Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ashton
Throughout my life, I’ve survived plenty of awkward family dinners.
It’s practically a Tremblay tradition.
Growing up, it didn’t take much to set my dad off.
Me forgetting to turn on the sprinklers.
Justin looking at his phone at the table.
Mom overcooking the chicken. His temper wasn’t loud all the time—that would’ve almost been easier.
Sometimes it was sharp and precise, a quick snap that cut across the table and left the rest of us bleeding in silence.
I learned early how to read the shift in the room—the way his shoulders would stiffen, the way his fork would pause halfway to his mouth. Tense silences don’t scare me. Uncomfortable dinners are nothing new.
But tonight?
Tonight takes the cake.
My stomach is clenched so tight it feels like it’s folding in on itself. Every breath is shallow, like there’s a strap cinched around my ribs. My heart pounds so hard against my chest I’m half-convinced everyone at the table can see it, thudding beneath my shirt.
After what feels like hours of torturous quiet, I stand and help Mom clear the table. We move around each other in stiff, mechanical silence, scraping mounds of uneaten spaghetti into the trash. The smell of tomato sauce turns my stomach. Plates clatter into the sink louder than they should.
I can feel her eyes on me the entire time.
She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to.
I dry my hands on a dish towel that’s already damp and mutter a tight, “Night,” to her and Dad.
Dad grunts without looking up. Mom forces a thin, brittle smile.
Troy opens the front door for me, and I step out into the cool night air like I’ve just surfaced from underwater. I suck in a deep breath, my lungs aching with it.
I make sure to keep space between us as we head down the porch steps.
The gravel driveway crunches under our boots as we walk toward his van, each step sharp and unforgiving in the quiet. The sound grates against my nerves. I keep my hands shoved deep into my jacket pockets, shoulders locked, gaze fixed straight ahead.
He unlocks the van with a soft chirp. The porch light spills across the hood, catching in the thin layer of dust. He pauses with his fingers curled around the handle, lips pressed tight, like he’s holding something back.
“Just say it,” he murmurs.
My head snaps toward him. “Say what?”
His jaw flexes. “You’re clearly angry at me, Ashton. So just say what’s on your mind.”
The words ignite like a match to gasoline.
“Of course I’m angry at you,” I snap. The volume surprises even me. “You knew how important tonight was to me, and it was a fucking disaster. You were a complete asshole—”
“A complete asshole?” he shoots back, brows drawing together. “Your dad’s the asshole, not me.”
I drag both hands through my hair, tugging hard enough that my scalp burns. “Fuck,” I breathe, the word shaking on the way out. “I can’t believe you.”
He reaches for me, instinctive, but I step back before he can touch me. I can’t be touched right now. If he does, I might either fall apart or say something worse.
“I won’t apologize for coming out to them,” Troy says, his voice quieter now but unyielding. “I won’t lie about who I am just to appease them.”
A humorless sound tears out of me. “This isn’t about appeasing them, Troy. This is about protecting me.” I gesture back toward the house’s glowing windows. “You think they won’t get suspicious that I’m suddenly spending all my time with a bisexual man? You might as well have outed me too!”
He crosses his arms over his chest, chin tipping up in defiance. “So straight guys and bi guys can’t be friends?”
I let out a bitter laugh. “News flash, Troy—no, they can’t. Not according to my parents. Not according to most of the people in this town.”
He tilts his head, studying me in a way that makes my skin feel too tight. “Well maybe,” he says slowly, “you shouldn’t care so much about what other people think and just start living for yourself for once in your goddamn life.”
I scoff. “It’s not that easy—”
“It is,” Troy interrupts sharply. “You’re an adult, Ash. Act like it.”
I shake my head, swallowing against the sudden sting in my throat. “You don’t know what it’s like.”
His nose scrunches. “What what’s like?”
“Having parents like them,” I say through gritted teeth. “Having a father who’s never once said a single positive thing about me. Having a mother who won’t grow a spine or stand up for me—”
“You’re right, Ash,” he cuts in, his brown eyes hardening into a glare. “I don’t know what that’s like. Because my mom’s dead, you asshole.”
Shit.
The anger drains out of my body all at once, leaving something cold and heavy behind. I inhale sharply and pinch the bridge of my nose.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, my voice rougher now. “That’s not what I—”
“I was standing up for you back there,” he snarls, yanking the van door open with a sharp metallic pop. The sound cracks through the night like a gunshot. “You should be thanking me.”
My shoulders sag, the fight draining out of me all at once. “I didn’t ask you to stand up for me. I don’t need you to be my knight in shining armor.”
His mouth twists into a pained scowl. “If you expect me to sit there and smile politely while your dad questions your intelligence, then you picked the wrong guy to date.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “You overstepped. You can’t talk to my dad like that.”
He lets out a humorless laugh. “So I’m just supposed to sit there while he tears you down?”
“I can handle my dad.” My hands ball at my sides, nails biting into my palms. “I’ve been handling him my whole life.”
“I’m not going to apologize for caring about you,” he snaps.
“I’m not asking you to.” My voice wavers despite my best effort. “I’m asking you to trust me to fight my own fights.”
He shakes his head and climbs into the driver’s seat. “I will never let anyone talk about you like that,” he says, turning the key in the ignition. The engine chokes once, then rumbles to life. He looks me dead in the eye and adds, “Especially not your own father.”
The headlights flare on, washing me in harsh white light.
“Wait.” I step closer to the open window, my pulse scrambling. “Troy, wait.”
He grips the steering wheel, jaw clenched.
“Come back to my place,” I say quickly. “Please. We can talk this out. I know we’re both angry. Just—don’t leave like this.”
He keeps his gaze fixed on the windshield, refusing to look at me.
“I can’t,” he says finally, voice low. “Not right now.”
My stomach drops. “Troy—”
“We both need to cool off,” he cuts in. “If we keep talking, we’re just going to say worse shit. We’ll talk tomorrow.” He shifts the van into reverse.
“Please,” I beg again, my voice softer now.
But he’s already looking past me, checking his mirrors.
The tires spin against the gravel as he backs up fast, too fast, then jerks the wheel and peels out of the driveway. The roar of the engine splits the quiet night, gravel spraying, dirt billowing up into a thick cloud that swallows the taillights as they disappear down the road.
Dust slowly settles around me, the night returning to its heavy, suffocating stillness.
Luke’s living room smells like grease, a half-empty pizza box rotting cold on the coffee table in front of us. The curtains are half-drawn, moonlight slanting across the TV screen where pixelated soldiers sprint through a bombed-out city.
He bought the game today—some brand-new first-person shooter that “everyone online is losing their minds over.” Apparently that includes him. I couldn’t sleep after everything that happened at dinner, so when he invited me over to play it with him, I happily accepted the chance at a distraction.
We’re sprawled on opposite ends of his couch, controllers in hand, a six-pack sweating on the coffee table between us.
I purposely grabbed one of the cheap beers from the very back of my fridge before I came over. The kind I only keep around for guests who don’t care what they’re drinking. I left Troy’s craft brews lined up neatly on the middle shelf where they belong.
I couldn’t stomach the idea of drinking one.
The first sip is sharp and metallic. Bitter in a way that coats my tongue instead of settling smooth. I swallow anyway, chasing the burn, hoping it’ll dull the pounding in my head and the steady ache lodged beneath my ribs.
I’ve gotten used to Troy’s beer—the citrus notes, the clean finish, the way you can practically taste the care and craftsmanship poured into every drop. Now nothing else compares.
On-screen, gunfire erupts in a staccato burst.
“Are you kidding me?!” Luke shouts as his character takes a sniper round and collapses in dramatic slow motion. “What the hell was that? I was behind cover!”
His avatar bleeds out on the pavement, a red icon flashing insistently.
I blink at the screen, realizing I’ve been staring at the same corner of rubble for at least a full minute.
“Bro!” Luke smacks my shoulder with the back of his hand. “Revive me!”
I jolt, the controller slipping slightly in my grip. “Shit, yeah—sorry.”
My thumb drags across the joystick, maneuvering my character toward his. On-screen, I crouch beside his downed body and hold the revive button.
“Dude,” Luke mutters, eyes narrowing at me even as the progress bar fills. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I’m fine,” I grumble, taking another swallow of the bitter beer. It tastes worse the second time.
My character finishes reviving his, and Luke’s soldier pops back up, immediately sprinting toward more gunfire like he has something to prove. I stare numbly at the screen as I shoot randomly across the war zone, striking nothing but buildings and trees.
We lose the match in a blaze of gunfire and some twelve-year-old on the other team teabagging Luke’s character while cackling through his headset. The screen flashes DEFEAT in bold red letters.
“Unbelievable,” Luke mutters, yanking off his headphones and tossing them onto the coffee table. “Absolute garbage matchmaking.”
I take another sip of my beer.
Luke turns to look at me fully, one arm slung across the back of the couch. “Okay. What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” I say automatically, eyes still on the TV.
“Don’t give me that.” He nudges my knee with his. “You’ve been useless for the last three matches. You’ve barely gotten any kills.”
“I got two this round,” I mutter.
“Yeah, and I got thirteen.” He studies my face for a second longer. “Seriously. What’s going on?”
I huff out a breath. “It’s just… Mom and Dad meeting Troy didn’t go well.”
Luke snorts softly. “Yeah. I know.”
My head snaps toward him. “You do?”
He reaches for his beer, takes a long swallow, and nods. “Mom called me immediately after.”
Of course she did. Just like the rest of this goddamn town, she can’t keep anything to herself. News travels faster than a Midwest snowstorm around here.
I stare down at the stained patch of carpet near my boots, jaw tight.
Luke scratches his stubble. “I mean… I was surprised to hear Troy’s bi,” he admits. “But it’s not a total shock. He’s from Chicago, after all. They’re a lot more—” He pauses, waving his hand vaguely. “Y’know. Liberal. Over there.”
I bite the inside of my lip, tasting copper.
Luke keeps going. “She tried asking if I thought you might be like that too. Since you two have been hanging out all the time.”
My shoulders lock up.
“But I told her there was no way,” he says quickly. “I mean, obviously.”
“Obviously,” I echo flatly.
He leans back into the couch. “Anyway, it’s not a big deal. They’ll get over it.” He shrugs. “They’re just old-fashioned and don’t like the idea of you being friends with someone like that.”
I raise an eyebrow, finally looking at him. “Don’t you feel the same way as them?”
Luke shakes his head and takes another sip of beer.
“Hey, as long as people don’t shove their preferences in my face, I don’t care what the hell they do.
It’s their business.” He pauses, then adds, “And Troy’s a masculine guy.
He’s cool. I like hanging out with him. It’s not like he’s, y’know… one of those typical gay guys.”
I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep my face neutral.
Deep down, I know Luke doesn’t think he’s being cruel. In his mind, that was supportive. Open-minded, even. He’s just repeating what he was raised on—what this town feeds you before you’re old enough to question it.
Hell, I used to think the same way.
That’s the part that really makes me wince.
I laughed at the same locker room jokes.
Tossed around the same cruel words like they didn’t mean anything.
Looking back, I can see it for what it was—overcompensation.
If I laughed loud enough, agreed hard enough, no one would look too closely at me.
No one would notice the flicker of curiosity I tried so hard to smother.
The only difference is, I didn’t get to stay comfortable in that ignorance. I was forced to look at it head-on the second I realized I might not be entirely straight—when I understood that I might belong to the same group of people so many around here mock, fear, or quietly resent.
If I could unlearn it, maybe Luke could too.
Maybe someday.
Luke launches into a rant about the game’s terrible respawn system, already moving on, his voice filling the room like nothing significant was said at all. I stare at the TV screen, watching the demo loop roll across the battlefield, but I’m not really seeing it.
I’m thinking about someday—and how impossibly far away it feels.