He hung up and held the phone to his chest.
Mac had to catch his breath. Just watching Gideon was beyond exhausting. He couldn’t imagine having to live like this. Even though Mac’s family kicked him out, at least he never had to lie about anything. He wondered how many lies Gideon had told his family, how many lies those lies created. And Mac could tell that he kept track of everything. He never got tripped up.
“You want some breakfast?” Mac asked.
Gideon remained by the closet. He was probably on some adrenaline high talking to his mom, and he was still coming back down. Mac got out of bed and slowly snaked his arms around him. Gideon rested his forehead on Mac’s shoulder. The exhaustion came off Gideon in waves.
“It’s going to be okay.” Mac rubbed his back. “Breakfast?”
“Okay,” Gideon said into his shoulder.
They got showered and dressed. Mac used a tissue to open the door of their room.
Φ
Mac tapped his finger against the window of the taxi for the entire ride. His stomach twisted into a thousand tangled knots as if it were made of wires. He and Gideon were on their way back to Aunt Rita’s house to pack up his room. He paid for a month of a local storage locker. Mac would figure out what to do over Christmas break. Mac hated to think that the only remaining part of her life was stuff to be packed into boxes.
Gideon covered Mac’s tapping hand. “Nervous?”
“Just a little. I really hope my parents aren’t there.”
“Don’t worry. I got your back. You won’t be facing them alone.”
Mac managed a smile. This whole weekend had been a whirlwind of emotions, and he was wiped out on every level. He had done so much adulting. He wanted to go back to his college life of parties and classes.
And Gideon.
“I’m curious, did you ever try to bring charges against this Justin Weeks asshole?” He checked to make sure the cab driver had his eyes on the road.
Mac shook his head no again. Gideon’s forehead creased with anger.
“You never pressed charges or tried to sue for damages?”
“Are you serious?” And Gideon was, which made Mac let out a nervous laugh. “You think when some good ole boys get in a fight in Kingwood, West Virginia, they bring in lawyers to sue for damages? You think there’s a hate crime ordinance in my tiny town?”
Mac shot Gideon a get real look. They lived in the same country, but grew up in different worlds. Gideon didn’t say anything for the rest of the trip.
“Fuck,” Mac said upon seeing the red pickup truck in the driveway.
Gideon massaged his shoulders, like a manager getting his boxer ready for a fight. “You got this.”
Mac opened the door with his key. The living room was all packed up. Every knickknack, every piece of personality that made his house a home was in a box, ready to be sent to the past. Or donated.
“Hello?” Gideon called out to the seemingly empty house. Mac gestured for him to keep his voice down.
“Hello?” His mom called back. “Who is that?”
“It’s me, Mom,” Mac said, not wanting to answer her question just yet.
His mom met him halfway down the stairs. She eyed Gideon and didn’t say anything. Not with her mouth, anyway. But Gideon didn’t show an ounce of fear.
“Hello,” she said to the non-Daly in this house.
“I’m Gideon. We’re here to begin packing up Mac’s room.”
She turned to Mac. “Your father and I are cleaning out the attic. Aunt Rita has a lot of junk.”
“Maybe you should let Mac take a look at some of that junk before you toss it out. It might be his.” Gideon crossed his arms.
