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“Let me break it down for you,” I try again, feeling lighter than I ever have. “I like Salem. I also like Devon. My attraction isn't divided, it’s just… different. For once in my life, I’m not going to apologize for who I am or who I want to be with.”

Dad opens his mouth again, and I brace for some kind of hellfire sermon or exorcism—but what comes out instead is surprisingly soft.

“We never meant to make you feel like you had to hide from us.”

“Well,” I breathe, reclining onto my back with a painful groan, “you did.” They both flinch. “But you can start making it right by not forcing me to be someone else anymore. And you need to make things right with Dev. He didn't deserve to live through the consequences of your actions.”

No one's child does. And yet, we're often the universe's punching bag when parents make mistakes—sins of the father, and all that. Salem not wanting kids is starting to make a hell of a lot of sense now.

Guilt flashes over Dad’s face, followed by bone-deep sorrow. He nods slowly. “We can try.”

Mom looks like she wants to argue, but the fight is gone, replaced by something hollow. Maybe realization or regret. Either way, I don't have the energy to comfort her through it.

“I'm exhausted.” I glance at the door, my voice cracking as I add, “Can you send Devon back in?”

Mom hesitates, then leaves the room without looking at me. Dad pats my leg and follows, leaving me alone with nothing more than the steady beep of the monitor and the words we exchanged buzzing around my head.

I don’t know if anything I said will get through to them. Maybe nothing will, but for the first time ever, I feel like I said the right thing—and not just to make them happy, but to make me happy. I'm finally going to live my life the way I want, without letting fear hold me back. I already died once, so what the hell else can be worse than that?

Now I just need to find Salem so that she can live it with me.

Chapter

Forty-Four

Devon

Fuck. Them.

Fuck their excuses, and fuck the half-assed apology that came decades too late.

I grip the armrest of my chair in the hallway until my knuckles turn white, attempting to breathe through the nausea curling in my gut. The fluorescent light overhead flickers, humming in that same annoying pitch that my father's—grandfather’s—voice used to hit when he'd recite scripture at me through gritted teeth. I can still feel the phantom pains in my knees from when he'd make me kneel on gravel for hours while he "prayed the gay away.”

Dropping my head into my hands, I grip my hair hard and try to banish those memories. My fingers twitch for a cigarette despite the ache in my lungs. Logan’s conversation with our parents replays through my mind.

“You were a second chance.”

“We didn't know it was that bad.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have been listening at the door, but I don't give a shit. What a fucking joke. So I guess that makes me the embarrassment, right? The mistake? They chose him, but I was just an extra line on a pregnancy test that threatened their perfect little Christian values.

The overhead light buzzes again, emitting a high-pitched whine that slices right through my already frayed nerves. My leg bounces uncontrollably as my palms dampen. I feel like I'm vibrating out of my own skin. If it weren't for the fact that I have nowhere to go and no ride to get me there, I'd be long fucking gone.

The door to Logan's room finally creaks open. Sarah steps out first, her eyes bloodshot. Behind her, Joel meets my gaze with a tight expression. “He wants to see you.”

Tongue in cheek, I rise from my seat and reach for the handle.

Joel touches my elbow before I can escape inside. “For what it's worth, son, I really am so⁠—”

“Don't,” I snap, wrenching my arm out of his grasp. “You don't get to call me that. You haven't earned the right.”

He opens his mouth, but it shuts quickly. When he looks away, I shoulder past them both without another glance and rush into Logan’s room, shutting the door behind me. My back hits the wood as I squeeze my eyes shut, focusing on my senses.

The sterile scent of antiseptic, the steady rhythm of the monitor, my nails digging into my palms when I clench my fists. The faint taste of whiskey still coating my tongue.

It reminds me of that time in the RV when Logan spit liquor into my mouth before kissing me, and I slowly pry my lids open to face the man himself alone for the first time since the crash.

He's already watching me.