Chapter 36
The Double Coming Out
Vince
Two weeks in New York without the love of my life.
Andrew Parker... Goddammit, that amazing man is everywhere I go. It feels like the universe is taunting me, forcing me to confront just how deeply he's embedded himself into every corner of my life.
I think I'll be fine, think I'll adjust. I just need to get through these two weeks, fourteen measly days. But Andy? He's everywhere.
He's in the Toy Story reel playing above the Disney store on Broadway, making me laugh all over again about the stupid jokes I made when we first met.
He's in the sharp lines of the city's architecture, the library that is everything he said it would be.
He's in the way the morning sky looks when I run alone in Central Park, wishing like hell he was beside me like always.
I miss him.
It's only been five days, and I'm already unraveling. I try to remind myself that this trip is important. My career is important. But the truth is nothing feels as important as Andy.
That man is my heart.
I can still see his face from the airport, the way he smiled at me through his tears, trying so hard to be strong. He told me he's proud of me, says I deserve this, that everything I've worked for is finally paying off. He doesn't have to say he'll miss me; I already know.
I walked away from him, got on that plane, and cried like a goddamn baby during takeoff. Silent tears, my hand covering my face while I prayed no one noticed.
The older woman sitting beside me did.
She reached over and held my hand without saying a word. It was such a kind, unexpected gesture that it only made me cry harder.
I'm a mess. A hopeless, bleeding-heart mess.
Andy is right, this trip is good for me. For us. But Jesus, it feels like someone has taken my heart out of my chest and left it back in LA.
"Dad."
Tina's sharp voice slices through my thoughts, yanking me back to the crowded restaurant.
I blink at her. "What?"
She sighs heavily, her arms crossing over her chest. "I said I want the ahi salad, but you're staring into space like a war vet having a flashback."
Before I can respond, Malia leans toward Tina, stage-whispering, "Dad's losing it. I think he's finally going through menopause."
I groan, lowering my forehead to the table. "You're fucking unbelievable. How am I losing it?"
Malia smirks, her phone already in hand. "You've been spacey since we got here, Dad. You cried when Tina dropped her hotdog down the storm drain on the way to the subway yesterday, old man. You're fucking losing it. Something's obviously up with you."
Tina snorts, not bothering to look up from her phone.
"It was a waste of a perfectly good hotdog," I mutter defensively. "And maybe it's your obsession with me that you should be worried about. Mind your business, Malia."
She laughs to herself, clearly not buying it, but drops the subject.
For now. I know she's probably already texted Andy about the hotdog incident.
Great. My heart races, a frantic drum against my ribs that has nothing to do with the restaurant's bustling atmosphere and everything to do with the way Malia's eyes narrow at me across the table.
She's too perceptive, that one—always has been—seeing through my flimsy attempts at normalcy like they're made of glass.
I need to tell them about him. About us. But every time I work up the nerve on this trip, I chicken out.
Tina slams her phone onto the table dramatically. "David hasn't commented on my Snap, and it's been, like, five fucking minutes."
"That's because he's a loser," Malia says without missing a beat. "And you're too young to have a boyfriend anyway."
Tina glares daggers at her sister. "I'm sixteen, you moron. Not twelve."
Malia snickers. "When David came to school with that stupid haircut for picture day last week? I died."
"It's not stupid!" Tina snaps, sitting up straighter, her shoulders squared. "It's on trend!"
"On trend?" Malia repeats, the words dripping with mockery. "Get the fuck out of here. You don't even know what that means."
"Quit being such a bitch, Malia!"
"Language," I remind them, though the word lacks conviction, a hollow echo in the bustling restaurant.
Tina huffs, a sharp puff of air. "Whatever, Dad. You curse more than both of us combined. Maybe try leading by example for once."
Malia snorts, slumping back into her chair, her thumb already scrolling endlessly across her phone screen. Tina follows suit, a miniature reflection of her sister's sullen posture.
I lean back, the vinyl of the booth cool against my spine, watching my daughters bicker and roll their eyes. It should feel endearing. Normal.
Instead, all I can think about is Andy.
The next morning, Andy's new Instagram post appears on my feed—the first in weeks. A photo marking a major milestone in his life that he shared on our call last night: he's signing the lease on his dream yoga studio in Malibu.
And I'm not there.
I'm not there to celebrate with him, to hug him, to tell him how proud I am. I'm in New York, stuck in meetings and rehearsals, missing one of the biggest moments of the man I love.
The guilt gnaws at me all day.
I pull up that photo countless times. Andy smiles his brilliant smile. But dark circles shadow his eyes, stress etched into his face. Andy never looks tired; he's the Greek god of eight-hour sleep.
He misses me. I know it from the way he holds me over the phone at night with his words, his voice, as if those calls are the only lifeline tethering us together.
"Dad," Malia's voice cuts through my thoughts. She leans closer on the boutique bench, her sharp eyes flicking toward my phone. "Who are you talking to?"
I quickly turn off the screen and flip my phone face down. "No one."
Malia raises an eyebrow. "Dad, that was clearly a picture of Andy and Cynthia. I saw it."
Her tone softens as she tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear, but the curiosity in her eyes sharpens. "And I know you've been calling Andy every single night. Out on the balcony."
Caught.
"Why are you being so weird on this trip?" she presses, her voice low but insistent.
"I'm not being weird," I shoot back, avoiding her gaze. "And I'd appreciate a little more respect in your tone, young lady. You're talking to your dad, not some school friend."
She rolls her eyes, her smirk widening.
"Malia, why don't we focus on why we're here, okay? We’ll talk about this tomorrow with Tina. I promise. Today is dress day." I stand abruptly and knock on Tina's fitting room door, desperate for a diversion. "Tina, sweetheart, can you please put us out of our misery and show us the dress?"
"I said fucking wait a second, Dad! It has to be with my hair up!"
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. "It doesn't have to be with your hair up. What difference does it make?"
"All the damn fucking shitty difference!"
I bite back a laugh, the sound barely suppressed behind a tight smile. "Well, now you're just stringing together curse words for the sake of it. Watch your language."
"SHUT. UP. DAD."
Her raised voice slices through the boutique's quiet atmosphere, drawing the attention of a sales associate who approaches us cautiously, her polished nails clicking against the tablet in her hands.
I straighten up, preparing for the inevitable scolding, but instead, she does a double take, her eyes widening with recognition.
"Oh my gosh! Are you Vince Vickers?"
And there it is.
A few minutes and a selfie later, the associate leaves us alone, suddenly willing to overlook Tina's volume and teenage dramatics.
I honestly would rather be kicked out for my daughter not having decent manners, like anyone else would have.
The associate's sudden deference only highlights how out of control my daughters are, how badly I've failed at teaching them basic respect for public spaces.
My daughters are completely out of control.
"Tina, we're going to have a big talk about this when we get back to the hotel, you know."
"Whatever." She rolls her eyes, the gesture so practiced it's almost elegant in its dismissal.
Malia corners me in the hotel suite's living room later that night, after my call with Andy. Tina already sleeps in the second bedroom, her soft snores barely audible through the thick wooden door, a rhythmic reminder that at least one of us is finding peace tonight.
The city lights of New York glitter beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the room in shifting golds and blues as cars stream down the street below, each one carrying strangers with lives as complicated as my own.
My phone sits face down on the glass coffee table, its screen dark but somehow still screaming with secrets I'm not ready to share.
I've been nursing the same glass of whiskey for an hour, the ice long since melted, watering down the burn that might have helped numb the anxiety coiling in my stomach.
"Dad," she whispers, sitting beside me on the couch. The cushions dip with her weight, bringing with her the faint scent of jasmine from her perfume and something else—the sharp, metallic tang of teenage determination. "I want to talk. Not tomorrow. Now."
I raise an eyebrow, slowly turning my head to meet her gaze.
The living room's dim lighting casts shadows across her face, but her eyes burn with that unnerving intensity she's inherited from me.
She's wearing a silk robe that belongs to the hotel, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun that somehow still looks intentionally stylish.
She's not just my daughter anymore; she's become this perceptive young woman who sees too much, knows too much, and isn't afraid to call me on my bullshit.
I can feel my heart rate pick up, each beat a frantic drum against my ribs as I anticipate the conversation I've been dreading since this trip began.
"You want to talk?" I say, keeping my voice low but teasing. "About your language? Throwing tantrums in high-end retail stores? Stealing my car?"