Across the table, Mark goes very still. His eyes narrow.
“So you’re…?” he asks, the unfinished question hanging thick and ugly in the air.
For a split second, my brain scrambles for an exit. I could laugh it off. Say I just needed the paycheck. Say it was temporary. Say whatever would make this easier.
The lie forms on my tongue, and then it curdles.
My gaze falls to my forearm, landing at the butterfly tattoo inked along the inside. The lines are delicate but permanent. The colors are proud and bold. I literally wear who I am on my sleeve.
I inhale slowly, the air burning on the way in.
If Ashton hates me for this later, then so be it. I won’t lie just to appease this balding bigot.
“I’m bisexual,” I say evenly. “Actually.”
The dining room falls silent.
Ashton closes his eyes. His jaw clenches so tight I swear I can hear his teeth grinding, cracking under the pressure. The muscle in his cheek ticks. He doesn’t look at me.
Debbie swallows hard. “Oh,” she says, the word thin and brittle.
The pause that follows stretches too long.
“Well,” she mutters finally, pushing her chair back. “I think I need to grate some more Parmesan.” The bowl in front of her is still half-full, but she grabs it anyway and disappears into the kitchen.
Mark keeps staring. His brows knit together, his gaze flicking between me and Ashton like he’s working through a math problem he already knows he doesn’t like the answer to. His jaw tightens. His mouth flattens into a thin, disapproving line.
Then, without a word, he twirls a forkful of spaghetti and brings it to his mouth.
The scrape of his fork against the plate sounds deafening.
Under the table, I reach for Ashton’s hand.
He jerks away like I burned him.
His eyes stay fixed on his plate, shoulders rigid, posture locked tight. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t acknowledge me at all.
I pull my hand back slowly, folding it into my lap. Dread sinks heavy in my stomach as my uneaten spaghetti turns cold.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ashton
Throughoutmylife,I’vesurvived plenty of awkward family dinners.
It’s practically a Tremblay tradition.
Growing up, it didn’t take much to set my dad off. Me forgetting to turn on the sprinklers. Justin looking at his phone at the table. Mom overcooking the chicken. His temper wasn’t loud all the time—that would’ve almost been easier. Sometimes it was sharp and precise, a quick snap that cut across the table and left the rest of us bleeding in silence.
I learned early how to read the shift in the room—the way his shoulders would stiffen, the way his fork would pause halfway to his mouth. Tense silences don’t scare me. Uncomfortable dinners are nothing new.
But tonight?
Tonight takes the cake.
My stomach is clenched so tight it feels like it’s folding in on itself. Every breath is shallow, like there’s a strap cinched around my ribs. My heart pounds so hard against my chest I’m half-convinced everyone at the table can see it, thudding beneath my shirt.
After what feels like hours of torturous quiet, I stand and help Mom clear the table. We move around each other in stiff, mechanical silence, scraping mounds of uneaten spaghetti into the trash. The smell of tomato sauce turns my stomach. Plates clatter into the sink louder than they should.
