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 aboutsomeday—and how impossibly far away it feels.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Troy
Isitontheedge of the pier with my heels knocking lightly against the metal, watching the waves roll in steady, restless lines. The concrete beneath me is warm from the sun, heat seeping through the denim of my jeans. The August humidity presses down on my shoulders, damp air that clings to my skin and sticks my T-shirt between my shoulder blades.
Kids shriek at the shoreline, letting the foam chase their ankles before darting away again. Teenagers cluster in loud, suntanned groups, tossing volleyballs, blasting music from portable speakers, trying to wring every last drop out of summer before school returns in a few weeks. A couple of little girls dig an ambitious moat around a sandcastle already slumping on one side.
Life goes on.
At the end of the pier, the red lighthouse towers overhead, paint bright against the blue sky. Gulls perch along the railing and on the lighthouse roof, beady eyes scanning the water. One lets out a sharp cry, the sound swallowed by wind and waves.
This place is neutral territory. I told Ashton we needed to meet in public. Out here, with families sprawled across the sand and tourists drifting up and down the pier, neither of us can afford to let things escalate.
I scrub a hand over my jaw and stare at the rippling water below my boots.
Last night got too heated, but I don’t regret what I said.
I won’t lie about who I am just to fit the mold Ashton’s parents want to squeeze me into. I won’t make myself smaller to make his life easier. And I sure as hell won’t sit back and let his father talk shit about the man I—
The man I love.
The words settle into my chest with surprising ease. I blink at the water, waiting for panic to follow. For that familiar spike of fear. For the instinct to backpedal.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead, something quiet and steady unfurls beneath my ribs.
I love Ashton.
I love the way his green eyes light up when he talks about cherries. I love how fiercely he cares about his family—even when they don’t always deserve that loyalty. I love the version of him I get when we’re alone: soft and vulnerable, a little needy in a way he’d hate admitting. The way he leans into my touch. The way praise makes his cheeks flush pink, his eyes going warm and glassy.
I exhale slowly.
Christ. He has me completely undone—wrapped tight around his finger—and he doesn’t even realize it.
A gull swoops low over the lake, wings skimming the surface before lifting again. The lighthouse behind me casts a long shadow down the pier, nearly brushing my feet. People wander past in flip-flops and swimsuits, pausing for selfies with the endless blue stretch of Lake Michigan behind them.
