Page 49

I think about going back downstairs to help Mom with dinner preparations and pretend everything is fine. But I can’t. I can’t sit in that kitchen and make small talk and act like my entire understanding of myself hasn’t just shifted.

So, I head downstairs to the den, to the room Dad uses as a home office, but it’s always felt more like a refuge than a workspace, since he’s hardly ever home. It’s quieter here, with built-in bookshelves and a leather couch worn soft with age. I close the door behind Angus and me, shutting out the rest of the house, the rest of the world.

I sink onto the couch, and Angus immediately climbs up beside me, resting his head on my lap. I bury my fingers in his fur and let myself feel all of the fear and confusion, disorienting and vast. And the grief for the version of myself I thought I was, the future I thought I’d have.

Underneath it all, undeniable and insistent, is the memory of Lucien’s hands pulling me in the water, his voice saying my name, and his eyes meeting mine with panic.

Angus is warm and patient beside me, and the afternoon light fades to dusk beyond the windows. I stay long enough for my breathing to steady, leaving behind a strange, hollow calm.

Maybe I’ve always been attracted to boys and just never let myself acknowledge it. Maybe this is who I’ve always been, underneath all the careful performance, all the strategic hiding.

The understanding is complicated, but it comes with a relief. I’ve been holding my breath for years, and finally, I can exhale.

Angus shifts, licking my hand, and quiet tears make tracks down my cheeks. I taste the salt on my lips.

“I’m so fucked,” I tell Angus, and he wags his tail because, to him, nothing has changed. I’m still just Cameron, still the person who scratches behind his ears and sneaks him treats from the dinner table.

Maybe this doesn’t have to change everything. Maybe I can just…sit with it for a while. Figure out what it means, what I want to do about it.

Or maybe I’m still lying to myself, still trying to minimize and rationalize, explain away the truth.

I hear Mom calling my name, her voice bright and warm. Dinner must be ready. I should go, should rejoin the world, pretend I’m the same person who walked through the front door two hours ago.

But I’m not the same person.

I stand, and Angus jumps down beside me. When I catch my reflection in the darkened window, I look the same. I take a breath. Another. Then I open the door and head to the kitchen, Angus at my heels, to have Thanksgiving dinner with my mother and pretend everything is fine.

18

LUCIEN

It’s late November in Charleston, when the holiday season becomes the backdrop for the curated elegance of tradition and old money has firmly rooted itself like ivy against antebellum walls.

My family’s mansion is a striking image, with its white columns and black shutters. Tourists often stop on the street to take photographs. I’ve lived here my entire life, and even I sometimes feel like a visitor.

Inside, the caterers move through the dining room like choreographed dancers, laying out the Thanksgiving spread on my mother’s heirloom china. The turkey is glazed to bronzed perfection. The sweet potato casserole has the pecans arranged in a pattern. Everything is bewitching and beautiful, but it’s all a facade.

I take my seat at the table and smile at the appropriate moments, laugh at my father’s jokes, and compliment my mother’s choice of caterer, all the while wondering what Cameron is eating tonight. I wonder if he’s thinking about me the way I can’t stop thinking about him.

“Lucien, darling, you’re so quiet,” my mother says, her hand light on my wrist. “Is everything all right at school?”

“Everything’s fine,” I tell her, and the lie slides out smooth as bourbon. “Just tired from the drive.”

She accepts this because she wants to. Because in our family, we don’t dig beneath the surface. We keep everything polished and pretty, even when we’re rotting underneath.

After dinner, the friends arrive. This is the real event, the reason my father insisted I come home for Thanksgiving instead of staying at Hayworth. He wants to show me off like a prize stallion, parade me in front of his circle of old money.

The front porch and patio become a gentleman’s club, all cigar smoke and crystal tumblers and men in bow ties who think their net worth makes them interesting. I stand among them in my own bow tie, navy silk because my mother would notice if I didn’t dress the part, and feel the familiar weight of performance settling over my shoulders.

“Luc!” My father’s voice booms across the patio, and I know what’s coming before he even gestures for me. “Come here, son. Gentlemen, have I told you Lucien is attending Hayworth University?”

I’m sure he has, multiple times, to these same men. But they all turn to me with their practiced expressions of interest, their cigars glowing like fireflies in the November dark.

“Hayworth,” one of them says, nodding sagely. “Now that’s an institution. What are you studying?”

“Economics,” I answer.

“Smart boy,” another man says, clapping my father on the shoulder. “You must be proud, Beaumont.”