Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Scott
I was thirteen years old when I realized that the way I looked at other boys wasn't the same way my friends did.
It wasn't some grand revelation, no sudden moment of clarity, that hit me all at once.
It was quiet. A knowing that sat deep in my chest, growing roots before I even had the words to describe it.
I remember watching my friends talk about girls, the way they nudged each other in the ribs, and laughed when someone's crush walked by.
I mimicked them. I nodded along and played my part.
I even made up crushes of my own when the questions got too pointed.
But it always felt like I was wearing a mask. Something that didn't quite fit.
No one ever suspected. Not once. I was too good at pretending, too good at blending in.
I had my first real crush on a boy named Brian when I was fifteen.
He was in my biology class. Brian sat two seats ahead of me and was always twirling his pencil between his fingers when he was thinking.
I remember the way my stomach twisted whenever he laughed.
The way my face heated when he looked at me.
It was the first time I felt something real, something undeniable. And it terrified me.
So, I shoved it down. Buried it beneath layers of denial and practiced smiles.
I even tried dating girls. It was easy enough.
I liked them well enough. I liked their company, their laughter, and their kindness.
But there was always something missing, something I could never quite grasp.
I went to my senior prom with Melanie Williams. I put my arm around her shoulders and smiled for the pictures.
She kissed me at the end of the night, and I kissed her back, waiting for the spark, the rush, anything. But it never came.
I told myself it was just because I didn't meet the right one. That when I did, everything would fall into place. That what I was feeling, or more accurately, what I wasn't feeling, was normal. That I just had to wait.
By the time I left for college, I knew better.
I met people who lived freely, who didn't flinch when they said the word gay.
People who talked about love the way I had always wanted to.
And for the first time in my life, I let myself breathe.
I kissed a boy at a party my sophomore year, and it was everything I'd spent my life convincing myself I didn't need.
I stopped pretending after that.
But I never told my parents.
I wanted so badly to be normal, to fit the mold they'd unknowingly built for me.
I wished I could be the son they dreamed of, the one who would marry a beautiful woman, settle down in a house with a white picket fence, and raise children who would call them Grandma and Grandpa.
I wanted to give them all the things they had dreamt of for my future.
I wanted to be the son they envisioned in their hearts. I hated that I couldn't.
Every time I thought about telling them, my throat closed up, and my stomach turned to lead, fearing that if I told them my truth, I would disappoint them and shatter the expectations they had held onto for so long. I wondered if they'd look at me the same way or if their love had conditions.
So, I waited. And waited.
Until waiting started to feel like lying. Until I met Harrison.
In the beginning, I told myself it wasn't real. That whatever this was would fade as quickly as it sparked to life. But the more I tried to convince myself, the more I realized—some things aren't meant to be fleeting.
The night I told Harrison I love you while I held him in my arms changed everything. The lies began to feel suffocating. I no longer wanted to hide in the shadows hoping to not be found out. I wanted to share the man I love with my family.
Now, as I sit in my car outside my parents' home, I wonder if I should've waited longer. If I should've kept pretending. Kept the mask in place just a little while more.
But then I think of Harrison, of his laugh, his touch, the way he looks at me like I'm something worth holding onto. And I know I can't wait anymore.
Today, I tell the truth.