Chapter 41 Luke
FORTY-ONE
LUKE
“That was… different.”
Silas’s voice is quiet, almost surprised, like he’s tasting the words before letting them out. He keeps his eyes on the road, but his fingers flex around the steering wheel, knuckles whitening for a second before relaxing.
I glance over at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He exhales slowly, the sound almost a laugh but softer. “I think it’s the first time I haven’t felt guilty when leaving him. Like… I could breathe the whole drive out of the parking lot.”
My chest tightens—in a good way. I reach across the console and lace our fingers together, thumb brushing over his knuckles. His hand is warm, steady, still carrying the faint tremor from earlier.
“We can come again next week if you want,” I say, keeping my voice easy. No pressure. Just an offer.
He turns toward me at the next red light, that soft smile tugging at his lips—the one that still makes my stomach flip even after all these weeks. “Thank you. For being here. For understanding.”
My heart beats wildly inside my chest, loud enough I swear he can hear it.
I do understand. The grief, the guilt, the love that doesn’t vanish just because the person you loved can’t remember it.
I will be here for him like this for as long as he wants me to be.
The situation isn’t clean-cut or normal, but I don’t think either of us has ever been normal. And that’s okay.
“Always,” I whisper.
He leans over the console and presses a soft kiss to my lips—gentle, lingering just long enough that the light turns green, and someone behind us honks. We both laugh, startled, and he settles back into his seat, still holding my hand.
“Te amo, hermoso.”
The words land warm and sure. I squeeze his fingers. “Love you too.”
We drive in comfortable quiet for a few minutes, the city sliding past in soft late morning light. Then I remember the text from Mom this morning.
“Hey,” I say, glancing at him again. “Speaking of family…my parents do Sunday dinner every week. Same time, same awkward small talk. I still go. Even when it’s…tense.”
Silas’s thumb pauses on my hand. “They still think it’s a phase?”
“Yeah.” I shrug, trying to keep my voice light.
“Mom especially. Dad just…doesn’t say much.
I told them months ago that who I love isn’t up for discussion.
That if they want me there, they accept me as I am.
They haven’t kicked me out or anything, but it’s…
stiff. Polite. Like I’m a stranger they feel obligated to make small talk with.
I used to go just as a little fuck you, I’m me…
but now…I don’t know. Yeah, they are crappy parents—but they are the only ones I have. ”
He’s quiet for a beat. “You want me to come?”
I glance at him—really look. There’s no hesitation in his eyes, just steady willingness.
“Only if you want to. I’m not asking you to fix anything.
I’ve already set the boundary. They know I’m not changing.
But… I’d like them to meet you. The real you.
Not the version they’ve built in their heads from the gossip.
And maybe…maybe seeing us together will crack something open. Even just a little.”
Silas nods slowly. “I’d like that. If you’re sure.”
“I am. But you might regret it.” I grin over at him, and he shakes his head with a smile.
He really doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into with agreeing to go. But if we are really doing this, and we aren’t going to be a secret, that includes my parents.
Sunday comes fast.
The house looks the same as it did in high school.
Red brick, white trim, flag out front that’s been faded by at least three Michigan winters. The bushes are too neatly trimmed, the lawn unnaturally green. Dad’s pride and joy. I swallow thickly as Silas pulls into the driveway behind Mom’s car.
“I thought you said you usually go out for these things,” he murmurs.
I stare at the front door. “We do. They usually pick some boring steakhouse where they can pretend to be perfect in public. But this time, Mom texted and said she was making pot roast. ‘Just like old times,’ her words.”
“Any idea why?”
I shake my head. “Maybe she wants to make it harder for me to leave if things go sideways.”
Silas doesn’t laugh, but I feel the tension in his knuckles as they flex around the wheel.
“You can stay in the car if it gets weird,” I offer, only half joking.
“No chance,” he says, voice soft. “Not letting you walk into this alone.”
The words land somewhere deep, warm, and fragile inside me. I nod and unbuckle.
When we step inside, the smell hits first—roast, carrots, thyme, and a sharp edge of lemon cleaner.
Childhood memories swirl up uninvited. The rug is the same.
The photos on the wall are the same—every one from before I came out.
Before things got complicated. There’s no version of me here that isn’t still their perfect child with a football in hand and a bright smile.
“Luke,” Mom calls from the kitchen, a note of surprise in her voice when she sees Silas behind me. “You brought…company.”
I lift my chin. “You remember Silas Gray.”
Her eyes flick to him—tight, cautious. “Hard to forget.”
He nods politely. “Ma’am.”
It’s formal. Careful. His hands stay tucked in his coat pockets, like he’s afraid touching anything might break it.
Dinner is awkward from the start. Dad doesn’t even come out of the den until Mom calls for him twice. When he finally joins us at the table, his gaze lands on Silas, then flicks away like he can’t quite stomach the sight.
No one mentions the scandal. No one says the words “coach” or “fired” or “inappropriate relationship.” But they hang in the air like smoke. Thick. Cloying. Silas, to his credit, doesn’t flinch under it.
Mom keeps the conversation surface-level. Weather. Church. A new Aldi opening nearby. She doesn’t ask about football. Or school. But she does listen when Silas talks.
He tells her he’s originally from San Antonio, that he’s been working on his sports psych certification and doing part-time consulting work with a few teams. He doesn’t say which teams. Doesn’t mention Ravenridge. But he speaks calmly, professionally—measured without being robotic.
Eventually, she asks, “What made you choose that field?”
He meets her gaze. “Because I made mistakes I don’t want anyone else to repeat. And because I still care about the players. Even when I’m not on the field.”
Mom blinks, her posture straightening slightly.
And I swear—I swear—something in her face softens.
“You always did love structure,” she murmurs. “Even as a coach. Luke talked about that when you first started coaching him.”
It’s the closest thing to an olive branch I’ve heard from her in years.
“I still do,” Silas says, smiling slightly. “But I’m learning when to let go, too.”
Dinner carries on. Still stiff, still loaded with unsaid things, but lighter. Mom refills Silas’s water glass without being asked. She actually laughs—softly—when he mentions I still don’t eat carrots even if he cooks them.
Dad doesn’t speak more than a few sentences. When dessert comes out, he quietly excuses himself and disappears down the hall.
But as we’re getting ready to leave, Mom walks us to the door.
She hesitates, then touches my elbow. “You seem…happy,” she says.
I pause. “Yeah. I am.”
Her gaze flicks to Silas, then back to me. “Maybe God doesn’t make mistakes after all.”
It’s not a blessing. Not quite. But it’s not judgment either.
And for the first time since coming out, I step off their porch feeling like maybe—maybe—we’re not just a story of loss and distance. Maybe we’re a work in progress.