Chapter 25 #3
Malik’s grip tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles prominent against his dark skin.
He understands family disappointment in ways I wish neither of us had to, understands the particular pain of being rejected by the people who are supposed to love you unconditionally.
After his mother passed, the rest of his family wanted nothing to do with him.
Famous or not, they didn’t care. My only regret is not being there when he needed me through that tough time.
“I’d rather see it, you know,” I continue, the words coming easier now that I’ve started.
“Look them in the eye and see the disdain, the disgust, whatever it is they’re feeling.
If they’re going to turn away from me, I need to know it’s real and final.
My parents aren’t cowards, or at least I didn’t think they were.
They taught me to face difficult things directly, to handle conflict with honesty rather than avoidance. ”
“And if it hurts?” he asks quietly, his voice careful and gentle.
I finally look at him, taking in the strong line of his profile, the way the afternoon sun catches in his close-cropped hair. “It already does. The silence hurts worse than any argument we could have. At least anger is engagement. This feels like being erased.”
We sit with that truth for a moment, letting it settle between us like dust after an explosion.
The familiar streets of my childhood continue to unfold around us, each corner and landmark carrying memories of a different version of myself, the boy who believed his parents’ love was conditional on his ability to meet their expectations, who learned to hide essential pieces of himself to maintain their approval.
“I’m going to hold your hand the entire time,” Malik says, his voice carrying the weight of a promise. “If they shut the door, if they make you feel unwelcome, we leave. Together. You don’t have to endure their rejection alone.”
A breath I didn’t know I was holding finally leaves my chest, tension releasing from muscles I didn’t realize were clenched. “Okay.”
Before I know it, we’ve pulled into the familiar driveway of my childhood home, the house looking exactly as it always has, pristine, perfectly trimmed hedges, not a blade of grass out of place.
Just as we’re about to get out of the car, Cyaire’s vehicle pulls up behind us, his timing either coincidental or carefully planned.
He steps out first, all easy confidence, then turns to open the passenger door for the man beside him.
The passenger is tall and striking, with dark brown skin, locs pulled back in a neat style, glasses that have slipped slightly down his nose giving him an intellectual, artistic air.
I shoot a surprised look at Malik, who’s wearing a knowing smirk that suggests he’s been keeping secrets. “What?” I ask, unable to keep the astonishment out of my voice. “My brother brought a guy home. I have a right to look surprised.”
“You know your brother is pansexual, right?” Malik says, laughing at what must be an incredibly surprised expression on my face.
“I mean, he’s always had girlfriends,” I say slowly, then pause as pieces begin clicking into place.
“Wait. Actually, I’ve never really seen him with a girl.
He only mentions girlfriends around my parents during Sunday dinners.
Always talks about them but never brings them around, never seems particularly invested.
. .” The realization hits me like a revelation. “Oh my God, my brother is pan.”
Malik laughs again as I stare at him, my mouth falling open in shocked understanding. How did I miss this? How many carefully constructed stories, how many deflections and misdirection’s did I fail to notice because I was so focused on managing my own secrets?
We both get out of the car and walk back to greet them, the afternoon air warm and fragrant with the scent of jasmine from my mother’s carefully maintained garden.
I lift an eyebrow at Cyaire in a silent question that encompasses everything I’m suddenly understanding about my brother’s romantic life.
Cyaire catches my look and smirks, completely unbothered by my obvious surprise. “Relax, Julian. This is Roland,” he says, gesturing to the man beside him with genuine warmth.
Malik crosses his arms, wearing an expression of amused skepticism. “Just Roland? No last name, no context, no explanation of how you two met?”
Cyaire laughs, the sound carrying the kind of confidence that comes from being completely comfortable in your own skin.
“We’re. . .seeing where things go. Testing the waters.
Figuring out if this has potential beyond really excellent coffee dates and surprisingly deep conversations about film and cinematography. ”
I shake my head, smiling despite the knot of anxiety that’s been growing in my chest since we turned onto my parents’ street. “You really brought a date. To Sunday dinner. The first Sunday dinner after I came out publicly.”
“If we’re doing honesty,” Cyaire says, clapping my shoulder with the kind of brotherly affection that feels like coming home, “we’re doing honesty. I figured it was time to stop pretending to be someone I’m not to make them comfortable. You inspired me, ole brother dear.”
Before I can respond, the front door of the house swings open.
“Cy—” My mother’s voice cuts off abruptly as she freezes in the doorway.
She takes us in slowly, her gaze moving from me to Malik at my side, then to Cyaire with Roland, her expression shifting through a series of emotions too quick and complex to catalog.
I watch recognition dawn in her eyes, followed by something that looks like horror, then disappointment, then a kind of resigned devastation that makes my chest ache.
Her hand moves instinctively to clutch the cross pendant around her neck, fingers wrapping around the familiar piece of jewelry like it might provide protection against the reality standing on her doorstep.
Without a word, without any acknowledgment of our presence or attempt at explanation, she steps back into the house and closes the door.
The slam echoes down the street with enough force that I’m certain the neighbors heard it, a sound like thunder after lightning, final and unmistakable.
Through the large front window, I can see my father watching from the living room, his hand lifting as if to wave or gesture, hesitating in the air for a moment that stretches like eternity, then falling back to his side as he turns away from the window.
Cyaire exhales slowly, the sound carrying years of hope and disappointment. “Well. That’s about what I expected, honestly.”
“Yep, but it still hurts like hell,” I say, keeping my eyes trained on the front door longer than I should, as if staring at it might make it open again, might change what just happened into something more bearable.
Malik doesn’t say a word in response. He simply reaches out and grips my hand in his, fingers intertwining with mine in the exact gesture he promised, holding on like an anchor in rough water. His presence beside me feels solid and real in a way that makes everything else seem less catastrophic.
After a moment that feels both eternal and too brief, Cyaire clears his throat. “Barbecue or Mexican? Because I don’t know about you all, but I’m starving, and there’s no point in coming all this way without getting Sunday dinner somewhere.”
A laugh escapes me, broken but genuine, the kind of laughter that comes after crying or before it, when emotions are too big and complex for any single response. “Yeah. I can eat. No point in letting them ruin our appetites along with everything else.”
“Yeah, Jules,” Cyaire says, using the childhood nickname that makes me feel like I’m not completely alone in this. “We can make our own tradition. Build something better than what they’re offering.”
Later, satiated by a barbecue that tastes like comfort and freedom, laughter that comes easier than it should after rejection, and people who choose to love us exactly as we are, Malik leans close enough that I can feel his breath against my ear.
“You should move in with me,” he says quietly, his voice carrying the weight of a future we’re finally brave enough to plan together. “We have a life to build, Miles. A real one.”
I smile, feeling something settle in my chest that might be peace, or hope, or simply the recognition that home isn’t a place but a collection of people who see you completely and stay anyway. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
“And someday,” he adds even more softly, his voice carrying dreams we’re just beginning to dare voice, “we’ll figure out last names.”
I tap my lips as if lost in serious thought, though the answer has been obvious since the moment he suggested it.
Across the table, Cyaire and Roland are completely absorbed in their own conversation, heads bent together over shared plates and inside jokes that are already developing between them.
“I’m thinking Reed-Carter. Has a nice ring to it. ”
Malik makes a disapproving sound, though his eyes are warm with amusement. “No way. You mean Carter-Reed. Alphabetical order, Miles. It’s only fair.”
I rest my head against his shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his arm comes around me like it belongs there. “We’ve got time to figure it out.”
He laughs and kisses the top of my head, the gesture soft and natural and full of promises about the future we’re finally free to build together. “Yes, Miles. We’ve got nothing but time.”