Boom. There it is.
I don’t say anything right away. There’s no good way to cushion his name in this house, and definitely not coming from me. Mom starts fussing with the napkins, suddenly very interested in folding them into tight little triangles.
“I didn’t realize you two kept in touch,” Dad says, his voice clipped.
“We hadn’t,” I say quietly.
His jaw ticks. “Mm.”
That’s all. One syllable that lands heavier than a slammed door.
The thing is, Dad neverknewRowan. He knew the street he grew up on. The father who drank away his paychecks and the porch that sagged. That was enough. In Dad’s eyes, guilt by association came prepackaged with the Wolfe name. No second chances. Just inherited failure, and I was a disappointment for going anywhere near him.
I shift in my seat. “It was just dinner.”
Rowan never deserved the blame people tried to pin on him. Not when he was just a boy with too much weight on his shoulders, standing tall anyway. A boy who never once asked for pity, only space to breathe.
Yet here we are. Mom’s pretending she didn’t hear a word, Whitley’s reaching for the wine like her life depends on it, and Ethan’s gone strangely, eerily quiet.
So I smile. “Can we not do this tonight?”
Dad picks up his fork again, the sharp scrape of metal against his plate the only response. Subject’s closed. For now.
I shouldn’t let his tone get to me. I’m not fifteen anymore, sneaking out the back door to sit on Rowan’s tailgate, heartsickand stupidly hopeful for just a few more minutes of his company. I’m twenty-four now. I pay my own bills, fix my own leaky faucets, and I’m building something I’m proud of with my own two hands.
But he says Wolfe like it’s a slur. Like Rowan is justthat boy from the trailer park. God, I could scream,but I know how that ends. With silence and tight smiles and Mom asking if I want to take home leftovers as if that’ll fix anything.
So, instead, I swallow a too-big bite, chase it with my wine, and act like I’m not swallowing down a decade of resentment and heartbreak.
“So,” Ethan announces loudly, setting his glass down with a dramatic clink, “I have news.”
Dad looks up, grateful for the change of subject. “Another account?”
“No, Dad. I’m gay.” Ethan says it with such casualness that I almost choke. “Been meaning to tell you all. Again.”
I smirk. I know what Ethan is doing, and I love him to death for it. No, this isn’t news to any of us, but he’s doing it to pull the negative attention away from me.
“Super gay,” Ethan continues, leaning back in his chair with a mischievous grin. “Just thought Sunday dinner needed that reminder.”
Whitley snorts. “Breaking news—water is wet.”
Dad sighs, clearly not taking the bait. Mom’s lips twitch into a smile she’s trying to hide behind her napkin. “Ethan, you know we love you just as you are. You can’t keep using that as a conversation starter every time things get tense.”
“Watch me,” he says, stabbing a piece of roast beef with flair. “It’s very effective.”
“Speaking of effective,” Whitley jumps in, clearly sensing an opportunity to keep steering us away from dangerous waters, “I need to know if you’re bringing anyone to the fundraiser, Ethan. For seating charts.”
“Maybe. There’s this guy?—”
“Name?” Mom asks, perking up the way she always does when there’s potential romance in the air.
“Marcus. He’s a lawyer.”
The word “lawyer” is a magic spell, temporarily dispelling the tension. I can practically see Dad’s mental calculations—gay son with a respectable lawyer boyfriend outranks the vet tech daughter who associates with the wrong side of town.
I catch Ethan’s eye and mouth a silentthank youacross the table. He winks back.
The conversation shifts to safer topics. Mom’s garden club drama, Dad’s golf game, Ethan’s latest business trip.
