Logan flinches, just barely. He doesn’t move back, but hurt flashes in his eyes like I cut him wide open with my words.
“I know you’re scared,” he says, still calm, stillhim.“But you don’t have to do this alone. You don’t have to shut me out. You knew this would get out…”
I press my hands against my face, trying to breathe, but the room feels smaller with every second. The phone’s still in my palm—hot, heavy, and alive against my skin.
I think about my dad at work, probably seeing it on his phone before I even woke up. The photo. The comments. The shame.
My chest caves. I can’t get enough air.
“I need to fix this,” I choke out. “I have to—before it gets worse.”
“Todd—”
“I can’t talk to him with you here,” I whisper, and it’s the truth, even if it kills me to say it.
Logan’s hand falls back to his side. The warmth in his eyes flickers, something breaking behind it. He nods once, just enough to hide how much it hurts. “Okay,” he says quietly. “I’ll give you space.”
And it’s that—his gentleness, even now—that makes it worse.
Because all I want to do is turn around, grab him, tell him I didn’t mean it, and that I just need a second to breathe. But my dad’s voicemail is waiting, and I already know the sound of disappointment that will be in his voice before I even press play.
So I don’t.
I just stand there, staring at the screen, with Logan’s footsteps retreating down the hall and the faint sound of rain against the glass filling the silence he leaves behind.
And that’s when it hits me—I’m not just losing control. I’m losing him. And there is nothing I can do to stop it. Because I’m not equipped to deal with any of this. I should have thought it through before kissing him at Riot.
The bedroom is quiet now. Too quiet.
I stare at the phone like it’s a live wire, my reflection warped in the black screen. My thumb hovers over the voicemail icon, trembling just enough to make it hard to tap.
One breath. Then another. Then I tap the icon and press the phone to my ear.
A crackle of static. Then his voice—steady, familiar, but edged with something that makes my stomach twist.
“Todd… I saw the picture.” No hey, no kiddo, or small talk. Just the sound of a man trying to sound calm when he isn’t.
“I don’t even know what to say right now,” he goes on, his words careful as though he’s walking a tightrope. “Youknow I love you, right? You’re my kid. That doesn’t change.”
For a second, it almost sounds like it might be okay—until it isn’t.
“But this…” He exhales hard, the sound rough in my ear. “This isn’t who you are. Not really. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, a real shot at a career, and now—hell, son, the whole world’s watching you throw it away for some… phase.”
The word almost does me in. Phase? He thinks this is a phase?
“I’m not mad,” he says quickly, as if that makes it better. “I just don’t want this to follow you. We’ll talk about it when you come home, all right? Get things straightened out. You’ll see clearer then.”
The message ends with a hollow click that feels like a door closing.
I just stand there, frozen, the phone still in my hand. The quiet afterward is louder than his voice ever was.
He didn’t yell. He didn’t disown me. He just…thinks it’s a phase.
And somehow, that’s worse.
If he’d been cruel, I could’ve gotten angry. If he’d been kind, I could’ve cried. But this—this middle ground of disappointment wrapped in what I’m sure he thinks is love—feels like drowning in still water.
I sink to the floor, my back against the bed frame, and stare at the wall until my vision blurs. Down the hall, I can hear Logan’s voice through the thin walls—soft, steady, talking to his mom. He sounds like safety. Like the kind of warmth I keep pushing away.
