Chapter Twenty-Six #2
His gaze drags over me, slow and assessing, before he takes my hand. His grip is firm—too firm. Thick fingers wrap around mine and squeeze hard, the pressure deliberate, bordering on painful. Cold skin. Calloused palm. It feels less like a greeting and more like a test.
I don’t flinch.
“Mark,” he says flatly.
His fingers tighten once more, just enough to make the point clear.
I hold his gaze and match the pressure, refusing to be the first one to look away.
After a beat too long, he releases me.
Behind him, Ashton hovers at the edge of the room. He twists his fingers together, knuckles cracking softly, and gnaws at the inside of his cheek—an anxious habit I’ve come to recognize.
“Honey?” Debbie calls out, poking her head around the corner. “Dinner’s ready.”
Sucking in a deep breath, I follow Ashton and Mark to the dining room.
The cool air smells like garlic and simmered tomatoes, the large ceiling fan spinning around and wafting the scents.
A bowl of spaghetti sits in the center of the table, steam curling toward the overhead light.
A basket of sliced bread rests at the end of the table, next to a bowl of parmesan cheese.
Ashton and I take the side of the table closest to the windows. His parents sit across from us.
Debbie forces a bright smile as she settles into her seat. “I hope you like spaghetti, Troy,” she says, reaching for the Parmesan. She spoons an excessive amount over her plate, snowy flakes piling high. “It’s Ashton’s favorite. Has been since he was little.”
“It smells great,” I say. And it does.
For a moment, the room is filled with the sounds of passing plates, clinking silverware, and chairs scraping against the hardwood floor as we get settled.
Debbie fills the silence with gentle questions—how I’m settling into Claremont Shores, how the drive was, how business has been. Her voice is warm but strained, like she’s stretching it over something painful.
“It’s been great,” I say. “Busier than we expected, honestly.”
“That’s good,” she replies quickly. “Very good.”
For a few minutes, the rhythm almost feels normal. Forks twirl pasta. Ashton’s knee presses lightly against mine under the table, a steady point of contact.
Then—
“How long have you been in the brewing business?”
Mark doesn’t look at me when he asks the question. He’s staring down at his plate, stabbing a forkful of spaghetti.
I pause, dabbing my mouth with my napkin. “Started home brewing a few years back. This is my first time owning my own place.”
A low grunt rumbles from his chest. “So,” he says, leaning back slightly. “You’re by no means an expert.”
I feel Ashton stiffen beside me.
“With all due respect,” I say carefully, “our cider’s been doing really well so far. We sold out of our first batch, and demand’s been strong since. We’re expanding production next month.”
Mark studies my face. The room goes quiet except for the scrape of silverware against ceramic and the soft, cautious sounds of chewing.
He folds his hands on the table. “I just want to make sure my son isn’t being taken advantage of,” he says. “He’s investing quite a lot of money in this. He’s still young. Naive.”
Heat flares in my chest. Beneath the table, I ball my fists so tight the silver rings dig into my skin, sharp edges biting into bone.
I inhale slowly, forcing the anger down before it can boil over. “Ashton is an adult,” I say, keeping my tone level. “He’s more than capable of making his own decisions.”
Hidden out of sight, Ashton’s hand finds my thigh. His fingers squeeze, firm and pleading.
I glance at him. His eyes are wide, silently begging me not to escalate this.
“Ashton’s always had all kinds of wild ideas,” Mark continues, waving a dismissive hand through the air.
“Turning the orchard into a wedding venue. U-pick stations. All of it.” He gives a short, humorless laugh.
“He’s ambitious—I’ll give him that—but ambition isn’t the same thing as responsibility.
I’m afraid this investment with your brewery is just another far-fetched daydream.
And when it falls apart, it’ll come back to bite him. ”
Rage burns hot and ravenous behind my ribs. My chair legs scrape loudly against the hardwood as I push back without meaning to. Before I can stop myself, I’m leaning forward, finger pointed across the table, my hand trembling.
“Listen, Mark. This isn’t your orchard anymore,” I snap. “You don’t get to boss Ash around and talk about him like he’s some clueless kid—”
“Troy,” Ashton mutters under his breath, grabbing my forearm. “Stop.”
The pain in his voice hits me like a slap.
I freeze.
For a second, I consider pushing past it—doubling down, saying everything I’ve swallowed since I walked through the door. But Ashton’s grip tightens just slightly, silently pleading.
I drag in a slow breath through my nose. My pulse hammers in my ears. The room feels too small, too warm. I can practically taste the bitterness in the air.
I sink back into my chair.
“You’re right,” I say stiffly, staring at the wood grain of the table instead of at Mark. My jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching it. “That was out of line.”
The apology tastes like blood, but I choke it down.
Mark grunts, low and unimpressed.
Ashton’s foot taps restlessly against the floor, heel thudding in a quick, anxious rhythm.
His fingers drum against his thigh in sync, over and over.
A sheen of sweat beads along his hairline, catching in the soft light above us.
He keeps his eyes fixed on his plate, shoulders pulled tight like he’s bracing for impact.
Guilt pricks at me. I didn’t mean to make this dinner harder for him, but I don’t regret it.
It had to be said, and God knows Ashton will never stand up for himself.
He bends at every order Mark barks at him.
Yes, sir. Of course, Dad. Whatever you think is best. He twists himself into something smaller, quieter, easier to swallow—just to earn a crumb of approval.
Just to chase after the love he was never given.
And it makes my chest ache in a way that’s almost unbearable. He deserves better than this.
Debbie clears her throat gently, the sound soft but deliberate. “So, Troy,” she says with a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, “what was it like growing up in Chicago?”
“It was nice,” I say, forcing my voice into something neutral. “Cold winters like you’ve got here, but it’s a lot bigger. Chaotic, but in a good way.”
Debbie smiles tightly. “I can imagine.” She hums. “I hear the craft beer scene there is pretty big. It’s no wonder you got into it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I nod politely. “I spent my twenties working at breweries and bars, learning from the experts. My last gig was at a gay bar—”
The words slip out before I can stop them. Ashton’s hand tightens on my thigh, fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to border on painful.
Across the table, Mark goes very still. His eyes narrow.
“So you’re…?” he asks, the unfinished question hanging thick and ugly in the air.
For a split second, my brain scrambles for an exit. I could laugh it off. Say I just needed the paycheck. Say it was temporary. Say whatever would make this easier.
The lie forms on my tongue, and then it curdles.
My gaze falls to my forearm, landing at the butterfly tattoo inked along the inside. The lines are delicate but permanent. The colors are proud and bold. I literally wear who I am on my sleeve.
I inhale slowly, the air burning on the way in.
If Ashton hates me for this later, then so be it. I won’t lie just to appease this balding bigot.
“I’m bisexual,” I say evenly. “Actually.”
The dining room falls silent.
Ashton closes his eyes. His jaw clenches so tight I swear I can hear his teeth grinding, cracking under the pressure. The muscle in his cheek ticks. He doesn’t look at me.
Debbie swallows hard. “Oh,” she says, the word thin and brittle.
The pause that follows stretches too long.
“Well,” she mutters finally, pushing her chair back. “I think I need to grate some more Parmesan.” The bowl in front of her is still half-full, but she grabs it anyway and disappears into the kitchen.
Mark keeps staring. His brows knit together, his gaze flicking between me and Ashton like he’s working through a math problem he already knows he doesn’t like the answer to. His jaw tightens. His mouth flattens into a thin, disapproving line.
Then, without a word, he twirls a forkful of spaghetti and brings it to his mouth.
The scrape of his fork against the plate sounds deafening.
Under the table, I reach for Ashton’s hand.
He jerks away like I burned him.
His eyes stay fixed on his plate, shoulders rigid, posture locked tight. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t acknowledge me at all.
I pull my hand back slowly, folding it into my lap. Dread sinks heavy in my stomach as my uneaten spaghetti turns cold.