Chapter 43
FORTY-THREE
LUCAS
five years ago…
The red light on the camera blinks, and I sigh.
“I’m sure she hates me,” I say the moment it starts recording. “Not completely… but it feels like there’s a wall between us now. Ever since John and his idiot son, Tim, moved in.”
I set the camera down on the table, angling it so it catches me clearly as I start folding clothes. The room is cramped, barely enough space for the bed and wardrobe, but I move through it like I’ve done this a hundred times because I have.
“It’s funny,” I mutter, stacking t-shirts. “She chose Tim over me.”
I pause. My hands linger on a worn sweatshirt. The fabric is soft, familiar.
“I mean… I get it’s his graduation today. It’s a big deal or whatever. But I really wanted to talk to her about this.”
I glance at the camera now, straight into the lens. My voice is quieter, but it doesn’t shake.
“Do you think I’m being selfish? For wanting to tell her that Tim’s been bullying me? Not just at school—here, too. Whenever she and John are gone.”
I let out a bitter breath, shaking my head as I slide open the wardrobe door.
“I think John knows,” I say. “Knows what his son does. But he doesn’t say a word.”
My shoulders fall as I hang the last shirt. I reach over to the bed, pick up the slacks and crumpled suit jacket lying there, and start smoothing them out with my hands.
“She wouldn’t believe me anyway.”
There’s a silence. Not dramatic—just tired. A stillness that doesn’t need to be filled.
I tuck the pants neatly, trying not to groan too loudly.
“I don’t know why she keeps making me go to that church,” I mutter. “Evening Sunday school or whatever it is. It’s not even new, I’ve been going there since I was twelve.”
I look back at the camera, a small, sardonic smile tugging at my mouth.
“She says it’s to keep me out of trouble. Says I need to ‘look Christian’ so I don’t seem suspicious. So if I ever get caught selling joints, the church can vouch for me. Give me a good reputation or something since I have been going there constantly for three years now.”
I laugh, but there’s no humor in it.
“It’s fucked up, I know.”
I pause again. There’s something almost… resigned about the way I sit down on the bed, suit draped over my lap, looking into the lens like it might talk back.
With a sigh, I tug on the slacks, fussing with the zipper until it finally gives. I mutter a soft curse under my breath—the fabric itches against my skin, too stiff and formal for someone like me. I pull on the suit jacket and immediately feel like I’m wearing a costume.
“This is so not my aesthetic,” I grit out through clenched teeth, smoothing the lapels. “But no—it’s compulsory. If you’re a guy at that church, you wear a suit. Especially for Sunday lessons.”
I run a hand through my curls, trying to tame them, flatten them into something that fits this version of me they want to see. Buttoned-up. Respectable. Invisible.
“Nate said he wants to meet at the treehouse,” I say, voice a bit lighter, then glance at the camera. “And no, not for a hookup, calm down.”
I pick up my strap-on bag and swing it over my shoulder, adjusting it so it sits just right across my chest.
“He wants to buy a couple joints,” I explain as I pocket the small ziplock bag. “And he said he wants to talk. Says he feels bad about trying to kiss me at school the other day… he said it wasn’t cool, and I think he means it.”
I grab the camera, still recording, and head for the door. Outside, the light is golden, that quiet kind of late afternoon that almost makes the trailer park look soft. Almost.
I lock the door behind me and head down the few worn steps. Tyler’s trailer is only a stone’s throw away. I barely get close to the door of his trailer before I stop short.
“Don’t you ever take my shit again faggot!” a woman’s voice spits from inside. Tyler’s mom.
I glance at the camera in my hand, still filming, and exhale slowly.
“Trouble in paradise,” I mutter under my breath.
From inside, Tyler snaps back, his voice sharp and tired.
“Yeah, you gave birth to this faggot. And I took just fifty bucks—you’ll live.”
There’s a pause. I hear something heavy thud.
“Then go work for it, you little leech,” she hisses. “Instead of whoring around school for free.”
“Oh, fuck you, Susie,” Tyler spits.
A second later, the trailer door swings open hard enough to rattle on its hinges. Tyler storms out, shoulders tense—then freezes when he spots me standing just outside.
He squints, then scrunches up his face like he’s physically offended.
“What the hell are you wearing?”
I sigh and glance down at my ill-fitting church suit.
“What I wear every Sunday afternoon,” I mutter, rolling my eyes, “You’ve seen me in them plenty of times.”
“Yeah, no shit.” He starts walking toward the gravel path, and I fall into step beside him. “You look like a pastor’s kid. Or the pastor himself.”
“Good,” I shoot back with a smirk. “I’m here to cast out the demons in you.”
He barks out a laugh—loud, sharp, and real. Just like always. And for a second, I feel the heat from earlier dimming off his skin, like the worst of it is melting away.
That laugh of his could do that. Even when the world’s on fire.
“Where are you headed?” I ask, adjusting the angle of my camera as we walk.
“Meeting up with Quinton.” He glances at me, then chews on his lip. “Do I look good?”
I grin and motion for him to walk ahead.
“Go stand in front of me. Let me get a full shot of that look.”
He rolls his eyes but walks a little slower, giving me a lazy spin like he’s on some crooked catwalk.
The camera focuses on his outfit—baggy, low-slung jeans and a tight, white Betty Boop crop top that hugs his slim waist and shows off the delicate chain around his neck, his lip gloss catches the sun.
He looks bold. Free. Fierce in a way I admire but could never pull off myself.
Tyler’s always been good at dressing how he feels. Soft, loud, feminine, sharp. Whatever mood he’s in, he wears it like armor.
Me? I stick to what’s simple. Minimal. A good pair of jeans and jorts, soft tees, and hoodies I can bury my hands into. I don’t dress casually to disappear. I just like nice, quiet things. Things that feel like me.
But I do love a good crop tank—tight across the chest, just enough skin showing to feel brave. And makeup, too. Not too much. Mostly mascara and eyeliner. I have long lashes, so it always makes my eyes pop in this soft, sultry kind of way that I secretly like.
The contrast between us has always been loud. But maybe that’s why it works.
“Damn,” I mutter, still filming from behind as he throws a wink over his shoulder. “You’re gonna break that boy’s heart,”
“I hope so,” he grins, flipping me off playfully.
And just like that, the weight from earlier—his mom’s voice, the slurs, the slammed door—feels further away. Not gone. Never really gone. But for now, this moment is ours.
And I want to keep it forever.
“I’ll be back by seven,” Tyler says as I fall into step beside him, the camera recording both our faces in that lazy, sunlit afternoon light. He glances sideways casually, but there’s a spark in his eyes.
“How about we go to Kim’s birthday party tonight?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think I’ll make it. Sunday school ends around six, then I’ve got a couple of weed orders to drop off, and…” I hesitate, adjusting the strap of my bag. “I’m meeting Nate at the treehouse at nine.”
That stops Tyler cold.
He turns to face me, eyebrows knitting together.
“You’re meeting up with Nate?”
His voice is tight like he’s trying hard to keep something level.
I lift the camera slightly, avoiding his gaze. “Yeah. Why?”
“The jock, Nate? The one graduating today? Your stupid step-brother’s friend?”
I sigh. “Tim’s not my stepbrother, Tyler. Stop calling him that.”
“Well, he will be,” Tyler snaps. “With the way your mom and his dad are playing house.”
I roll my eyes and look away, trying not to let his words stick. He’s not wrong, but still, it makes something in my chest pull tight.
Tyler keeps staring at me, like I’ve just told him I joined a cult.
“Why the hell are you meeting Nate at the treehouse? Alone?”
“He wants to talk,” I say, then my voice drops a little awkwardly. “He says he feels bad. About trying to kiss me the other day in the school bathroom.”
“He also wants to buy some weed,” I add with a shrug.
Tyler is staring now—really staring. His mouth is slightly open, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.
I rub the back of my neck, heat crawling up my cheeks.
“He said he likes me. I don’t know if I feel the same. I haven’t decided.”
“Lucas,” he says, and it sounds like he’s searching the entire earth for patience. “Nate is part of that friend group that’s made your life hell since middle school. He’s Tim’s friend. Why the hell would you even talk to him, let alone go all moony-eyed over him?”
“I’m not moony-eyed,” I snap, a little too fast. “I don’t have a crush on him.”
But even as I say it, my cheeks go warm, and I hate that Tyler notices.
He arches a brow. “You’re literally blushing.”
I shake my head quickly. “No, I’m just… hot. The sun’s out. It’s not a crush. He doesn’t bully me. Not like the others.”
“And Clara?” Tyler says. “You know—his girlfriend?”
“They broke up last week,” I mutter, almost under my breath.
There’s a long pause. The air feels heavier now, like the sun’s shifted behind a cloud.
Tyler runs a hand through his hair and lets out a dry, humorless laugh.
“You know, you’re one of the smartest people I know. But sometimes, just sometimes, you make the most stupid decisions, and it pisses me off.”
“You’re not my mother, Tyler. It’s not your place to tell me what and what not to do,” I snap. Sharper than I intend.
The words hang in the air like poison. And the moment they leave my mouth, I want to take them back, stuff them back down my throat, and erase them from the space between us.
He stops walking. His whole body goes rigid.