Scott
The drive to my parents’ house feels longer than it should, not because the roads are difficult or unfamiliar, but because every mile gives me more time to think, more time to imagine every possible version of how this could go.
But as scared as I am, I don’t turn around.
Because the truth is, I’ve already made the decision.
I made it last night, sitting on Harrison’s couch, our fingers threaded together, his lips caressing mine in slow, lingering kisses while his voice brushed against my skin as he whispered that I didn’t have to do this alone.
I refuse to keep living separate versions of my life. So, I drive.
When I pull onto the street I grew up on, my chest tightens and a knot forms in my stomach. I must’ve pulled up to their house thousands of times. The action feels both familiar and different at the same time, like I’m stepping into a memory that hasn’t quite caught up with who I am now.
The house looks exactly the same as it always has. White siding. Forest green shutters. The same chairs on the wrap-around porch that have been there for years. They’re worn just enough to feel lived in but never replaced because my mother insists they’re still perfectly good.
Nothing changes. And somehow, that makes it worse. Because I know that by the time I leave, everything will.
I sit in the car for a minute, my hands still wrapped around the steering wheel even after the engine is off. My pulse is so loud that it feels like it’s drowning out everything else.
My thoughts drift to Harrison.
About the way he looked at me when I told him I’m going to do this.
He didn’t try to stop me. Didn’t promise it’ll all be okay.
He just looks at me with that same steady certainty that’s become my anchor somehow, like he believes enough for both of us.
I let that carry me as I let out a slow breath, then another, and finally force myself to move.
The walk up the path feels like muscle memory, my body knowing exactly where to go even as my mind struggles to keep up. Before I can give myself another chance to hesitate, I reach for the door and open it.
“Hello?” I call, my voice steadier than I expect it to be.
“In the living room,” my dad answers.
Of course he is.
I step inside, closing the door behind me, the familiar scent of the house wrapping around me instantly. It’s so warm and comforting that it almost makes me forget why I’m there.
Almost.
Dad sits in his usual chair with the television on mute, his attention shifting toward me as I walk in.
“We weren’t expecting you,” he says.
“I know,” I reply, forcing a small smile as I move farther into the room. “I was in the area.”
It isn’t entirely a lie.
He studies me for a second, like he’s trying to decide if there’s more to it, but before he can say anything else, my mom appears in the doorway.
“Scott?”
Her face lights up the second she sees me, and for a moment, everything inside me falters. Because this is the part I try not to think about.
Not the telling. But the after.
The way things will change.
The way they’ll look at me differently.
She crosses the room quickly, pulling me into a hug. It’s warm and familiar and grounding in a way that makes my chest tighten.
“What are you doing here?” she asks as she pulls back, her hands still resting on my arms.
“I just wanted to see you,” I say.
That part is true.
She smiles, then tilts her head slightly, studying me.“You look happy,” she says, her words catching me off guard.
“Do I?”
“Yes,” she says, her smile softening. “You do.”
For a second, I don’t know how to respond.
Because I am, and that’s the problem. I’m happy in a way I haven’t been before, and I know exactly why.
She realizes something then, her expression shifting as her eyes light up. “You met someone.”
It isn’t a question. It’s certainty.
“Yeah,” I say. “I did.”
Her excitement builds instantly, her hands coming together as she laughs softly.
“I knew it,” she says, already turning toward the kitchen. “I knew it would happen when you least expected it.”
My dad stands, clapping me on the shoulder as he passes. “Took you long enough,” he mutters, though there’s something approving in his tone.
“Come on,” my mom calls. “Sit, tell us everything.”
I follow them into the kitchen, unease settling heavier and heavier beneath my ribs with every step. I sit at the table, wrapping my hands around the mug she places in front of me, even though I don’t want it.
They’re both looking at me now.
Waiting.
Expecting.
And for a second, I consider telling the version of the story they’re already picturing. The one that would make this easy, the one that would let everything stay exactly the same.
But I can’t.
Not anymore.
“We met in the grocery store,” I say, my voice steady even as my pulse races.
My mom smiles immediately, settling into her chair. “A meet-cute just like in the movies.”
I let out a small breath, letting myself focus on the memory as I speak, letting it ground me.
“It was shortly after I moved to Hampstead,” I continue. “I didn’t have anything in the house yet, so I went into town to pick up a few things.”
“And that’s where you met her?”
The word lands heavier than anything else so far.
Her.
I swallow, my fingers tightening slightly around the mug.
“Yeah,” I say at first, because it’s easier. Because I’m not ready yet. I need one more second before everything changes.
But the word echoes in my head louder than it should.
And I feel it.
That line.
The one I promise myself I won’t stay behind anymore.
I exhale slowly, lifting my gaze to meet hers.
“No,” I say, correcting myself before I lose my nerve. “That’s where I met him.”
The room goes quiet. Something settles into place that none of us quite knows how to move around yet.
My mom blinks. “What do you mean?”
I swallow hard, forcing myself to keep going. “Harrison,” I say, my voice steadier now that I’ve started. “His name is Harrison.”
My dad doesn’t say anything. He just watches me, his expression unreadable.
“Him?” my mom repeats, her voice softer now, like she’s trying to make sense of something she never expected to hear.
I nod. “Yes.”
The silence stretches long enough that I feel it settle into every part of me.
“I’m with him,” I add, my voice quieter now but no less certain. “We’re together.”
My mom’s gaze drops to the table, her hands folding together in front of her like she needs something to hold onto.
My dad stands. The scrape of his chair against the floor sounds louder than anything else in the room.
He doesn’t look at me.
Doesn’t say anything.
He just walks out.
My chest constricts as I watch him go. Every instinct in me screams to follow him and try to explain. To fix this before it becomes something worse.
But I stay where I am. Because I know I can’t fix it like that.
“Mom,” I say softly.
She doesn’t look up right away. But when she finally does, her eyes are different. They’re not angry, but they don’t hold the warmth that’s usually there.
“I don’t understand,” she says, her voice trembling slightly.
“I know,” I say quietly. “I didn’t expect you to.”
“How can you be in love with a man?” she asks, her voice cracks.
“I just am,” I say softly. “It isn’t something I choose. It’s just who I am.”
She shakes her head slightly, like she’s trying to push the words away because they don’t fit into the version of reality she built for so long.
“And you’ve been hiding this?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Years.”
The word lands heavily between us.
Her gaze drops again, her shoulders pull inward.
“I don’t know how to be okay with this,” she whispers.
The honesty in that hurts more than anything else she could say. Because it isn’t rejection, but it isn’t acceptance either.
“I’m still the same person,” I say, my voice quieter now. “Nothing about me changes.”
“Everything feels like it has,” she whispers back.
From the living room, my dad’s voice cuts through the silence. “Scott.”
I stand slowly, my legs heavy as I move toward the doorway. My pulse is pounding hard in my ears again.
He stands with his back to me, his hands braced against the edge of the table.
“Dad,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t turn around. “I think you should leave.”
The words hit harder than I expected them to. Not because they’re loud. But because they aren’t. They’re controlled.
Final.
I stand there for a second, waiting for something else.
For him to turn around.
For him to say more.
But he doesn’t.
My mom doesn’t stop him, and she doesn’t stop me either. Somehow, that hurts even more.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to move. To walk back through the home I grew up in. The one that was always filled with so much love and acceptance. The same one that now feels like somewhere I no longer belong.
When I reach the door, I hesitate.
Just for a second.
Waiting.
Hoping.
But nothing comes.
So, I open it and step outside.
The air feels colder now. The sky is dimming into early evening as I walk back to my car. My hands shake as I reach for the handle.
I sit there for a moment after I close the door, my breathing uneven as everything settles over me all at once.
Then I reach for my phone.
Harrison answers on the first ring.
“Hey,” he says, his voice steady and warm.
“How did it go?”
I try to speak, but nothing comes out.
“Oh, Scott,” he says softly.
I swallow hard, forcing the words through the tightness in my throat.
“My dad told me to leave.”
“I’m here,” he says.
Two simple words. But they’re enough. They’re not just enough, they’re everything.