Chapter 15 #2
“I can’t be half in your life and half not.”
Paint dragged rough under the brush, left ridges where color overlapped and fought for space.
As a kid, I’d liked art more than I’d ever admitted out loud, liked color in an instinctive, underexamined way before everything started getting sorted into useful or not, tough enough or not.
Hockey had crowded it out early. What remained now wasn’t exactly creativity.
Just paint and a wall that could take the hit and give something back.
Plasticky tarp under my feet. Raw energy in my throat, no ice to burn it off on, no other team, nothing I could hit.
Just me.
This.
“I’m not ashamed of you, Stellan.”
True. But there was fear. Habit. Timing, too, because if I’d met him later down the road, about to retire—maybe it’d be easier.
Maybe by then, I’d be ready. I wouldn’t have my parents sleeping down the hall, oblivious to what I’d lost, oblivious to how their son was gay because I was waiting for the right reason, the right words, the right version of me.
I sucked in air that smelled like paint and the beginning of something that could crush me.
And then the door opened wider.
“Matt?” My mother’s voice was quiet, still a little hushed with sleep. “Sweetheart, hey. What’s going on here?”
Hand on the frame, cartoon poodles tumbling down a flannel nightgown she’d had for years.
Somehow, that tiny detail made my throat close up.
Or maybe it wasn’t even that, maybe it was just me, this.
Paint on my arms in a bedroom that held the trace of Stellan’s ghost, bare feet tacky from where I’d stepped into paint.
“I think…” Voice unsteady, so I tried again. “I think I’m in love.” A breath that burned in my lungs. “And I fucked it up.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” She crossed the room and wrapped me up in her arms, paint and all, smearing orange and green onto the sleeves of her nightgown like it didn’t even matter.
I shut my eyes against the sudden tilt of the ground beneath my feet.
This.
God.
“I’m gonna get your dad,” Mom said, pulling back so she could look at me. “And then we’ll talk, okay?”
Tone soft and understanding, like I was still fifteen, freshly broken up with my first girlfriend and a little confused why I didn’t really care. Well, guess it’d taken me a few years to catch on.
“Okay,” I said, paint under my nails and real, actual heartbreak layered heavy underneath my skin.
She left. I changed into clothes that weren’t paint-splattered, then spent a minute staring at myself in the bathroom mirror and wondered why I wasn’t more nervous.
I was, a little, but it felt like distant fog hanging somewhere in the back of my mind.
Maybe I’d run out of fear the moment Stellan had walked out.
I found Mom and Dad in the kitchen, both dressed in loose, comfy clothes that clashed with the sleek luxury of my place. Mom had thrown a cardigan over a T-shirt that might be my dad’s, and he was in pajamas, calm and solid, never in a rush to fill a quiet moment just because.
I bypassed the kitchen island and went for a bottle of wine.
“Wow,” Mom said, voice warm and light, as I reached for the corkscrew. “It’s getting serious, huh?”
“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “So, you know. Brace yourselves.”
“That bad?” she asked.
Was it? Parts of it, yeah—the part where I’d lost him. Not… the rest.
“Only the way it ended,” I said quietly.
Dad got up to grab glasses, silent and practical.
I poured too much for myself and took a swallow that hit fast—rich and heavy on my tongue, almost surreal.
Past midnight, lights low but not off, not the way Stellan and I had found our way around the dark because lowering the blinds would have made this feel like a cage.
How very fucking symbolic.
“So,” Mom said gently. “Tell us about her?”
Right, okay. Time to jump straight into the deep end. To open this box I’d kept tightly shut for years, no way back.
I tipped up my chin and tried for a casual shrug. “Him, actually.”
A silent beat passed, thudding fast behind my ribs. Dad’s head lifted slightly. Mom’s eyes narrowed in thought, like she was sorting old pieces into a new frame.
“Him,” she said then, with a small nod. Her hand reached out to skim the back of mine. “So, tell us about him.”
Dad stayed quiet, just topped up my wine even though I didn’t need more. And—yes. That. That nearly did me in.
I gripped the stem of my glass and tried to keep breathing. “It wasn’t meant to be anything,” I said. “That was kind of the point. Just casual, right? I mean, look at my life.”
“Doesn’t mean you don’t deserve something real,” Mom told me, a little firmer than before, and that… I just—
Deserve.
The word hadn’t even occurred to me.
I took a sip of wine, blinked a little too quickly. “Yeah, well. Maybe. But—anyway. He’s out. Not loud about it, just… honest. Comfortable with himself.”
Mom’s face softened at that, as if she’d heard the part I hadn’t said. Unlike me.
“He knew about me,” I continued, words coming more easily now. “So that made him safe, weirdly, and I thought maybe I could just—”
Have all the benefits at none of the cost.
“I thought maybe I could have part of it,” I said instead.
“Without pulling the rest of my life apart. He’s the first guy who ever made that feel possible.
” Stupid. So fucking stupid. “It started off messy, and then it became… more. He’d stay over, and I wanted him here because we were—” Oh, God. “We were good together. Really good.”
“That’s what matters,” Mom said, voice low. “That’s the whole point.”
I sucked in a breath. “Yeah. Thing is, right now, I can’t really give him a place in my life that’s fair. And he knew that. I did, too.” My laugh came out rough, like I’d dragged it over gravel. “Didn’t stop him from falling in love, though. Didn’t stop me either.”
“Sweetheart.” Mom shook her head, eyes damp. “I’m sorry, darling. Not because of who you love—that doesn’t matter to us. You’re our son.” She paused while I swallowed tears, head ducked. “I’m sorry it’s made things harder for you. One more thing you have to carry.”
I looked away, at dark windows and a hint of Seattle’s nighttime glow blending with my own reflection faint in the glass. “Yeah,” I said. “Turns out it was all a little much.”
Dad cleared his throat. “What’s his name?”
Simple question, but it made my throat go tight. “Stellan.”
“Stellan,” Mom repeated, quiet. “He sounds good. The way you’re talking about him—it’s different from Talia. From anyone before, really.”
Stellan—fuck. He was good. Quick and bright, able to make a room feel warmer the moment he stepped truly into it. He made morning coffee taste like ritual, a blazer sound like something that could change a life. He could tease and still see me, all in the same breath.
“I didn’t love them,” I said. “But him? Yeah.”
There it was, then.
Dad leaned his elbow on the island. “And he’d need you to come out in public?”