Page 32 of The Photograph

“You’re kidding me, right?”

His eyes are a storm of fall leaves when he turns back toward me.

I hold up my hands. “Okay. Sorry.”

His shoulders slump. “No, it’s me who should apologize. I’m sorry I’m not brave enough to do anything about my parents looking for a relationship for me.” Throwing his phone onto the couch, he leans forward and buries his fingers in his hair. “Sorry, I don’t have the courage to rock the boat.”

Putting my hand on his shoulder, I unwind a little when he doesn’t shrug me off.

“Hey, I understand. It’s a big thing, telling your family. I’m guessing there’s a lot of pressure and expectations.”

He snorts. “Like you wouldn’t believe. But you’re allowed to be mad, Des. If I was seeing a guy, I’d be annoyed if he was getting pictures of girls like that.” He throws his hand out toward his phone.

I grin at him. He just said he’sseeing mewhen so far he hasn’t defined what this is at all,and warmth bubbles up inside.

“I just know there’s no competition. No one is better than me,” I say with a smile.

He groans. “I think you might be right.”

And—oh!—the desperate clench in my chest almost makes me gasp. Did he really say that?

With a wave of his hand, he says, “How didyoutell your family?”

“It wasn’t so much a case of telling; it was just obvious from an early age. I was surrounded by women. All my sisters …” I take my hand off his shoulder and hunch forward, picking at a piece of skin by a nail. “I always dressed up with my sisters and had crushes on guys alongside them and loved it. My mom saw that and thought,What will be will be. My dad was such an asshole, she was desperate for me not to turn out like him.”

“What did he do?”

“He was a drunk. He laid into her and us with his fists. Disappeared with other women. Each time he went we all hoped like hell he wasn’t coming back.”

“My dad doesn’t do anything like that, but he’s obsessively strict. There’s a lot of pressure on us to conform to his agenda, his expectations.”

That explains a lot. “In what way?”

“Everything is done as he wants it, to his timescale. When we were growing up, that was what was required, and it didn’t occur to any of us to rebel. We’d be dead to him if we didn’t conform. And in a way it’s worse for me as I’m his only son.” A sigh shudders through his body. “We’re all terrified if I’m honest. It’s difficult to throw off.”

Being terrified. Yes, I remember that. And something about what he’s said makes me want to share, too.

“I used to lie in bed and listen for my dad getting home. You could always tell how drunk he was by how long it took him to fumble his key into the door. If he was wasted, that was a huge relief because he’d pass out on the couch before he had a chance to lay into anybody. We’d lie there and wonder who he was goingto pick on, and my mom”—my throat seizes up and I can hardly force the words out—“my mom used to go out to talk to him because she knew that he’d hit her first rather than hitting one of us.” My voice drops to a whisper.

Alex scoots over and pulls me into a hug. It’s a completely nonsexual, friendly gesture,but,God… Resting my head against his, I take a deep breath as he tightens his arms around my ribs, hair soft on my cheek.

“Jesus, Des, I’m sorry that happened to you,” he mumbles in my ear.

He smells like apples and dish soap, and a faint linger of coffee.

I swallow. “I’m sorry, too,” I say, patting his knee. “You’re a good listener.”

Maybe all this going slow is about his family? And it seems so obvious when I think about it. My competition isn’t other guys or even women, it’s his parents, his family’s expectations … and disapproval. How can I persuade him that it’s all worth it, that coming out will be the best thing that’s ever happened to him? How could I show him how amazing this could be?

13

DES

Two nights later, Alex and I have a half-hour argument about what he’s wearing before we leave my apartment. He turned up in a pair of chinos and a polo shirt and, while I have a lot of respect for people’s clothes choices, I didn’t think he’d survive a night at Crush dressed like that. I pushed him into the shower fully clothed so he’d have to change his outfit and he stopped speaking to me. Eventually, I persuaded him into a tight black tee and ripped white shorts that I fished out of my cupboard as the most conservative thing I own. Both things hug his lean body in a way that’s more than distracting, and I’m avoiding looking at him to stop myself drooling.

His steps slow as we approach the line of tricked-out guys in figure-hugging jeans and tops that show off their chests, waiting to get in. He shakes his head.

“No, Des, this is too …”

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