Chapter 15
JULIAN
Sitting at the edge of the bed, I yawn as exhaustion seeps into my bones, a deep weariness that comes from too many cities in too few days.
The road is taking its toll, both physically and mentally.
Yet beneath the fatigue runs a current of restlessness, an itch I can no longer scratch with a discreet call to Portia.
So here I sit, in another anonymous hotel room, in another city that will blur into the last, caught in the liminal space between performances, where the real loneliness lives.
My phone vibrates against my palm. I glance down to see my baby brother’s name illuminated on the screen, a small comfort in this transient existence.
“Hey,” I answer before it can ring again, my voice softening automatically.
“Hey,” Cyaire replies, his voice warm and familiar as worn leather. “You busy, or can I steal you for a minute?”
I lean forward, elbows braced on my knees, shoulders curving inward. “You’ve got me.”
There’s a pause on the line, the sound of movement on his end, fabric rustling, floorboards creaking.
I picture him pacing, probably in his apartment with its exposed brick and tall windows, probably barefoot, surrounded by scattered scripts and neon highlighters and the quiet, steady defiance he’s built his life on.
My brother decided to leave medical school last year to pursue acting, a decision that sent shockwaves through our family.
The move alone was something I could only admire from a distance.
He did something I never could, went against our parents’ carefully laid plans and expectations, stepped off their prescribed path, and is now walking his own road without a trace of the guilt that would have crushed me.
“So,” he says, drawing out the word. “Chicago.”
I close my eyes briefly, a knot forming in my gut. “What about it?”
“You know what about it,” he says, his gentleness more penetrating than accusation. “Mom keeps pushing to know more about the guy in your dressing room. She’s like a dog with a bone, Jules. She won’t let it go.”
My jaw tightens, muscles bunching. Of course she won’t. My mother has always had a talent for finding exactly what I’m trying to hide. “And?”
“I repeated Malik’s explanation for his presence.
That he worked with the touring company.
She doesn’t buy it. You know how she shoots dad the side eye as they mind meld like some sci-fi creature with a psychic connection.
” He sighs, and I can almost see him running a hand over his hair in frustration.
“She didn’t push me though. Thank goodness.
You know how relentless she can be when she thinks she’s onto something. ”
I let out a short breath, releasing a fraction of the tension. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Cyaire says, his voice dipping lower. “She’s redirected. Thanks for that.”
I open my eyes, alertness replacing fatigue. “Redirected how?”
“Me,” he says simply. “Last Sunday’s dinner was. . .intense.”
That gets my attention fully. I straighten, a protective instinct flaring. “What happened?” I wish my parents would just let us be. Cyaire isn’t a child needing guidance, he is twenty-four years old, educated, thoughtful, well beyond the age where their micromanagement is appropriate or welcome.
“She asked why I’ve been avoiding them,” he says, a brittleness entering his voice.
“Why I haven’t been home. Honestly, without you here to act as a buffer, I’ve been scarce.
Not gonna lie, I can barely stand them on my own.
She never lets up, constantly asking why I’m ruining my life, insisting that leaving medical school was reckless and that I’ll regret it forever.
Dad just sits there, letting her do the dirty work while he nods along like some dashboard ornament. ”
I grimace, guilt settling heavy in my stomach. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” he says quickly, too quickly.
“I mean, it’s not, but it’s not your fault.
It’s just—” He hesitates, searching for words.
“I think she’s realized she can’t push you around anymore.
You’re too established, too successful for her to control directly.
So, she’s turned her attention to her problem child. ”
The words land heavier than they should, striking an old, tender bruise. “You were never a problem.”
He laughs softly, the sound tinged with resignation. “Try telling her that. Apparently, one artist in the family is more than enough. One is all they can handle in their perfectly curated life.”
Anger flickers low in my chest, familiar and unwelcome, a hot coal I’ve carried since childhood. “What did you say?”
“I told her the truth,” Cyaire replies, a steely undertone to his words that reminds me we share the same blood.
“That I’m pursuing acting. That I’m happy, genuinely happy, for maybe the first time in my adult life.
That I’m not changing my mind just because they can’t imagine a future they didn’t orchestrate. ”
I smile despite myself, pride blooming unexpectedly. “Proud of you.”
“Thanks,” he says. Then, quieter, more deliberate, “I’m proud of you, too.”
I blink, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. “For what?”
“For standing your ground,” he says without hesitation. “For not folding when it would have been easier to retreat. Even with the world watching.”
My grip tightens on the phone, knuckles whitening. “It didn’t feel like strength at the time.”
“It was strength,” he insists. “Messy, sure. Public, unfortunately. But real. Authentically you in a way they’ve never allowed you to be.”
I glance toward the window, the city of Philadelphia sprawled beyond the glass, traffic sliding by in steady streams of light like luminous blood through concrete arteries. “It cost me,” I say, my voice dropping to nearly a whisper.
“Maybe,” he acknowledges. “But it also changed something fundamental. I can hear it in your voice. Something’s shifted, even if you’re still figuring out what that means.”
I don’t respond immediately. He’s not wrong, and that’s the part that unsettles me.
There’s been a seismic shift beneath my carefully constructed surface, fault lines cracking, tectonic plates realigning.
Ultimately, Portia was right about everything, there’s a razor-thin line between my warring emotions, between love and hate, between protection and imprisonment.
I’ve been ignoring it, pushing it down, refusing to acknowledge it, but I’m tired.
After seventeen years of carefully maintained silence, I’m so fucking tired of the weight of all I cannot say.
“Can I ask you something?” Cyaire says, breaking into my thoughts.
I nod, then realize he can’t see me. “Go ahead.”
“Who was he really?” he asks, treading carefully but directly. “The guy in Chicago. The real story.”
The question hangs between us, heavy with implication. My throat constricts, old fears rising automatically.
“His name is Portia,” I say finally, the admission feeling like stepping off a ledge. “And it’s over. That’s all you need to know.”
There’s no drama in the statement. No bitterness or recrimination. Just fact, even if speaking it aloud causes my throat to close with the unexpected sadness of loss, of something incomplete but undeniably finished.
Cyaire hums thoughtfully, absorbing this. “Did you care about him?”
“Yes,” I say, surprising myself with the immediacy of my response. “But not in the way that mattered. Not enough to risk everything else. I couldn’t give him what he wanted. More. Openness. Acknowledgment beyond closed doors.”
“And now?” he asks, gentle but persistent.
I consider the answer before giving it, weighing truth against habit. “Now I’m trying to be honest with myself. About what I want. About what I’ve sacrificed and whether it was worth the price.”
Another pause, thoughtful and weighted. Then Cyaire exhales, a decisive sound. “You know,” he says, “at some point, you’re going to have to be honest with them, too. With Mom and Dad.”
I tense immediately, muscles locking. “This again.”
“I’m serious,” he says, undeterred. “Julian, you don’t owe them anything.
Not your silence, not your compliance, not your misery.
You’ve hidden who you are for so long that hiding has become your default.
But you don’t owe them a version of yourself that makes them comfortable while destroying you from the inside. ”
“You make it sound simple,” I say, voice tight. “Like I can just announce it over Sunday dinner and walk away unscathed.”
“It’s not simple,” he agrees readily. “It’s complex and difficult and probably painful.
But it might be freeing in ways you can’t imagine yet.
Whatever happens, whatever their reaction, whether they accept or reject or ignore for the rest of your life.
I’m not going anywhere. I’m your brother.
That doesn’t change with a revelation. I love you.
Gay, Bi, Pan, whatever label fits or doesn’t fit. I love you, period.”
My throat tightens unexpectedly, a burning sensation behind my eyes that I haven’t allowed in years. “I know.”
“I just don’t want you carrying this alone anymore,” he adds, his voice softening further.
“Their religion, their prejudices, their misguided beliefs, the stigmas of being black, male and queer, they shouldn’t cost you your life, your happiness, your chance to be fully seen. You deserve more than hiding.”
I swallow hard against the knot forming. “I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all I’m asking,” he says, backing off slightly. “Just think. Consider the possibility that freedom might be worth the risk.”
We lapse into a quieter rhythm after that, the way siblings do when the important things have already been said and the comfortable silence that follows feels like its own kind of connection.