“Appreciate it.” He grinned, heading back that way. “I don’t want to walk onto the set and stink.”
Shaking my head, I sighed. The set. An underpaid camera man at a bad studio in Queens that produced nothing but stilted news and cheap, air-able smut for cishet men who were stuck in the throws of toxic masculinity.
I wondered if they even knew that Jace was gay.
I hoped not, for his sake.
Just as I was about to retreat to my new bedroom, my phone rang in my pocket. Confused, I pulled it out and twisted my lips when I saw the name on the front.
Beth Garcia (Mom)
Tonight was not the night for this, and it took all I had not to swipe and send her to voice mail.
Swipe to answer. “Hello?”
“Chase, is that you?”
“Hi, Mom.” I hoped the grimace I was making didn’t sound through the phone.
“Hon, you know it’s your dad’s birthday this weekend.”
“Yeah, I know.” I sighed.
“Did you book your ticket?”
“I’m not coming.”
“Chase—”
“Every year, Mom. For twelve years. You try to get me to go back there and every year I tell you no. I don’t go to Bumblefuck, Indiana for any reason. At all. Not Christmas, not Arbor Day, not even my father’s sixty-fifth birthday. I’m not welcome, and I’m not going to impose myself on people who don’t want to be seen around the town faggot. So. No, I haven’t booked my ticket. I’ll send a fruit cake.”
“Chase Martin. You have a shitty attitude.”
The laughter boiled out of me, and I was unable—well, maybe unwilling—to stop it. “A broken zygomatic bone, a sprained shoulder, and busted steamer trunk on the way out the door makes me think that just maybe it’s notmyattitude that’s shitty.”
“Your brother—”
“Was the one who threw me out the door onto my steamer trunk while Auntie Maude was icing Hank’s knuckles from breaking my eye socket! Give me a break, Mom. Just do everyone a favor and forget my number, okay? Send an email. That way I can ignore you at my leisure and you can still feel like you’re trying.”
“Chase—”
I swiped the connection closed. I missed angry hang ups from when I was kid. I realized I was unconsciously running a finger over the tiny scar next to my eye.
Taking a deep breath, I tried to center myself. I wasn’t going home, I wasn’t going to be guilted into going home. I left the day after I turned eighteen and who I was before was relegated to the shelf in the living room. Bedroom.
I was better than just being the Bumblefuck faggot.
I heard the shower go on, and I let out a breath. I had friends who needed me and wanted me around.
With a final, firm nod, I walked into to the kitchen to do—just about anything with my hands.
MARCUS
THE IDEA HIT MEOUT OF THE BLUE.I snapped my head up and grinned at the screen I had been staring at too long.
A baseball game.
I owed Chaseso muchafter taking care of Pollux for me, and having ditched him completely. He rearranged his house to accommodate Pollux, and I had to back out.
