend? Yes, but only until you fall in love with him.

Marriage? Yes, but not to the one you love most in this world.

Fatherhood? Yes, but only for fifteen minutes and then, never again.

Love? Yes, but not Asher Cameron.

In the corner of the room, where the dresser used to be, is a stack of books. Julie liked to read the classics. A Tale of Two Cities. Catcher in the Rye. To Kill a Mockingbird. Oliver Twist.

The copy of Oliver Twist is mine. The most famous line from this book became an inside joke between me and Asher. He would kiss me, and I would beg, "Please, sir, I want some more."

Somewhere among my packed belongings is that journal filled with our secret thoughts. One of the pages contains this very line, his favorite words. Please, sir, I want some more . I wrote it down because it was all I ever wanted: all and everything and more. He teased me endlessly for it and then he made his own note next to mine: Always, Reece.

I walk across the room and pick up the copy of Oliver Twist from the top of the pile. I feel like the impoverished boy who dared to ask for a second helping of food. Constantly hungry. Constantly aching to have something of substance other than money and image. Perpetually in that state of " Please, sir. I want some more."

I'm timid like Oliver too, stupidly asking to be loved and accepted. Begging to be allowed to be me and have the things I truly long for.

But my father is the master of the workhouse where Oliver Twist worked. Appalled that I would dare to ask for more than what he has given me.

At first, it was okay because it was only my father who didn't want me. I could live with that. Then, when my mother left after the divorce, it became less bearable. Maybe nobody wanted me. And finally, when Asher and his parents left, I knew I was, undoubtedly, simply unwanted.

Like Oliver, I wasn't given more. Instead, I was punished for daring to want what I wanted. And I wasn't the only one my father punished.

Only one person in this world ever gave me more. The more I asked the more Asher gave until I no longer needed to ask. He gave and gave and gave. I was never too much for him. With him, I was never ashamed of the things I needed.

I sink to the floor with the book still in my hand. The room is suddenly stuffy and claustrophobic, but I know the claustrophobia is inside my head. It's my head I can't stand to be in. It's too full. No space for me anymore. I could be in the desert with nothing around me and still, it would feel like the very air was closing in on me, crushing me.

Julie and I are over. She had more courage than me. She asked for the divorce, not because she wanted it. "I need to be brave for both of us," she said after I told her the truth about me. About me and Asher. She filed two weeks before we found out she was pregnant. We reconsidered the divorce after that. Maybe Abby would give us the chance we needed to be happy.

Julie went ahead with the divorce a month after Abby died.

A sudden and unrelenting ache explodes inside my chest. Now, there is no one. Julie is gone. Abby is gone. There is only one left, but I lost him a long time ago too.

I slide my phone out of my pocket. Unlock it and scroll up to C in my contact list. My heart thumps inside my chest.

He's married. Has been for two years. It's all I know about him and his life. But what else is there to know about a married man?

But he's my friend. Before he became my everything, he was my friend. And he always knew what to say. He always had all the answers. For more than ten years, I've kept his number stored on my phone, never daring to use it.

Now, my thumb hovers over it. My heart roars and rebels. Just tap call.

I need to tell him about Abby.

He's a married man. Leave him alone.

I need to tell him about Abby.

My fingers find my hair, pulling on my scalp.

I need to tell him about Abby.

Call.

He answers on the second ring.