I was gay. I had always been gay. And I was about to marry a woman I would never be able to want.
A knock at the door jolted me back to the present.
"It's me."
The door opened. Vance Kessler stood in the frame, a bottle of water in one hand.
He looked different in the harsh fluorescent light of the storage room. The faint scar above his left eyebrow that I hadn't noticed before. The lines around his eyes suggested he didn't smile often. The way he held himself, shoulders straight, weight balanced, like he was ready to move in any direction at a moment's notice.
"Drink." He handed me the bottle without ceremony.
Our fingers brushed during the exchange. I felt that brief contact like a spark and hated myself for it.
He settled against the opposite wall, arms crossed. "The search is ongoing. They're checking the perimeter, the parking structures, and every vehicle on the property. Your father's threatening to sue everyone within a fifty-mile radius."
"That sounds like him."
"Your mother's quieter. She keeps watching the exits."
I unscrewed the cap and drank, grateful for something to do with my hands. "Elizabeth?"
"Left about an hour ago." He paused. "She was upset."
Of course she was. I'd just ruined her wedding day, her plans, her image of the man she thought she was marrying.
"I didn't want to hurt her." The words came out rough. "I know that sounds ridiculous, given what I did. But she deserves betterthan—" I stopped, unsure how to finish. Better than me. Better than a lie. Better than a lifetime of wondering why her husband never really wanted her.
"You don't have to explain yourself to me."
"Then why are you doing this?" I looked up at him. "Hiding me. Lying to your colleagues. You could lose everything."
He was quiet for a moment. His expression didn't change.
"You needed help," he said simply. "I was in a position to give it."
I didn't know what to say. No one had ever looked at me and seen something worth saving. I'd spent my whole life being managed, controlled, directed—but never actually helped.
"I have to get back out there," he said, pushing off the wall. "Keep the search pointed in the wrong direction. I'll check on you when I can."
"Thank you." The words felt inadequate. "For everything."
He nodded once and left.
He returned twice more over the next several hours.
The first time, he brought a sandwich—turkey and cheese, wrapped in plastic from the staff cafeteria. I wasn't hungry, but I made myself eat anyway.
The second time was just a quick update. Police were involved now, treating it as a missing persons case. The official theory was that I'd had a car waiting, a prearranged escape.
"Your father left about an hour ago," Vance said. "Made a lot of threats on his way out."
"He's good at threats."
"Your mother took longer. She kept asking questions. Checking exits."
I didn't know what to do with that information. My mother had always been harder to read than my father—less explosive, more calculating. I'd never been sure whether she actually cared about me or just about managing the family's image.
"Did anyone see you?" I asked. "Bringing me here?"
