“What did you say?” Tate demanded.

Mrs. Morrison looked back at him as if he really had committed the most heinous of crimes, and then turned back to Tate. “I don’t want him in my house. He’s taken what used to be good and pure, and—”

“And what?” Tate finally exploded. “What has he done to me, your good and pure son? I’m almost thirty for fuck’s sake! I’m separated because I married a woman who got bored and went elsewhere when I was out working two jobs. Yet she still sits next to you in church and comes over for Sunday fucking lunch!”

The room was so combustible that Logan was afraid to breathe, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tate’s father stand. He’d never seen Tate more furious. They’d both had their fair share of arguments, but not like this. Tate’s temper was riding him.

“He hasn’t done anything to you. He hasn’t even said hello and you’re treating him like he’s got the plague. I can’t believe you’re acting like this.”

“And I can’t believe you’d have sexual relations with a man and bring him to lunch like you think we’d be okay with it! That we’d share a meal with this...this queer.”

And there it is—the moment of truth.

This was the turning point into either acceptance or denial, and Logan could actually feel his palms sweating as he waited for Tate’s answer.

The room was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop.

Logan’s eyes moved over the other spectators until he reached Tate’s father. He was still over by the couch, but he was now watching him with suspicious eyes—Tate’s eyes. There, right in front of him, was a close-to-perfect duplicate of Tate twenty years from now. It was disconcerting.

“Unreal,” Tate murmured before he started laughing.

It was an odd, humorless sound that Logan never wanted to hear after today. It was the sound of someone cracking, falling apart, and not understanding why.

“It was stupid of me to think you would try and understand my side of things instead of the gossipy bullshit that Diana and Jill brought back to you. But yes, since it seems like that fact needs confirming. I am having sex with Logan, and you know what? I’ve never been more satisfied in my entire life.”

Well, I’ll be damned.

Logan was stunned, and as his eyes found Diana’s, he was more than slightly pleased that she was too. No one had shocked him more than Tate had right then. He was pretty sure Tate’s mother felt the same, because she sucked in her breath and then pointed to what looked like a side door.

“Leave.”

Tate tilted his head to the side as if he didn’t understand, but Logan did. His heart ached for what he knew was about to happen.

“Excuse me?” Tate asked.

“I said leave. Get out of my house.”

Logan watched Tate closely as the words seemed to register.

He blinked several times and then raised a hand to push it back through his hair. When he dropped it down and his palm hit his thigh, it was the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

“You want me to leave?” he asked again, his tone flat, disbelieving.

Tate’s father stepped forward, placed a hand on his mother’s shoulder—a sign of solidarity—and spoke for the first time.

“I think it’s best if you go now. You’ve upset your mother.”

Tate’s mouth opened as if he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. His eyes flickered up over his parents and landed on his sister, and when she stood, Logan could’ve sworn he saw a glimpse of regret in her eyes.

Tate stuffed his hands into his pockets and nodded. His jaw was twitching, and from his side view, Logan could see the flush of anger and hurt spreading across his cheeks.

“Fine. I’ll go. But it won’t change anything.”

Tate looked over at him, and as Logan stared back, he’d never felt so fucking helpless in his whole life. He nodded to him, trying to silently convey that he was there—he wasn’t going anywhere.

Whatever you need.

Tate turned and started walking toward the door.

As Logan followed, he heard Mrs. Morrison call out, “William?”

It was Logan’s turn to hold his breath as Tate stopped where he was and glanced back at the people who were supposed to love him unconditionally. Then she landed her final blow.

“I didn’t raise my son to be gay. You’re a disgrace to this family, and you are no longer welcome here.”

If heartache had a face, it was Tate’s right then, but instead of responding, he spun away and marched out of the house, leaving him to follow.

Logan started toward the door, but at the last moment, he turned to face Tate’s family. He couldn’t leave without saying something to these people, and he’d be damned if they didn’t know they’d just let an amazing human being walk out their door because of their own ignorance.

“How could you treat him like that? You'd rather side with some malicious bitch than trying to understand your own son? I've never met anyone like Tate—”

“His name is William,” Tate’s mother cut in.

“No, it's Tate. That honest, stubborn man that you just let walk out your fucking door is Tate. I hope when you look at the empty chair at your dinner table this afternoon you realize what the fuck you just did and come to your senses. If you do, he’ll be with me, Logan Mitchell—the pervert. She knows where to find me,” he made sure to add, pointing to Diana, who was now standing by the side door, probably wanting to run after Tate.

Well she could fuck right off. That was his job, and he wasn’t about to let her try and hone in and promise to make shit better.

He stormed to the door, and as he opened it, he heard her say, “Think he’ll still want you now?”

Logan looked her in the eye and made sure he didn’t reveal the fact that he was terrified the answer was no. “I have no fucking doubt.”

He opened the door and walked around the porch until he spotted Tate with his backside up against the passenger’s side door.

Logan wasn’t sure what was about to happen, but as he made his way down the steps and over to the car, Tate turned to him, his face devoid of any emotion.

“Can we please leave?”

So cool, so polite, and—as Logan unlocked the car and Tate got in, he realized—so distant.

One thing was for certain. Tate sure as hell hadn’t denied a damn thing.

* * *

Tate didn’t remember getting into the car, and he didn’t remember the drive back to the city, but when they pulled into the parking garage and the ignition turned off, he realized he was home.

He was numb. Completely and utterly numb.

“Hey?”

Logan.

This was the first he’d been aware of him trying to talk this entire time, but he had nothing to say—not a thing.

“Hey, look at me,” he said again, and Tate made himself turn to face him. “This will work itself out.”

Tate wasn’t sure he believed him and found it too hard to look him in the eye and say so. So he turned away instead.

“They were shocked and angry, but I’m sure they’ll come around.”

Would they?

He didn’t think so, and what did that mean? That his family didn’t want to see him again—ever? The thought sent a wave of nausea through him, so he pushed the door open and forced himself to get out.

Jesus, fuck. What did I do?

He placed a palm on the side of the car and bent at the waist, trying to catch his breath. He closed his eyes when he heard the other door open, and when a hand touched his shoulder, Tate immediately backed up and straightened.

The hurt that skidded across Logan’s face tore at him, but as he struggled to remain upright, all he could hear in his head was, Don’t come back.

“You okay?”

God, since when did he start saying all the right things?

“Tate? Talk to me.”

He didn’t know what to say, so when he finally met Logan’s eyes, he swallowed and said all he could think of. “I need to go.”