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CHAPTER 1

Marcus

“Fuckkkkk,” I groan to myself before accepting my fate and shoving my key into the ignition. The engine turns over, and I wait until the screen lights up before tapping the GPS that shows three hours and forty-two minutes back to Bloomington.

I could stretch it out longer by taking the back roads or killing time at a gas station, but that just prolongs the dread. Slow torture instead of quick. I’m not sure that’s any better when the outcome is the same.

It’s only three days. I can survive three days.

I don’t want to survive it, though. I want to skip it entirely.

A sigh escapes me as I reluctantly shift the car into drive and decide maybe next year. My apartment complex shrinks in the rearview mirror as I make my way toward the highway. Chicago starts peeling away, moving from office buildings to warehouses to the flat, empty fields of dead crops as I make my way toward central Indiana. Everything is gray and brown this time of year, and I forget how much you can see when there’s nothing to break up the view. The open roads look like they’ll swallow you whole. Nothing like a few hours of… well, nothing.

I turn up the music on my “anywhere but here” playlist, and metal and emo blast through the speakers in a way I’ve always found comforting, especially as I drive toward the house I grew up in.

It’s not that I hate my family. Hating them would be easier because then I could simply cut them out of my life, block their numbers, and never look back. But I can’t bring myself to do it because somewhere underneath all the disappointment and resentment, there’s still… something. Not love. But the idea of what I thought love was before I understood that theirs came with conditions I could never meet.

Mom loves me in her own way, I guess. She asks surface-level questions so she can tell her friends at church about her son in the dreaded, crime-ridden city of Chicago. I still remember the look of horror on her face when I told her I was moving there after college to become a video editor and animator. For some reason instead of expecting it, she acted like I was an innocent angel who was going to be tarnished by the city I chose to call home. As if I weren’t the same teenager who had to have her pick me up from the police station for reeking of Natty Light after getting busted for underage drinking at a field party.

She’d probably hoped my “attention-seeking behavior” was just a phase. A little juvenile blip she could smile through until I came back to myself. Joke’s on her. This is who I am, and it turns out that who I was in high school was just the start of the never-ending disappointments that would unravel and make my own family resent me.

By the time I take the exit for Bloomington, it’s late afternoon, and the sun is already starting to set. Most people hate early sunsets, but I find comfort in the darkness.

The drive went far too quickly, but I don’t rush out into the house. Instead, I sit in my parents’ driveway for a minute and stare at the house. It’s a nice-looking suburban house with two stories, dark blue siding, and a front porch swing that Mom insists on decorating for every season. Right now, it’s covered in fall throw pillows and a wooden sign that says “Grateful.” I want to roll my eyes, but I don’t have the energy.

Turning the car off, I take a steadying breath and remind myself that I’ve faced my family thousands of times before. At least I can go to Josh’s soon. He’s been one of my closest friends since middle school and still is, even though I’ve drifted apart from the rest of our friend group.

Resigned to my fate, I get out, grab my bag from the backseat, and head inside.

“Marcus!” Mom’s voice calls out, exceptionally cheery for how unenthusiastic I know she really is to see me. “In here!”

Dropping my bag by the stairs, I follow her voice into the kitchen. Cinnamon laces the air. It’s warm and sweet and feels completely out of place in this cold home. Mom’s at the stove with a wooden spoon in hand, stirring something in a pan. When she turns to face me, her smile arrives a half-second before her eyes do. Her apron says “Blessed” in loopy cursive with a dusting of flour across the letters where she’s wiped her hands.

“How was your drive?”

“Fine, easy, not much traffic.”

“I’m sure. Not once you got out of Chicago. Nowhere has traffic like there. It’s awful,” she says with a smile, but it doesn’t stop the words from landing like a dig at my life choices. “Oh, Marcus, you could’ve shaved for Thanksgiving.”

I don’t bother running my hand over the scruff on my jaw. Usually I do shave, but sometimes it’s just too much to keep up with, so I just shrug and set my keys on the counter, watching her turn back to whatever’s simmering.

When I don’t reply, she continues, “Well, your father’ll be back soon. He ran out to do some errands.”

“Okay.” I nod, not surprised he’s not here to greet me. That man is out of the house more than he’s in it, and when he is home, he’s usually glued to the TV. Mom acts like he stays busy to help, but I think it’s to avoid being in the same room as the rest of us for as long as he can.

“Lily should be here soon, too,” Mom adds, lighting up like she always does when she talks about my sister. “She and Sean are so excited for their wedding. Her dress is stunning. I can’t wait for them to get married.”

“Yeah, okay.” I try to sound enthusiastic but probably fail. Sean is a loser, and I’m not sure why my mom is so excited about them being married. Two Thanksgivings ago, half-drunk and loose-lipped, he told me, straight to my face, that he “didn’t get how a guy could just decide to be into other guys.” Lily just told him he was being an idiot and changed the subject before anyone else could weigh in, but I’m positive they all silently agreed in their heads. I’ve hated him a little more every day since, especially since he casually uses the word “gay” like it’s supposed to be an insult.

Thankfully, Mom doesn’t notice my less-than-enthusiastic reaction because she’s too busy running through her to-do list. “The coffee cake is almost ready. I’m also prepping the green bean casserole tonight, so it’s one less thing to do tomorrow. And I’ve got the pie in the oven already. Pumpkin, your favorite,” she says quickly looking at me over her shoulder. It’s not my favorite, it’s Lily’s, but I don’t correct her.

“Sounds good. I’m going to go upstairs and unpack.”

“Yes, of course, go settle in.” She doesn’t look at me as she says it this time, just waves her hand dismissively over her shoulder.

I walk up the stairs and into my old childhood bedroom. Mom removed every trace of me to ever exist here after I went to college. She painted over my dark gray walls with beige, covered the queen bed with a sage green floral quilt, and replaced my old, black dresser, which was covered in stickers, with a modern wood dresser that has a small framed photo of Jesus propped on top.

I set my bag down by my feet and pull out my phone, seeing a text from the one person who doesn’t make me feel like a weight is pressing down on me in this town.