Chapter 17
Tobias
Tristan's apartment smelled like expensive cologne and suppressed anxiety.
He met me in the lobby, looking more put-together than anyone had a right to at noon on a Wednesday. Navy suit, no tie, the casual elegance of someone born knowing how to dress.
"You look like you're about to puke," he said.
"Thanks. Very helpful."
"Just being honest." His hand landed on my shoulder, squeezing. "They're already upstairs. Mom's been pacing since she got here. Dad's doing that thing where he stares out the window and pretends he's not nervous."
"Great. Can't wait."
The elevator ride felt too short. I wanted more time—more distance between this moment and the one where I'd have to face them.
When the doors opened, Tristan led me down the hallway to his door. He paused with his hand on the handle.
"Ready?"
"No."
"Good. If you were ready, I'd be worried." He pushed open the door. "Let's go."
They were already there.
My mother sat on Tristan's leather couch, hands folded in her lap. She looked smaller than I remembered. Older. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and when she saw me, something in her face crumbled before she pulled it back together.
My father stood by the window, jaw tight, spine rigid. The posture I knew from a thousand boardroom negotiations. But his eyes—his eyes were scared.
No one moved for a long moment.
Then my mother stood and crossed the room in three quick steps, pulling me into a hug that nearly broke me.
"You're safe," she whispered against my hair. "You're safe. You're here."
I couldn't speak, just held her while she shook against me, her careful composure dissolving into the fabric of my shirt.
"Mom..."
"Don't." She pulled back, gripped my arms, and looked at me as if checking I was real. "Don't say anything yet. Just let me look at you."
Her eyes were wet. She blinked rapidly, trying to hold it together.
Behind her, my father cleared his throat. "Eleanor. Let him breathe."
She released me reluctantly, stepping back but keeping one hand on my arm, as if afraid I'd vanish if she stopped touching me.
"Sit down," Tristan said. "Everyone sit down. We're not at a board meeting."
The humor cracked something in the air. My mother laughed shakily, and my father's jaw unclenched slightly.
We sat: my parents on one couch, me on the other, Tristan in an armchair between us like a referee.
Silence. No one knew how to start.
So I did.
"I'm sorry I disappeared." The words came out rough. "I'm sorry I scared you. Both of you."
My mother's hand found my father's and squeezed.
"We just wanted to know you were safe," she said. "We've been so worried. The not knowing was..."
"I know. And I'm sorry." I took a breath. "I'm safe. I've been safe the whole time. I was staying with someone who helped me. Someone who cares about me."
"Where?" My father's voice was controlled and neutral. "Where have you been?"
I hesitated, looking at Tristan.
"That doesn't matter right now," Tristan said. "What matters is that he's here, he's okay, and he wants to explain."
My father's eyes narrowed slightly, but he nodded.
Another breath. This was the moment.
"There's something I need to tell you," I said. "Something I should have told you years ago."
My mother leaned forward. My father went still.
"I'm gay." The words hung in the air. "I think I've always been, somewhere deep down.
But I spent years telling myself I was wrong, that it was confusion, and that I could make it go away if I just tried hard enough.
I couldn't marry Elizabeth. I couldn't stand up there and promise my life to someone I could never love the way she deserved. "
Silence.
My mother's face went through several emotions I couldn't name: shock first, then grief, then something that looked almost like recognition.
"Why didn't you tell us?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"Because I didn't think you'd understand." I held her gaze. "Because I kept hoping I was wrong. That it would go away."
"Oh, Tobias." Tears spilled down her cheeks. "All those years. You were carrying this alone?"
"I thought I had to."
"I'm so sorry." She was crying openly now. "I should have seen. Should have made it easier for you to talk to us."
I moved instinctively, crossed to her couch, sat beside her, and pulled her into my arms.
"It's okay," I said.
"It's not." She clung to me. "You shouldn't have had to hide."
She pulled back after a moment, cupped my face in her hands. Her makeup was smeared, her composure gone.
"Are you happy?" she asked. "Now? Wherever you've been?"
"Yes." The word came out steady. "For the first time in my life, yes."
"Then that's what matters." She kissed my forehead.
My father had been silent through it all.
He sat on the couch across from us, jaw tight, hands clasped between his knees. When I finally looked at him, his expression was unreadable, closed off in a way I recognized from boardroom negotiations.
"Dad?"
He stood abruptly. But instead of walking to the window, he turned to me.
"All this time." His voice was tight. Controlled. The kind that preceded an explosion. "All these weeks, Tobias. Do you have any idea what that was like?"
"I—"
"Do you know what we thought?" His voice rose. "Do you have any idea what goes through a parent's mind when their child disappears? When there's no call, no message, nothing?"
"Richard—" my mother started.
"No." He cut her off. "He needs to hear this.
" He turned back to me, and now I could see it—the fear beneath the anger, the sleepless nights compressed into fury.
"We thought you were dead. Do you understand that?
We thought someone had hurt you. We thought you might have hurt yourself.
Every time the phone rang, I braced myself for the police telling us they'd found a body. "
The words hit like physical blows.
"I didn't think—"
"No, you didn't think." He paced now, the rigid control cracking.
"You ran away like a child. No note. No explanation.
Just gone. And we were left to explain to three hundred guests that our son had vanished.
To face Elizabeth's family. To answer questions from the police, from the press, from everyone who wanted to know what kind of parents raise a son who does something like that. "
"I'm sorry—"
"Sorry?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You're sorry. That's wonderful. That fixes everything."
"Richard, that's enough," my mother said firmly.
"It's not enough." But some of the fire drained from him.
He stopped pacing, rubbed a hand over his face.
"Do you know what the worst part was? Not the embarrassment.
Not the scandal. The worst part was not knowing if you were alive.
Waking up every morning and wondering if today was the day we'd get the call. "
I didn't know what to say. I'd been so focused on my own escape, my own survival, that I'd never fully let myself imagine what they were going through.
"I'm sorry," I said again. It felt inadequate. "I should have contacted you. I should have let you know I was safe. I was selfish and scared, and I didn't think about how it would affect you."
My father was quiet for a long moment. The anger was still there, but something else was creeping in. Exhaustion, maybe. Or relief.
"So you ran," he said finally, his voice flat. "Because you're gay. Because you thought we'd—what? Disown you?"
"I didn't know what you'd do. I just knew I couldn't keep pretending. And I was too much of a coward to face you."
He stared at me, his expression impossible to read—shock, confusion, perhaps even hurt.
"So instead of talking to us, you disappeared. Let us think the worst. Put your mother through hell." His jaw tightened. "Because you assumed we'd react badly."
"Yes."
He laughed again, harsh and bitter. "Well. You weren't entirely wrong, were you?"
He walked to the window, standing there with his back to us, shoulders rigid.
The silence stretched. One minute. Two.
"Richard," my mother said softly.
"I'm processing." His voice was clipped. "Give me a moment."
So I waited, watching my father stare out at the Manhattan skyline, struggling with whatever war was happening inside him.
When he finally turned around, his face was still tight, but the anger had simmered down to something quieter.
"I don't understand it," he said. "I'm not going to pretend I do."
My stomach dropped.
"But disappearing like that—" He shook his head. "That I understand even less. Whatever you were afraid of, whatever you thought we'd do—was it worth what you put us through?"
"No." My voice cracked. "It wasn't. I was a coward."
Something shifted in his expression. Not forgiveness—not yet. But maybe the beginning of it.
"You're my son." The words came out rough and strained.
"I don't care who you—" He stopped, then started again.
"I need time to adjust to all of this. But I need you to understand something.
" He met my eyes. "Nothing you could have told us would have been worse than not knowing if you were alive. Nothing."
I nodded, unable to speak.
"Don't ever do that again." His voice broke on the last word. "Don't ever disappear like that again."
"I won't. I promise."
He stood there for a moment longer, jaw working. Then he sat back down, leaving more space between us than before.
My mother squeezed my hand. "The person you've been with. The one who helped you."
I nodded.
"Is he good to you?"
"Yes. He is."
She glanced at my father, who was staring at the floor, jaw still tight.
"Then I'd like to meet him," she said. "Someday. When you're ready."
My father said nothing, but he didn't object either.
Baby steps.
The conversation continued, though it never fully thawed.
My mother asked about my life—where I'd been, what I'd been doing. I told her about the bookstore, Miriam and her Russian novels, and learning to cook, to exist as a person instead of just a role.
My father listened but said little. Occasionally, he'd ask a practical question—did I have health insurance, was I safe where I was living—but he kept his distance, processing in his own way.
"Elizabeth has been asking about you," my mother said. "She's not angry, just worried."
"I owe her a real apology."
"She'd appreciate that. When you're ready."
When we finally stood to leave, the goodbyes felt awkward.
My mother held me for a long time, whispering apologies and promises I couldn't quite make out.
My father hesitated, then offered his hand. A handshake. Formal. Safe.
I took it.
"This isn't a no," he said quietly. "I just need time."
"I know."
"Come to dinner sometime." He paused, swallowed. "Both of you. When I'm ready."
Not perfect. Not even close. But it was something.
In the hallway, waiting for the elevator, I leaned against the wall. My legs felt unsteady.
"That was rough," Tristan said quietly.
"He was so angry."
"He was terrified. All those weeks, he was terrified. That comes out as anger." Tristan hit the elevator button. "But did you hear what he said at the end? 'Don't ever disappear like that again.' That's not rejection. That's a father scared out of his mind who doesn't know how to say it."
"He could barely look at me after I told him."
"He'll need time. The gay thing is a lot for him to process on top of everything else." Tristan shrugged. "But he didn't walk out. He didn't disown you. He said you're his son. That matters."
"Does it?"
"It does." The elevator arrived. We stepped inside. "Give him time. He'll come around. He's stubborn, but he loves you. That's going to win eventually."
I wasn't so sure. The look on my father's face when I said the word gay—confusion, discomfort, the way he'd turned away—
"Hey." Tristan squeezed my shoulder. "You did the hard part. You told them the truth. Whatever happens next, that took guts."
"I feel like I'm going to throw up."
"That's normal." He grinned. "So, when do I get to meet this Vance character? I've done my background check, but I want to see if he's actually good enough for my little brother."
"He is." I managed a weak smile. "Trust me. He is."
"We'll see about that." The elevator descended. "I'm a tough judge."
"I know. That's why I love you."
He looked at me, and something softened in his expression.
"I love you too, Toby. Even when you're an idiot who runs away from his wedding without telling anyone."
"Fair."
The doors opened in the lobby. We walked out together.
One conversation down. One more to go.
But for now, I just wanted to go home.