Chapter 9
ADRIAN
The house felt electric when we got back. That's the thing about protests—win or lose, they leave you buzzing with adrenaline, ready to tear down the world or build it back up. Tonight, we'd managed both.
I dropped my jacket by the door and followed the voices into the living room, where Phoenix was already holding court from their perch on the back of the couch, paint-stained combat boots dangling.
"Did you see his face when Adrian called him out?" Phoenix gestured wildly, nearly knocking over Diana's iced tea. "Like a deer caught in headlights. A very pretty, very confused deer who's been told his whole life that headlights are Satan's work."
"You can't just call people out like that in public," Andrew said, but his tone carried more worry than criticism. He was folding our signs with methodical precision, the way he did everything when he was processing. "That was intense. Maybe too intense."
"Intense was the point." I grabbed a beer from the kitchen and twisted it open harder than necessary. "He needs to feel the cognitive dissonance. He needs to understand that his comfortable little world of certainties doesn't hold up under examination."
Sam looked up from where they were sprawled on the floor, surrounded by pamphlets and leftover pride stickers. "He was holding a sign that says we're going to hell, Adrian. Literally. The words 'eternal damnation' were involved."
"And he looked miserable doing it," Diana added quietly. She was curled in the corner of the couch, still wearing her "Love Wins" t-shirt, but her expression was thoughtful rather than celebratory. "Did you see how he was standing? Like every muscle in his body was fighting itself."
"That's because they were," I said, settling into my usual spot on the floor near the window. "Everything about that kid screams internal conflict. He's been programmed to hate us, but he can't make himself actually do it."
"So you're going to what, deprogram him?" Sam's voice carried their usual edge of skepticism. "This isn't some conversion camp in reverse, Adrian. People don't just flip a switch and become different people."
"He's not different people. He's the same person he's always been, just buried under twenty years of other people's bullshit.
" I took a long pull of my beer, remembering the way Jesse had looked when I'd spoken to him directly.
That flash of recognition, of want, before the programming kicked back in.
"I'm not trying to change who he is. I'm trying to give him permission to be who he already is. "
"And if who he already is includes genuinely believing we're all going to hell?" Andrew asked.
"Then I'll accept that. But I don't think it does."
Phoenix made a noise that might have been agreement or skepticism—with them, it was often hard to tell. "Either way, honey, you've got your work cut out for you. That boy's wound tighter than my aunt's girdle at Christmas dinner."
"Speaking of our subject," Jamie said, materializing from the kitchen with her camera in hand, "I got some interesting shots today." She flopped down beside me and started scrolling through the digital display. "Most of them are the usual protest stuff, but look at this one."
She held the camera out, and I leaned in to see the screen. The photo showed the quad from our side of the dividing line, our rainbow flags and signs creating a bright border around the frame. But in the centre, perfectly in focus, was Jesse.
He was looking directly at the camera—at Adrian, since Jamie had been standing next to me when she took it. His sign was lowered, hanging almost forgotten at his side, and his expression was... fuck. It was hard to look at.
He looked trapped. Not just physically, though the cluster of protesters around him certainly reinforced that impression. He looked trapped from the inside, like someone who'd been locked in a room and had just realized he'd been holding the key all along.
"Jesus," I breathed.
"Yeah." Jamie's voice was softer than usual. "That's not the face of someone who believes what he's preaching."
"That's the face of someone who's scared," Diana said gently. She'd moved to look over my shoulder, and I could feel her warmth against my back. "Scared and confused and probably hating himself for it."
"Which is exactly why he needs help," I said, but even I could hear how the words sounded different now. Less certain, more desperate.
Andrew finished folding the last sign and looked up at me. "Adrian, I've known you for three years. I've seen you charm your way through everything from failing grades to speeding tickets. But this isn't about charm, is it?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you're not just trying to prove a point anymore. You're invested." He paused, weighing his words. "And when you get invested, you sometimes forget that other people have agency too."
"I'm not forgetting anything. I'm just—"
"Trying to save someone who might not want to be saved," Sam interrupted. "Or who might not be capable of being saved. Some people are too damaged, Adrian. Too deep in the programming."
"That's bullshit." The words came out sharper than I'd intended. "Nobody's too far gone. He just needs someone to show him there's another option."
"And if showing him destroys him in the process?" Elijah's voice cut through the room like a blade. He'd been quiet through the whole conversation, sitting in the corner armchair with a book in his lap, but I should have known he was listening. He always listened.
The room went silent. Even Phoenix stopped fidgeting.
"What do you mean?" I asked, though I was pretty sure I didn't want to hear the answer.
Elijah closed his book and looked at me directly. "I mean that sometimes the cure is worse than the disease. Sometimes forcing someone to confront the lies they've built their life on doesn't liberate them. Sometimes it just breaks them."
"He's already broken," I said. "Look at that photo. Look at how he was standing today. He's miserable."
"There's a difference between being miserable and being destroyed.
Between questioning your beliefs and losing your entire identity.
Between doubting your faith and losing your family.
" Elijah's voice was steady, but I could hear the experience underlying it.
The knowledge that came from having lived through his own reconstruction, losing his family as he transitioned and became who he was always meant to be.
"What happens to him if he follows this path you're trying to lead him down? Where does he go? Who does he become?"
"Someone authentic. Someone free."
"Someone alone," Sam said flatly. "Someone who's lost everything he's ever known, everyone he's ever loved, every certainty he's ever had. Are you prepared to be responsible for that?"
I looked down at the photo again. Jesse's face stared back at me, caught in that moment of desperate longing, and something twisted in my chest.
"Maybe he needs to lose those things," I said finally. "Maybe they're not worth keeping if they're built on lies."
"That's easy for you to say," Elijah said quietly. "You've never had to choose between being yourself and having a family."
The words hit like a slap. Because he was right—I'd come out in high school to parents who'd hugged me and asked if I needed anything, if I was happy, if there was anyone special I wanted to bring home for dinner.
My biggest struggle had been choosing which college to attend, not whether attending college meant losing everyone I loved.
But that didn't make this wrong. It just made it harder.
"Look," I said, standing up and walking to the window.
Outside, the campus was quiet, most students either studying or partying, living their normal lives without having to choose between authenticity and survival.
"I'm not saying it'll be easy for him. I'm not saying there won't be consequences.
But the alternative is watching him spend the rest of his life hating himself, hating us, and never knowing what he could have been. "
"And you think you're the person to make that choice for him?" Andrew asked.
"I think I'm the person who's going to give him the option to make that choice for himself."
Diana made a soft sound, halfway between a sigh and a hum. "You know what I think? I think you care about him more than you want to admit. And I think that's both the best and worst thing about this whole situation."
I turned to look at her, but she was already standing up, gathering the scattered pamphlets.
"I'm going to make dinner," she announced. "Someone needs to feed this family, and you all are too busy philosophizing to remember you have bodies that need sustenance." She paused in the doorway. "Adrian, honey? Whatever you decide to do, just... be careful. With him and with yourself."
After she left, the room felt different. Smaller. The weight of what I was considering—what I was already doing—settled on my shoulders like a lead blanket.
"So what's your next move?" Jamie asked. She was still scrolling through photos, but I could tell she was listening.
"I need proximity," I said, more to myself than to her. "Real proximity. Not just these random encounters where he can run away when things get uncomfortable. I need him trapped in a room with me long enough to have an actual conversation."
"Good luck with that," Phoenix said. "That boy runs faster than a shoplifter with security on his tail."
But even as they spoke, something was clicking into place in my mind. A memory of syllabi and assignment schedules, of Professor Okonkwo's methodical approach to semester-long projects.
"The debate assignment," I said suddenly.
"What debate assignment?" Andrew asked.