42. Faction Fallout
Chapter forty-two
Faction Fallout
I wait until I have my shoes on to tell them.
It’s intentional and for the best.
At least, that's what I tell myself while I tighten the laces on my boots and listen to Dex and Cami argue about whether the leftovers in the refrigerator are still safe to eat.
“They're four days old,” Griffin says from the kitchen.
“Which is basically fresh,” Dex argues.
“That is not what fresh means.”
“It is in bartender years.”
Ronan looks up from the book open across his lap. “That phrase has no measurable meaning.”
“It means I've eaten significantly worse things after significantly longer periods of time and survived.”
“That explains more about you than you intended.”
Cami laughs.
The sound carries through the living room.
Warm.
Normal.
I finish the second knot and stand. “I'm going to my parents'.”
Nobody pays much attention at first.
Cami closes the refrigerator. “Okay.”
I pick up my keys. “I'm telling them.”
Dex's head snaps toward me. “Telling them what?”
“Everything.”
His face goes blank.
Cami's brows pull together.
Griffin steps out of the kitchen.
Even Ronan's book closes.
I should have told them sooner.
Not my parents.
Them.
Maybe that would make this next part easier to say.
It doesn't matter now.
There isn’t a persuasion check high enough to fix people who have already decided what the right answer is.
“They don't know I'm queer.”
Dex stares at me. “Wait. What?”
“They think I'm straight.”
“How?”
A laugh almost comes out of me.
It doesn't quite make it.
“They've never had a reason to think otherwise.”
Dex opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Cami is the one who asks, softer, “And they don't know about us?”
“No.”
“Any of us?” Dex clarifies.
“No.”
Griffin's expression changes.
He understands before the others do. “Micah.”
I look at him.
“How bad do you expect this to go?”
There are things I've avoided saying out loud in this house for too long.
I slip my phone into my pocket.
“I'll probably come home disowned.”
Silence. And not the comfortable kind.
Dex actually laughs once
Sharp and disbelieving. “What the fuck?”
I expected the words to sound dramatic, but they just sound like fact.
“My family is extremely religious.”
“We know they're religious,” Cami says.
“No. You know they go to church.”
Her face tightens.
I continue because stopping now would make this worse.
“They believe sex only belongs inside a heterosexual marriage. They believe being gay is a sin. They believe marriage is between one man and one woman. Polyamory is going to register somewhere between adultery and complete moral collapse.”
Nobody speaks.
“They're not going to be okay with this.”
Dex is staring at me like I started speaking another language. “And you've known that this entire time?”
“Yes.”
“Like—since me?”
“Before you.”
His face shifts again.
Hurt, maybe.
That wasn't the goal.
“I didn't keep it from you because of you.”
“Micah, you just said you're probably going to get disowned tonight.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn't think maybe I should know that?”
“I didn't want you waiting for it with me.”
His jaw clenches. “That's not exactly better.”
“I know.”
And I do—now.
Cami steps closer. “Do you have to do this tonight?”
“Yes.”
Griffin steps up next to her. “You don't have to do anything.”
“I know.”
Ronan studies me. “Why now?”
That question is easier.
“Because all of you have told your families.”
Nobody corrects me.
“Because we've spent the last few weeks talking about legal paperwork and what happens when somebody else gets to decide whether we count.”
My fingers tighten around my keys.
“And because my cousin saw pictures and questioned me months ago. This was never going to stay hidden forever.”
Dex looks down.
Cami's eyes are wet.
Fuck.
That is exactly why I didn't tell them. “This isn't an emergency.”
Dex's gaze comes back to mine. “You keep saying things that make me want to shake you.”
“Please don't.”
“I wasn't actually going to.”
“I know.”
Griffin folds his arms. “Want someone to come with you?”
“No.”
Dex immediately says, “I can—”
“No.”
He stops.
This part I am sure of. “They're my parents.”
“So?”
“So I know them. And if any of you are there, they'll focus on you instead of listening to me.”
Ronan nods as if he understands.
Dex doesn't like it.
“I need to tell them myself.”
His eyes stay on mine. “What do you want from us?”
The question catches me.
Maybe because I expected him to keep arguing.
Maybe because that's a Micah question.
I am usually the one asking it.
“Be here when I get back.”
Dex doesn't blink. “Yeah, okay.”
Griffin nods. “Of course.”
Cami's arms fold tightly across herself, and Griffin pulls her closer to him.
Ronan simply says, “We will.”
I look between all four of them.
I almost tell them what I think will happen.
Mom will cry.
Dad will probably do most of the talking.
That's what I expect, anyway.
They'll tell me they love me.
They'll ask me to change.
They'll make it sound like the door is staying open while explaining all the ways it is closing.
Dex crosses the room slowly and stops in front of me.
His hands stay at his sides. “You sure you don't want me to come?”
“Yes.”
“I can sit in the car.”
“No.”
“Across the street?”
Despite myself, my mouth moves into a smile—barely. “No.”
His expression softens.
Then he waits.
I close the distance.
His arms go around me hard.
Harder than usual.
I hold him just as tightly.
For a few seconds, I let myself think about staying.
Ordering food.
Going down to the basement with Ronan.
Falling asleep with Dex wrapped around me.
Doing this tomorrow.
Or next week.
Or never.
Then I step back. “Don't eat the leftovers.”
Dex's mouth twitches. “Now who's being controlling?”
“Throw them away.”
“You're not my real dad.”
“Thank God.”
Cami laughs, but her eyes stay wet.
I leave before anybody says anything else.
My parents' house is twenty-seven minutes away.
I've driven there hundreds of times.
The route hasn't changed much.
Same grocery stores.
Same church three blocks from their house.
Same park where Aunt Rachel used to meet Mom with all of us during summer break because neither woman apparently believed children required indoor air conditioning.
I stop at the red light across from the park and glance toward the playground.
For a second, I see Hannah hanging upside down from the monkey bars.
Caleb chasing me with a water gun.
Eli was small enough that Aunt Rachel still had to push him in the baby swing.
Elijah.
Never Eli to the adults.
A name from a prophet should apparently be used in full.
He's eighteen now.
That feels impossible.
The light turns green, and I keep driving.
My parents' street is lined with trees old enough to arch over the road. Dad has complained about the roots every spring for as long as he's lived here.
Their porch light is on when I pull in.
Mom knows I'm coming.
I texted this morning and asked if they would both be home tonight because I was going to stop by real quick.
Nothing else.
I didn't want them preparing.
Didn't want Aunt Rachel showing up.
Didn't want Mom spending six hours imagining emergencies.
I especially didn't want Dad opening a Bible before I had even spoken.
The porch looks exactly the same.
Same heavy planter Mom changes every season.
Same brass house numbers Dad insists don't need replacing even though the seven hangs slightly crooked now.
I stand outside longer than necessary.
Finally, I knock.
Mom opens the door.
Her smile is immediate. “Hey, honey.”
There is no hesitation when she hugs me.
I close my eyes.
Laundry detergent.
Vanilla hand lotion.
Home.
“Hi, Mom.”
She pulls back and looks at my face. “You look tired.”
“I'm fine.”
“That means you're tired.”
I almost smile.
Some things survive everything.
Dad is in the living room, glasses low on his nose, tablet resting against one knee. “Hey, son.”
“Hey.”
He gets up and clasps my shoulder.
Normal.
Still normal.
Matthew has been Dad longer than he hasn't, at least in every way that counts.
My biological father left when I was nine.
For years after that, there wasn't anyone filling the space he left. Mostly Mom. Grandma. Aunt Rachel and Uncle Stephen. Cousins everywhere. Adults cycling through shifts and classes and childcare while I learned how to make myself small enough not to need much from any of them.
Matthew showed up when I was fifteen.
Married Mom two years later.
Never asked me to call him Dad.
Never acted like he was entitled to it.
It just happened eventually.
So did son.
Mom asks if I want coffee.
I say no.
Tea.
No.
Food.
No.
By the third refusal, she knows this must be serious.
Her hands stop moving. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
Dad lowers himself back into his chair.
Mom stays standing.
I take the couch.
The same couch that's been in the family since I was five, reupholstered three times because replacing something that still functions apparently violates Mom's moral code.
There are pictures everywhere.
Mom has never believed in blank walls.
Me at six with missing front teeth.
Me at twelve beside Hannah and Caleb, all three of us sunburned after some family reunion.
A graduation picture.
One from Aunt Rachel's fiftieth birthday where there are so many people packed into the frame that half the cousins are cut off at the shoulders.
Elijah is in front, grinning.
I drag my eyes away.
Mom finally sits beside Dad.
Her hands fold in her lap.
Dad looks at me.
“Alright.” I nod once.
There is no version of this where the right opening changes the ending.
So I don't waste time looking for one.
“I'm queer.”
Mom's face empties.
Dad doesn't move.
I continue before either of them can speak.
“I'm attracted to men and women. I've known for a long time.”
Mom inhales sharply.
Not a gasp—something smaller.
Dad's mouth tightens. “Micah.”
“I'm not done.”
That surprises him.
I don't usually interrupt him.
He probably thinks that's because he expects to be listened to.
Mostly, I learned a long time ago that conversations end faster if I let him finish.
Tonight isn't about speed.
“I'm also in a polyamorous relationship.”
Neither of them reacts immediately.