Chapter 29
Not Fourteen Anymore
Gavin
I'm supposed to be reviewing plays. I'm not. I'm sprawled on the couch, just enjoying the noise of the house. Seems like, for some reason or another, everyone has an off afternoon from classes.
The common room is full of guys, and I'm just... existing and hanging out, soaking up the noise. Drew’s on his laptop. Tyler and Ethan are bickering on the other couch, Ethan's fingers curled in the back of Tyler's shirt like he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
Ian is explaining the rules of a board game to a confused Jaren. Rex and Jeff are trash-talking. Taj is documenting everything, and Noah is digging under couches because he's lost something. The usual.
This is good.
The front door swings open.
I look up, expecting maybe a pizza delivery or maybe subs.
Subs would be great.
It's not.
My father stands in the doorway, Troy behind him, both wearing expressions I know too well. The tight jaw. The cold eyes. The barely-contained rage.
Fuck.
"Gavin." Dad's voice cuts through the room like a blade. The chatter dies instantly. "Get the fuck over here. We need to talk."
Every head swivels between me and the door. I can feel Drew straightening up, Tyler's arm tightening around Ethan.
"What are you doing here?"
"I pledged this house in '92." Dad's voice drips with contempt as he looks around. "Your grandfather was an alumnus. Three generations of Robins men. And now look at it." His eyes land on Tyler and Ethan, and something ugly twists his face. "Clint told us what you've been up to. What this place has become."
Troy snorts. "Fag house now, apparently."
"Hey—" Ian starts, accent sharpening.
"Don't." I hold up a hand, not looking away from my family. "What do you want?"
Dad steps further into the room. He's a big man, not as big as me, but he carries himself like he thinks he is. "What do I want? I want to know what the hell is wrong with you."
"Nothing's wrong with me."
"Clint says you've been parading around with some… some…" He can't even say it. His face twists. "Your mother would be spinning in her grave."
There it is. The card he always plays.
"I don't think she would," I say quietly.
"You don't get to tell me what your mother would think!" His voice rises. "She raised you right. We raised you right. And this is how you repay us? Running off to California to become a?—"
"A what, Dad?" I stand up slowly. I've got four inches and probably sixty pounds on him now. "Say it."
Troy moves up beside our father, trying to look intimidating. It might work if I were still fourteen and scared. I'm not.
"A faggot," Troy says, loud enough for everyone to hear. "That's what you are now, right? That's what this place is? A house full of?—"
"I'd stop right there if I were you." Tyler's voice is cold. He's on his feet now, Ethan behind him, fingers curled in the back of Tyler's shirt.
