Page 57

“Yeah,” I say too quickly, my damn voice squeakier than a door hinge. “He's in the living room with Aaron. Huck’s dad. My best friend.”

Devon turns and flashes a grin, the one that used to make me follow him around all the time when I was a kid. Now, it just makes my skin feel too tight. And holy hell, when did he get so… manly?

“So,” he says, pulling a lighter from his pocket before flicking it open and shut. “Still afraid of the dark, or did you grow out of that?”

“Shut up,” I mutter as I spin on my heel to storm toward my room. “I was eleven.”

His laugh echoes behind me when I flee down the hall. Huck’s still sprawled on my bed playing the game that he most definitely didn’t pause, conveniently in the lead.

“Wow, you died again,” he deadpans without looking up.

I drop onto the floor and grab my controller silently, but I don’t rejoin the match. All I can hear is Devon’s voice from the living room, and it's making me feel itchy. Uncomfortable. Dirty for some reason.

Definitely will not be confessing this to the bishop during church on Sunday.

I draw in a ragged breath and blink away the memory when someone bumps into my shoulder, jostling me. My lungs feel like they're on fire.

That was the last time I saw Dev for a long while. He'd show up sporadically after that, never stay too long, and never talk to my parents. They'd gotten into some fight before he left—I always assumed it was because he'd told them he was bisexual. Apparently, that was the week they'd admitted the truth to him. That he was their real son. Not me.

Suddenly, there are too many people. The music is too loud, and my skin is too hot. Devon doesn’t say anything, just places one hand lightly on my shoulder and lets the other linger at my waist like he thinks I’ll bolt.

I want to. I probably should—but I don’t.

For all the things I’m confused about, this right here is the worst of it. Yet, there's always been something about Dev that I've understood. He's lonely. A douchebag, yes, but a lonely one.

I don’t know much about my grandparents, but I remember how strictly religious they were—even more so than my own parents. Mom used to call them zealots. I can't even imagine what it must have been like for him growing up.

We continue to sway awkwardly, two grown men trying not to make eye contact while everyone around us kisses and grinds against each other.

Devon just hums along to the music while his fingers twitch on my hips. “Relax,” he murmurs. “We're just dancing, not fucking.”

I snort despite myself, trying to ease the anxiety in my stomach. “Thank God.”

He shocks the hell out of me with a laugh. “Was it that bad?”

Our bodies move closer, a little more in sync as my chest brushes his. I realize how flush we are, but I don't pull back even as I shy away from the question. “It was… not what should have happened.”

“Why not? Because we're both guys?”

“Because I'm married,” I answer with a glare. “And I was feeling lost, and we're related⁠—”

“Not by blood.”

“And I'm not into you like that,” I finish, my ears burning.

Devon slows down our dance as he studies my face. “That’s not what you said six months ago.”

“I'm not.”

“Okay,” he says simply.

That’s it. No argument. No retort. Just okay.

The silence that follows settles between us thickly, and my throat tightens. His palm burns on my waist, the scent of his cologne mixing with the sugary-sweet air around us. Suddenly, I’m very aware of the way his thigh brushes my crotch every few steps, our bodies too close, no room to hide.

Devon glances down before slowly lifting his gaze. “You can lie to me all you want, Logan. But don’t lie to yourself.”

I open my mouth to tell him to fuck off, but the words won’t come out. They stick in my throat, burning like acid, because I don’t even know what the truth is anymore.