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Laughing, I reply to her, already formulating my response in my head.

Me:

You may regret this.

Mercedes:

Ooh, now I’m intrigued. Can’t wait to read it.

Setting my phone back down, I crack my knuckles and smile as I start typing.

Dear Devout and Disgusted,

I’m quite disgusted, too, but it’s not your son who is making my stomach roll right now. It’s you. You say your son has been acting out recently, and yet, you never stopped to consider that his acting out was covering very real emotions, like fear. Fear that you wouldn’t accept who he is, fear that you would do something so drastic like kick him out of the only home he’s ever known. You claim to be a good Christian woman but you’re filled with so much hate for your own son, your flesh and blood. You want some advice? Because I do have a suggestion to turn your life around. There’s a children’s hospital downtown, maybe you should take a little trip over there and walk the halls, looking at all the children there fighting for their lives. Look at the parents with tears in their eyes as they beg God to save their baby, because I promise you, they wouldn’t care if their son or daughter were gay as long as they were alive. Then, go home, look at your beautiful, brave son who took a chance and revealed who he really is to you and apologize for the way you’ve been acting. Life is short and if you’re not careful, you’re going to miss out on being a part of your son’s.

Sincerely,

Alison

I read it over, feeling satisfied but concerned that I may have gone too far. I snap a picture and send it to Mercedes, and she replies back almost immediately.

Mercedes:

Savage. I love it.

Grinning, I grab a few more letters and start reading through them, not feeling inspired to respond to any of them. Opening a new Word document, I try to come up with a single response to any of the letters I’ve read today but I’ve got nothing.

The front door opens as I set my phone down, and I peek over my shoulder, watching Chance as he walks down the hallway and opens my fridge like he owns the place. Chance is quite a bit shorter than Logan but he is just as built, and his genuine blue eyes and friendly smile fascinate me. You wouldn’t know it by just looking at him but I get the distinct feeling that he’s got a pile of pain that he keeps buried.

“You done staring at me?” he asks, shutting the fridge door and popping the top off the beer. He turns and watches me as he takes a sip.

“Sorry. I was just having trouble writing today so you were a welcome distraction.”

He walks over to me and pulls out the chair next to me, the legs scraping against the tile floor, before he sits down and stretches his legs out in front of him. “Why can’t you write?”

“Stress, probably,” I say with a sardonic laugh. He nods, looking at me thoughtfully for a second before taking another sip of his beer.

“Maybe you should go make up with your man.”

Rolling my eyes, I turn back to my computer and stare at the Word document like somehow the words will magically jump from my head onto the screen. It’s been two days but I’m still so pissed at Logan. It’s not fair, and I know that, but this whole situation is hard, and it’s even harder when he just makes decisions and expects me to go along with them. It’s my life and so much of it has been taken away from me. I should get some say.

“Don’t be so hard on him, Ali,” Chance says, and I turn back to him.

“Why not?”

He sighs, looking down at his beer bottle before meeting my eyes again. “If you know about his past, then you know how hard this is for him. He’s going through hell, and he’s handling it as best as he can.”

I open my mouth to respond but the front door opens again, cutting me off. Peeking over my shoulder, I smile as Izzy and Carly walk down the hallway toward me.

“I’ll let you all talk but just think about what I said,” Chance says, standing from the chair and nodding at the girls as he pushes it in and passes them. Carly’s gaze lingers on him as he stomps off down the hallway, and when she finally looks back to me, my brow arches.

“Hey, Car, see somethin’ you like?” I ask, a smile stretching across my face, and she shakes her head.

“Shut up. We’re here to talk about you. Not me.”

I laugh and nod, kicking out one of the chairs next to me. “By all means then, have a seat.”

“How are you doing, Hon?” Izzy asks, looking at me with a concerned expression as she sits down and crosses her arms on the table.