Reap the Whirlwind - 2. Chapter 2

I lay awake for hours in my bed that night, staring at the ceiling, my childhood bedroom lit only by moonlight. My mind refused to turn off. So much had happened in one day — too much for my brain to absorb so quickly. I replayed snippets of conversation from the day over and over, like a slideshow on constant rotation.

Joey: "You should move out..."

Beth: "Joey always comes first..."

Mackenzie: "We've only been going out for two weeks..."

Laura: "Why wasn't I ever good enough for you..."

Joey: "We're growing up...things change..."

Things changed, all right. I knew that logically. But I didn't have to like it. I especially didn't have to like the way things were changing for me. Didn't I get any say in any of this?

There were two conversations that I wasn't sure what to think of. The first was with Aidan when I asked if he still wanted me to be his roommate. In my mind, at least, that was far from certain after my horrible behavior, but he'd acted as if nothing had happened. If anything, he seemed excited.

I knew my parents would be the opposite of excited when I told them. They tended to be a little over-protective. I was an only child, and my father was a rather conservative Southern Baptist pastor. We'd been close when I was younger, but we'd grown apart as I'd aged. When his longtime secretary quit the year before, and he asked me to take over, I think he'd seen it as a chance for us to get closer, but that hadn't really happened. I was pretty sure he was harboring some hope that I'd follow in his footsteps, but that wasn't happening either.

Dad blamed our strained relationship on my friendship with Joey, insisting he was a bad influence, mostly because he was. Joey attended church with me occasionally when we were little kids, but quit by the time we were in middle school, insisting it was a bunch of baloney used to control weak minds. Every time I'd ever cut class or ditched school or did anything remotely rebellious, it was entirely Joey's doing. I was, by nature, a bit of a rule follower.

Despite all that, the truth was that if there was any blame to be had, it was probably more on my father. He was never around, spending almost all of his waking hours working, either at the church office or visiting parishioners or who knows what else. We never did typical father-son activities — never played baseball or went fishing. I saw him in the pulpit every Sunday and at prayer meetings on Wednesdays and several times a week for dinner, and that was about it. There were people who attended my church who seemed closer to my dad than I felt. Maybe some of that was on me, I could have tried harder or something, but overall, I felt like it was the dad's job to be there for their kids, not the other way around.

Somehow, though, he still managed to take up a lot of space at home, even with his absence. He may have not been there physically, but his rules were still in play — and he had a lot of rules, from what TV shows we were allowed to watch, to what music I could listen to, even who my friends were. I think the only reason he allowed me to remain friends with a hell-raiser like Joey, besides the fact that we were inseparable, was because he hoped Joey's utter "boyness" would rub off on me. My father always seemed slightly disappointed that I wasn't more of a guy's guy. I was too sensitive, too artistic, too soft, too much of a mama's boy.

Of course, I was a mama's boy. She practically raised me alone, albeit with his influence coloring every decision. His child-rearing philosophies tended to be a bit old-fashioned, and Mom was more than capable of carrying them out to the letter of the law. That said, she was at least willing to consider the spirit of the law. She definitely looked the other way when she could, or would "forget" to tell my father about my infractions whenever possible.

They were both overprotective, and I knew they wouldn't react well to my announcement that I was moving out. I could already hear their response when I told them: "You're doing what? We don't even know this young man! Does he go to church? Does he do drugs?"

The truth was I didn't know. I didn't really know anything about Aidan except that his dad was dead. But Joey had said he was a good guy, and I instinctively liked him. I generally trusted my instincts. He was funny, nice, and he'd seemed genuinely happy that I was moving in. We'd made arrangements for me to start moving some time later that week.

All I had to do was figure out how to tell Mom and Dad.

The other conversation I was uncertain about was Laura's question down by the river and all that it implied. I'd been trying to avoid thinking about it all night, but my mind kept going back to it anyway. It was like having an ulcer in your mouth. Even though it hurts, you just can't keep your tongue away from it. No matter how I tried to distract myself I always ended up in the same place.

Was I in love with Joey?

The idea was preposterous...wasn't it? That would mean I was gay. That, of course, was impossible. Right?

My rhetorical questions went unanswered, even in my own mind. No one jumped to my defense; no one rushed to reassure me of my heterosexuality. It was just me and my thoughts, and they refused to leave me alone.

I'd been raised in the church. All my life I'd heard that homosexuality was wrong, that it was unnatural and against God's law. I couldn't be gay, I just couldn't! I worked at the church. My dad was the pastor. There was just no way I could be gay!

Then why wouldn't Laura's question stop haunting me?

Finally, in frustration I threw back the sheets and jumped out of bed. If I couldn't fall asleep, then I'd find something to physically distract myself. I turned on the light and rummaged through my closet until I found what I was looking for

I flipped through my old sketchbooks until I came to a charcoal drawing I'd done for a school art class. It was supposed to be a study for a painting, but I'd abandoned it in favor of another project I'd been working on at the time. What better time to return to it than the wee hours of the morning?

The assignment was to draw a landscape that was symbolic of where we were in our lives at that time. I'd sketched out the rough shape of a beach scene from one of my favorite places on earth: Assateague Island, a beautiful barrier island that straddles Maryland and Virginia. It's mostly protected park land, home to feral herds of small, shaggy horses, beautiful beaches, and abundant wildlife. It even boasts its own scenic red-and-white-striped lighthouse on the Virginia side of the island.

The scene I'd sketched was simple, though — just the suggestion of a dune with a sand fence tracing its way across it, dune grass, and a wave breaking on the beach. Faint footprints disappeared into the distance. At the time, I'd thought it was too generic, and it was, but I had an idea for how to develop it.

I cleared off the top surface of my worktable, turned on the adjustable lamp, and dropped the sketchbook into the pool of warm light. The table was arranged under the wide double windows to catch as much natural light as possible, but natural light wasn't an option at two in the morning. I stared at the sketch for a few minutes.

I picked up a stick of charcoal and started changing a few small details. I darkened the sky, starting at the top and slowly getting lighter as I neared the horizon. Then I drew over the grass, making it look as if it were blown violently in the wind, bent almost parallel to the ground. I lifted out a streak of lightning over the waves.

The foreboding storm definitely matched my mood, I thought, but it still needed something. With a flash of inspiration, I added a black funnel cloud dropping down from the sky to touch down where the footprints and the horizon converged.

I sat back and studied the drawing. The tornado really represented the way I felt like everything in my life was veering out of control, but something was still missing.

Then, I knew what it needed. There was nothing affected by the storm, just an empty beach. It needed life.

But what kind of life?

I thought of several ideas and discarded each almost as quickly as it came to me. The stocky little ponies were too sturdy to represent how I felt. The diminutive sika deer were too delicate and exotic. A bird was too free. I needed something inconsequential, something most people never thought twice about.

I glanced over at the window and froze. Plastered to the windowpane was a small, bright green tree frog. He was perfect.

I quickly added the little frog into the sketch, drawing him clinging tightly to a stalk of the coarse beach grass.

With a contented sigh, I sat back and admired my work. I was happy with it, but I was still wide-awake. I decided the sketch would make a great painting and there was no better time than the present to get started.

My painting supplies were already scattered around, so I began the tedious process of transferring the drawing onto watercolor paper. I carefully outlined my drawing on tracing paper so that the end product looked like a coloring book outline. Then, using graphite transfer paper, I copied the lines I had traced onto the watercolor paper. A long process, but one that I felt necessary for a good, clean image with no eraser marks or mistakes on my finished painting.

Next, I masked out the areas I wanted to stay white or lighter, and, when that was dry, I began to layer in translucent colors. I started with broad washes for the sky, the water, and the beach, then came back in with darker colors, slowly building the details.

I saved the frog for last, really taking my time to blend each element until it almost looked like he could jump off the paper.

By the time I was done, the sun was just starting to break over the horizon. I stepped back to admire the painting and had to admit that it was probably one of my favorite pieces ever. And best of all, it had accomplished its purpose as well. I was completely exhausted.

I took the time to clean my brushes, then dropped into bed, where I fell asleep almost immediately.

My alarm went off about two hours later. With a groan, I rolled over and turned it off. I wanted to just go back to sleep so badly, but it was Sunday. The last thing I wanted to do right then was go to church, but when your dad is the pastor it's not exactly an option, at least not as long as I lived at home.

I dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom. Maybe I'd feel better after a shower. I started the water, and, as I turned to get a towel, caught my reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the door.

There I was in all my glory, wearing only a baggy pair of boxers that sat low on my bony hips — short, skinny, and pale, with a black charcoal smudge across my nose and matching circles around my eyes. I looked like I was fifteen at the most, and a sickly fifteen-year-old at that. Instead of painting a beach, I looked like I should be going to the seaside to take in the salt air for my consumption.

I stuck my tongue out at my reflection and turned away from the disappointing image.

I did not, in fact, feel better after my shower. I didn't feel better after I ate breakfast, or after I drank a cup of coffee — which I hate and usually never drink — or even after I got to church. I somehow managed to get through the morning, although I'm pretty sure I dozed off a few times during the sermon.

I was feeling pretty self-satisfied as I drove home, but it turned out to be the afternoon that I should have been worried about.

It never would have happened if I hadn't been so tired, if I'd had all my wits about me. But I was tired and I didn't have all my wits about me, and when Dad started in on me about leaving my room in such a mess that morning, I snapped.

"You won't have to worry about it after this week," I said before I could stop myself. I knew as soon as the words left my mouth that I'd messed up, but it was too late.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked sharply as Mom froze on her way out of the room.

I tried to think of a plausible lie, but I was so tired I just wasn't up to the effort. I always was a lousy liar anyway.

"I'm moving out this week," I mumbled finally.

Mom slowly turned around with an odd, fixed expression on her face. Meanwhile, Dad looked as if I'd kicked him.

"What did you say?" Mom asked in a falsely cheery voice, as if she must have misunderstood and thought that it was going to be a funny story to tell the deacon chairman's wife the next time she talked to her.

What could I say? Just kidding? It was too late to turn back now. I took a deep breath. "I'm moving out this week," I said firmly.

For a long time, no one spoke. I realized I was holding my breath and let it out in a loud whoosh.

"Where are you planning on living?" Dad said slowly.

"An apartment. It's down by the river in this cool old renovated warehouse."

"That area is so dangerous!" Mom said.

"Not anymore, Mom," I whined. "They've fixed it all up."

"And how do you intend to pay for that?" Dad asked tersely.

"I'll have a roommate?"

Dad's eyes narrowed. "Who?"

"A friend of Joey's from college."

"Do we know him?" Mom asked, then a panicked look crossed her face. "He is a boy, isn't he? Oh Will, don't tell me you're moving in with a girl!"

"No, calm down, Mom. He's a guy, and you don't know him. I only met him last night. He seems very nice. His name is Aidan. He said I'll only have to pay a third of the rent because I'll have a smaller room..." I faded out under Dad's glare.

"Will, I don't approve," he said ominously.

Big surprise, I thought, but caught myself just in time from saying.

"I'm eighteen," I said instead, in what I hoped was a reasonable tone of voice. "It's time I moved out. If I'd gone to college I would have left already. At least I'll be in the same town."

"What did you say this boy's name is?" Mom asked.

"Aidan..." I realized I couldn't remember his last name. "Aidan."

"Aidan Aidan?"

"No, Aidan something, I can't remember his last name," I admitted sheepishly.

"You're not moving anywhere," Dad said, as if that settled everything.

I clenched my jaw and counted to ten.

"Actually, Dad, I am," I insisted. "Aidan is going to help me move later this week. I'll still be working at the church, so it's not like you'll never see me."

Dad threw up his hands and stood up. "I think you're making a huge mistake. The real world is very different from living here at home. You'll be exposed to temptations and lifestyles that are ungodly, and you won't have us to take care of you."

"You can't take care of me forever. Don't you think it's time for me to start growing up?"

"If you're in such a rush to grow up, fine. You can do this on your own. You won't get any support from your mother and I. Not a dime. But mark my word, you'll come crawling back." He stalked angrily out of the room.

Mom stared after him for a minute, then turned back to me. "Just know this will always be your home and you can come back whenever you want," she said before rushing out after him.

Over my dead body, I thought. I would never give him the satisfaction of returning.

I went upstairs to my room and slept for the rest of the afternoon. When I woke up that evening, I started packing. Staying busy kept my mind out of areas I wasn't ready for it to go and reinforced my decision. Putting things into boxes made it all seem more real. Everywhere I looked, though, something made my thoughts skitter right back to the forbidden place: a love note from Beth, one of Joey's outgrown t-shirts in my closet, a Polaroid picture of Joey, Laura, and me with our arms thrown around each other's necks.

Joey called once, but I ignored the call. When Laura called, I tried the same ploy, but I should have known she wouldn't be put off so easily. After two more missed calls, she appeared in my doorway.

"Hey," she said softly as her eyes swept over the mess in my room. I'd pulled everything out of my closet, and it sat in haphazard piles all around me.

"I'm busy," I said, keeping my eyes carefully averted to avoid her probing look.

"So I see. You wouldn't talk to me on the phone, and I know what that means. You're pouting."

"I am not!"

"Fine, then you're avoiding me, and you should know better than to avoid me. I figured I'd corner you in your lair, but didn't expect for it to look like a thrift store exploded. Need a hand?"

"I've got it," I said.

"Are you okay, Will?"

"I'm fine. I just have a lot to do."

"Are you really okay? Look at me and tell me you're okay."

"I said I was fine, didn't I?" I snapped, still not looking at her.

"I know what you said, but I also know when you are lying to me."

"Everybody thinks they know me so well."

"For someone who is so transparent with their emotions you do a pretty damn good job of keeping people away. What are you so scared of, Will?"

"I'm not scared of anything. Look, I've got a lot of packing to do. If you're not going to help, why don't you just go home? And standing in the door psychoanalyzing me is not helping. All you are doing is pissing me off."

"I noticed. I'm sorry. I'm also sorry if what I said last night upset you. It just seemed like it needed to be said."

I didn't answer, just kept on shoving things into the box in front of me. She waited a few beats, then sighed and started picking her way carefully around the room.

"Wow, this is good, Will," she said after a moment.

I glanced up to see she'd worked her way over to my work table and picked up the painting I had done the night before.

"Thanks," I mumbled, quickly turning my attention back to my packing.

"It's really different for you. Very moody. Does it represent something?"

"Sort of," I admitted reluctantly.

"It's beautiful and...I don't know, strangely disturbing, somehow."

"Gee, thanks."

"No, it's a compliment. What's it mean?"

"It's my life right now; dark, stormy and out of control."

"So you're the frog?"

"I guess you could say that."

She suddenly went quiet. I sensed that her attention had shifted from the painting to something else. I heard the bed creak as she sat down on the edge. Still, she didn't say a word.

Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore, so I turned to see what she was doing. She was holding the picture of the three of us that I'd found earlier, staring at it as if it held the secrets of the universe.

"Do you remember when this was taken?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah, that's the summer we all went to Busch Gardens. We were what? Fourteen?"

"Yeah, that was the summer I realized that you'd never love me the way I wanted you to. You spent the whole vacation following Joey around like a lovesick puppy dog, and I followed you. I might as well have not even been there."

Somehow, everything led back to Joey. We'd come full circle. Why did things have to be so complicated all of a sudden?

"What do you see?" she asked, holding the picture out to me.

"What do you mean?"

"Look at it."

"I am. What exactly am I looking for?"

"Take it. Look at us. What do you see?"

I took the photo and looked closer. I was in the center with Joey on my right and Laura on my left. Joey's head was thrown back slightly as he laughed at some joke, almost certainly his own and probably something inappropriate, knowing him. His eyes were locked with the camera in a typical Joey expression of confidence and maybe just a little challenge. He was always challenging something.

It took me a few seconds to figure out what Laura was talking about, but then it clicked.

"You see it, don't you?" she whispered.

I nodded.

"You have to deal with it, Will, for your own sake."

She stood up, patted me on the head, and left.

I sat looking at the picture for a long time before I turned the lights out and went to bed, but even as I drifted off to sleep, the image in the image seemed to be burned into my retina. I could still see it on the inside of my eyelids.

Joey was the only one who seemed conscious of the camera, oblivious to everything else but his own posing.The rest of us lesser beings were too caught up in our objects of desire. Laura's gaze was fixed longingly on me, but all my attention was focused solely on Joey, a look of complete adoration in my eyes.

I avoided so much as even thinking about Laura and Joey for the rest of the week. It wasn't that hard. They were in school and I was at work during the day and busy moving at night.

Aidan came over several times in his beat-up Ford pickup and, under Dad's disapproving gaze, we'd moved a few boxes at a time. He was very polite and, under different circumstances, probably would have made a good impression on my parents. I could tell he was charming Mom, at least. Dad wore a permanent frown and barely spoke two words to him the entire time.

Friday night, Aidan came over, and we loaded up the last of my furniture. After we loaded that into the new place, I made one more trip to get the last few odds and ends in my car.

On my return, Aidan threw open the door dramatically before I could even knock.

"Welcome home!" he said with a grin, complete with dimples.

I smiled back and pushed past him; the box was starting to get heavy. "I guess this is home now, huh?" I said and laughed. I couldn't believe how excited I was...and a little nervous.

"Yep. Home is where the heart is or something like that," he said as he followed me down the hall to my room.

"Does that mean my heart is here now?" I sat the box on top of a pile of even more boxes. We'd slowly cleared out his stuff during the week, replacing them with mine.

"I sure hope so. The rest of you is here. Although..."

"Although what?" I asked as I rummaged around, searching for the box cutter I knew I'd seen earlier.

"Sometimes, I get the impression that your heart is somewhere else."

I looked up sharply, but he was busy opening up one of my boxes with the box cutter I'd been looking for. I decided to let his remark go without comment.

We spent the next hour or so unpacking enough of my stuff that I could at least sleep there that night.

"Hey, Will?" Aidan asked hesitantly after a while.

Something in his voice made me put down the box I was poking around in and give him my full attention. A slightly concerned expression clouded his green eyes. "Yeah?" I asked carefully.

"I have something I need to tell you, and I guess I should have said something sooner, like before you moved in and all, but..."

"Please tell me it's just that you wear colored contact lenses," I said with a forced smile.

"Huh?"

"It's just that your eyes are so green... Oh, never mind."

"My eyes? They're natural." He still seemed confused as if he couldn't quite figure out how we'd started talking about his eyes. "Look, can we maybe sit down to talk?"

Oh no, you never had to sit down to talk about something good. My feeling of unease heightened. What was he going to tell me? Was he from a mob family? Was that why he could afford this apartment? He did say he was from a big family.

I sat down heavily on the bed.

Aidan looked around uncomfortably. "Uh, I was thinking more like the living room."

"Oh," I said weakly and followed him down the hall.

I sat on the couch. He took the recliner, sitting on the edge of the seat as if he might bolt at any second. His body language certainly wasn't putting me at ease.

He blinked at me for several long seconds, then stood up and began to pace, as I grew more and more nervous.

"I don't know how to say this," he said finally, "so I'm just going to say it and let whatever happens happen. Will...I'm gay." He stopped pacing and looked at me anxiously.

I waited for the punchline. When it became apparent that it wasn't coming, I stood up and walked to the windows.

"Did Laura set you up to do this?"

"Laura? What does she have to do with this?"

"Did she?"

"No, she doesn't even know."

"Does Joey know?"

"No, no one down here knows yet. You're the first person I've told since I moved. Well, my cousin knows, but he doesn't live in town and he's still in high school. I only told you because, well...I thought you should know since we're going to be living together and all."

"You should have told me before," I managed. My voice was tight.

I was desperately trying to stay calm, but my delicate façade was dangerously close to crumbling. I couldn't believe this was happening right now, when I was so confused about myself. I'd avoided thinking about it all week, and there I was, slapped upside the head with the same issue from a direction I'd never even suspected.

"You're right. I should have told you earlier, and I'm sorry. It's... It's really scary to tell people. You never know how someone will react. And you don't want people to hate you, especially someone you like, you know? But, I mean, it's not going to change anything, right? It's not like I'm going to hit on you or anything. I'm still the same person I was before. It's just...now you know a little more about me."

"A little more than I wanted to know," I snapped, and regretted it immediately. I could see the hurt written all over his face, even in his reflection in the window. "I'm sorry, Aidan." I sighed as I finally turned to face him. "I didn't mean that. It just...you just caught me by surprise. You're probably regretting that you even asked me to move in. The first time you met me I acted like a rude jerk and stormed out like a brat, and now, my first night here, I freak out because you try to be honest with me."

He gave me a lopsided smile, a weak shadow of his usual luminous, double-dimpled grins but more than I could have managed in his place. "Hey, you were having a bad day that first time, remember? And, as far as tonight goes, well...I would have to go through something like this with whoever moved in. It could have gone worse. You haven't thrown anything at me. To be honest, you've taken it better than most people I've told."

I sat back down. "I thought you said I was the only person you've told besides your cousin."

"Down here. I came out to pretty much everyone at once back home. I grew up in a pretty rural area, very conservative and trumpy. They don't call it Pennsyltucky for nothing. Most of my friends didn't take it well. I didn't know that it's better to come out gradually, and I didn't have a support system built up yet, so it was pretty rough. The people who would have supported me were too shocked to be much comfort when I needed it. That was when I made up my mind to transfer down here. I would have never got through the rest of last year if it hadn't been for my Aunt Meg. She was my rock through everything."

"What happened?"

"Well, some people just stopped having anything to do with me, and honestly, that hurt, but those were kind of the best-case scenarios. Some people felt it was their duty to go out of their way to tell me how they felt about 'alternative lifestyles.' A few were really nasty about it. But Aunt Meg's son is gay — that's my cousin who lives down here — so she had my back, and really helped my Mom understand. She's the one who suggested that maybe this would be a better area for me. I was already looking at Pemberton, that just cemented the decision."

We fell silent for a moment, until he asked, "Does it bother you?"

"That you're gay?" I thought for a moment. "No, it doesn't bother me," I said, and I meant it. "It just adds to something I was already dealing with."

"You want to explain that?"

"No, not really. Not yet anyway. I've still got a lot to figure out."

He gave me a suspicious look but didn't push the issue. "Well, if you change your mind, I'm here for you."

"So, uh...how did you know?" I asked, partly to divert his attention back to himself and partly because I honestly wanted to know.

"Actually, my cousin helped me. He came out about a year ago. He's two years younger than me, but he just seems to have everything together. He has a really sweet boyfriend who he's crazy about and who's just as crazy about him. And his family is like...dream family. When I came down for Thanksgiving last year, I saw how happy he was, how completely and unapologetically himself he was, and I realized that I desperately wanted that too."

I nodded thoughtfully. "So you just knew you were gay?"

"Let's just say I had a strong suspicion. Anyway, I asked him the same thing you just asked me. He may be younger than me, but he's, like, wise beyond his years. He said, 'Either you are or you aren't. You just know. You either like girls or you like guys.' Or, I guess, sometimes both,or maybe neither, but when you boil it down like that, it was pretty obvious, for me, anyway."

I nodded again, lost in my own memories of Joey. I didn't like where I was going with that train of thought. Aidan said something else, but I didn't catch it since I was so distracted. I realized he was waiting for me to say something.

"Huh?" I said wittily.

"I said, 'Do you want to see a picture of my cousin and his boyfriend.'"

"Oh. Um, sure."

Aidan pulled out his phone and flipped through his photos, then held out his phone for me to take. I glanced down. It was a selfie of Aidan with two guys, one a white kid with wavy blond hair and bright blue eyes and the other was black with a halo of dark, loose curls framing his handsome face. They were laughing in front of a Christmas tree.

I mustered up a smile. "They look happy together."

Aidan grinned. "Yeah. They're awesome. Do you recognize him?"

"Who?"

"Killian."

"Which one is Killian?"

"The blond."

I took a closer look. He didn't look familiar. "Should I?"

"You haven't seen him on TV?"

"TV? Why would he be on TV? Is he like an actor or something?"

Aidan laughed. "No, but to hear him and Asher tell it, you'd think he was some kind of celebrity around here. Killian's friend, Seth, was murdered last year, and Killian investigated it and caught the killer."

"Oh, wait! I think I do remember that now. Didn't the murderer end up killing a bunch of other people too? But then the kid, I guess your cousin, saved another kid from a fire or something?"

"Yeah. I don't know all the details but he was all over the news and was like some kind of local hero."

"Yeah, I saw that, but I would have never recognized him. That was a while ago. But it's pretty cool that he's your cousin. Maybe I'll get to meet this celebrity some time."

"Actually, you might get to meet him tomorrow. He and Asher are dying to see the new place and meet the roommate, so I invited them to come over tomorrow. They might even stay the night, kind of like a slumber party. If that's okay with you, I mean."

"They want to meet me?"

Aidan actually blushed a little. It was nice not to be the one doing the blushing for a change. "I, uh, I mean... I guess maybe I've, um, talked about you. A lot. I was pretty excited about you moving in. But, yeah, I probably should have checked with you first. You just moved in and everything. Maybe you're not ready for guests—"

"Hey, it's your apartment."

"No, it's our apartment now. I can totally postpone their visit. I don't know what I was thinking."

"No, it's okay. Don't postpone. It's fine. As long as they don't want to see my bedroom, because I doubt I'll be finished unpacking by then." I laughed.

He started talking about stuff we could do while they were here, but my mind had already drifted to thinking about how I'd gone from not knowing any gay people to living with a gay guy who had a gay cousin who'd be hanging around our apartment.

Dad would flip if he found out.

And what about me?

That was a question I still wasn't ready to face. One thing was clear, however — living with Aidan was going to make it a lot harder to ignore.