12. Chapter 12 Alex
Iwoke up warm.
That was the first thing. Not the room I didn't recognize, nor the sounds I'd never heard before.
The warmth. Liam's arm across my ribs, his chest against my back, his breath slow and even against the top of my spine.
His hand resting flat on my stomach, fingers spread, like he'd fallen asleep holding me in place.
I didn't move.
I let the room come into focus. It was small.
Smaller than his dorm, even. A twin bed, a dresser, a desk pushed against the wall.
The ceiling had a popcorn texture, and the dresser had a drawer that didn't close all the way, and the entire room felt like a version of Liam's side of the dorm at Riverside, just older. More permanent. More him.
I didn't mind it.
That was what I noticed first. Not the smallness.
The fact that the smallness didn't bother me.
After a lifetime in a house where every surface was polished and every object was arranged to make you feel the weight of the name that paid for it, this felt like breathing out.
No one had curated this room. No one had chosen what went on the walls based on what a visitor should see.
It was just a kid's bedroom that had become a teenager's bedroom that was still, in every corner, exactly and only what it was.
I can be myself here.
It was the best thing I'd felt since I walked out of my father's study.
Last night came back in pieces.
The car. Liam's mom driving south, the grocery bags shifting in the trunk at every turn.
Walking through the front door into a kitchen that smelled like chili, warm and layered, the smell of a house that gets cooked in everyday.
Liam's mom hanging my coat on the hook by the door.
She didn't ask what happened. She put a bowl of chili in front of me and said "eat" and went back to wiping down the counter, and I ate the whole bowl without talking because I hadn't realized I was starving until the first bite.
Nobody watched me do it. Nobody asked if I wanted the good china, because there was no good china. It was the best meal I'd ever had.
Then the bedroom. Liam's twin bed, which was not built for two rowers.
He'd pulled the covers back, and I'd gotten in, and he'd gotten in behind me and wrapped his arm around me and said nothing.
We laid there in the dark listening to the house and the cold winter outside.
The baseboard heater ticking. A clock somewhere in the hallway.
The blanket smelled like laundry detergent that wasn't mine.
I hadn't cried. I'd wanted to. The pressure had been there all night, behind my eyes, this enormous thing being held back. But I hadn't let it go because if I started, I didn't know if I could stop.
So I'd just breathed. Let his warmth be the universe until sleep took over.
Now it was morning. It was all still there… Liam and the pain.
I turned over slowly. His face was six inches from mine on the pillow. Relaxed, unguarded. His hair was everywhere. His mouth was slightly open.
His eyes opened. Slow, unfocused, then finding me.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
"You sleep?"
"Yeah."
He pulled me closer. Just an inch. His forehead touched mine. We lay like that for a minute, breathing the same air.
"Thank you," I said.
"For what?"
"For last night. For coming. Your mom and the chili. All of it."
He kissed me.
"You don't have to thank me for that," he said. "That's not something you thank someone for. That's just what happens."
"It's not what happens in my family."
"It's what happens here."
And that's when it came. My face crumpled. I pressed into his chest to muffle it, and his arms went tight around me, and he said nothing. He just held on.
I cried into his chest. Shaking. Not anger… just complete pain. Hurt.
My father's voice saying you are no longer a part of this family. And Liam's arm around me. I had never felt this much pain and this much love at the same time.
I didn't say the word. I felt it. Enormous, pressing. But I didn't say it aloud. Not yet. Not like this, with tears on my face, as gratitude. When I said it, I wanted it to be clean. For him, not because of what I'd lost.
He kissed the top of my head. Then my temple. Then my neck, slow. Just him telling me he was here for me and maybe… that he loved me.
"It's gonna be okay," he said.
"You don't know that."
"I know some of it." His hand moved up and down my back.
"I know it's Christmas Eve. I know my mom's already cooking.
Tonight the whole family's coming, and it's going to be loud and messy and my uncle's going to corner you about football and you're going to survive it.
And tomorrow's Christmas. And after that, Noah and Priya are driving up for New Year's. We've got the whole week."
"A week."
"A week where nobody's scheduling you. You just get to be here. As yourself. Your big gay self."
I smiled, almost laughed, but it faded quickly.
"I don't know what happens after," I said. "Spring. The tuition. Money."
"We'll figure it out."
"That's not a plan."
"It's the truth." He pulled back enough to look at me. His eyes were steady. "We'll figure it out. After the holidays. Together. But today you don't have to figure out anything except whether you want bacon."
I almost laughed again. "I want bacon."
"Good. Because the entire house smells like it."
The kitchen on Christmas Eve morning was Liam's mom's jurisdiction.
She was at the stove in a sweatshirt and sneakers, hair up, radio on low, a towel over one shoulder. The counter was covered. Mixing bowls, flour, a stick of butter softening on a plate, onions on the cutting board. Bacon on a rack by the stove, draining. Coffee made.
Two plates were set at the table, and when we came out of the hallway, she didn't turn around.
"Sit," she said. "Eggs are coming."
"Good morning, Mrs. Moore."
She turned. Looked at him. A quick warmth crossed her face.
"It's Linda. Sit down."
I sat down at the kitchen table. My hair was a mess. My eyes were probably still puffy. I looked nothing like a Harrington. I looked like a normal kid.
Linda put a plate in front of me. Eggs, bacon, toast. Then coffee. She put the same in front of Liam.
"Cream and sugar with your coffee Alex? I know Liam doesn't like it."
"I do, yes please."
She got me the cream and sugar, then sat down. She didn't eat. But she sat with us.
"We're cooking today," she said. "The ham goes in at noon. Pies after that. I need someone on potatoes."
"I can do potatoes," I said.
She looked at me. "You know how to peel potatoes?"
"I worked a marina for a summer. I can figure out a potato."
She gave me a smile. Small, real, from somewhere deeper than politeness.
"Alright," she said. "You're on potatoes." She looked at Liam. "You're on pie crust. Don't argue."
"I wasn't going to argue."
"You always argue about pie crust."
"Because I'm bad at pie crust."
"You're bad at it because you go too fast."
She got up and refilled her coffee, and the morning was moving, and the kitchen was warm, and the radio played something I didn't know, and soon I was standing at the counter peeling potatoes.
And I felt a sense of relief.
Not happiness. Just the relief of a house where nobody was performing.
Where the counter had a chip in the tile and the butter softened on a plate and nobody had hired someone to section the grapefruit.
The relief of not checking my hands. Of not choosing my sweater based on which room I was entering.
My whole life at Peninsula Point had been a production. Every dinner, every hallway. I'd been raised inside a machine that ran on appearance, and this was the exact opposite of everything I was learning to hate about my family.
This was real.
***
Ethan called later that morning.
I was up to my elbows in potato water. Liam was wrestling with pie crust at the counter, losing. Linda was doing four things at once.
My phone buzzed; I dried my hands quickly, picked it up and headed to the living room.
"Alex," Ethan's voice, warm and immediate. "Talk to me."
"Hey."
"Liam texted me last night. He didn't say much, but the word disowned was in there, and I've been climbing the walls. Are you okay?"
"I'm — " I looked at the kitchen. Liam with flour on his nose. Linda pulling the ham out to baste it, the entire room smelling of cloves and brown sugar. "I'm okay. I'm at Liam's. His mom's got me peeling potatoes."
"She's put you to work. I love this woman already."
"She's great."
"Tell me what happened."
I told him, and I refused to sign, and he cut me off. Ethan was quiet in that rare way that meant he was processing.
"You did the right thing… the brave thing." he said. "You know that, right?"
"It doesn't feel brave."
"Brave feels like shit. That's how you know."
I laughed, sitting back on the couch.
"What's the plan for the break?" he said. "Are you just hanging at Liam's?"
"Yeah. Christmas Eve tonight, Christmas tomorrow. And Noah and Priya are driving up for New Year's. They're getting a rental on the lake."
"What? That's awesome." He paused, thinking. "Can Remy and I come?"
"Yeah," I said. "Why not? We'll figure out the rental."
"We're there. I'll tell Remy tonight." A pause. "Alex. I'm proud of you. It's going to work out."
"Thanks."
"Merry Christmas Eve. Go peel your potatoes."
I hung up and went back to the potatoes. Liam looked over from his pie crust disaster and raised an eyebrow.
"Ethan and Remy are coming for New Year's," I said.
"The more the merrier," Linda said from the stove without turning around.
The kitchen was warm, and the radio played while my hands soaked in potato water. Tonight, eleven strangers would arrive and meet the boy Liam had brought home.
Me. The rich boy from across the lake.
I was terrified. I was peeling potatoes. And I guess… I was exactly where I was supposed to be.