Page 93 of The Photograph

Alex flaps his hand at me. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Didn’t he? Arranging the roast chicken and vegetables on a tray, I switch on the oven to heat them up. It sounds like he meant it to me. I take a steadying breath.

“What did your sisters say? Rachel?”

“They’re all petrified. Terrified of Dad going ballistic, cutting them off, or losing their family connections. The last few weeks have been dreadful for them. They’ve been suffering his rages while I’ve been here enjoying myself with you.”

“They can leave though, right? I mean they’re older than you are.”

“Dad doesn’t want them to move out until they’re married.”

“And they’ve gone along with that?”

“You don’t understand, Des, it’s the way we’ve been brought up: Honour your father and mother, respect your family and your elders.”

“And that involves your sisters living at home until they’re married?”

He picks at a bit of skin on his hands and doesn’t answer. It makes my blood boil that that asshole controls them all.

“They are not your responsibility, Alex.”

He raises his head and narrows his eyes at me. “Says the man who took in Marla. My sisters have done a lot for me, Des.”

I’m fighting a losing battle arguing about his sisters. I suck in another deep breath.

“Did you talk to your parents about being gay?”

He nods, making a face.

“And?” Opening the oven door, I poke at the meat.

“I talked to Mom. She said I shouldn’t make a big deal of it, that it annoyed my father, so it was better if we didn’t speak about it at home. She said she didn’t want a repeat of the night I confronted him.”

I slam the oven door shut again. “Jesus Christ, Alex. Your dadhityou. Where is your mom’s concern for you? She should be reporting him to the police. Has she even said what a shock it was for her, or asked you howyou’refeeling? Why is it all about aggravating your dad?”

“It’s always about my dad, Des. You know that, it’s what we do as a family, tiptoeing around his moods and tempers.”

Arms folded across my chest, I say, “And you want to do that? Live in their house, second-guessing your dad’s temper, denying who you are?”

Alex exhales sharply, fiddling with his shirt sleeve.

“I’ve spent the last three weeks thinking about all this, Des, okay? Give me some credit here. What would you do if thepeople you’d lived your whole life with, trusted your entire life to, people who have supported you, denied who you are like this? It’s not that easy to throw everything you’ve ever known away.”

I suck in a deep breath. Okay. I don’t like it, but I get it. This situation is new to me. Calm the hell down, Des.

After a mostly silent dinner, Alex turns into me on the couch and skates a hand down my back.

“I’m sorry, Des.”

He rubs his palm up and down my spine then slides a warm hand under the edge of my shirt. He kisses my cheek, then the corner of my mouth, and it’s a little desperate, a little sad. I turn my face to him, seeking. He leans in, feathering his lips across mine, and I open my mouth, tangling my tongue with his. I bring my hands up to his face and cup his cheeks.

“Alex,” I whisper.

Fingers grip the bottom of my shirt, and then it’s up and over my head and warm palms land on my chest, skating down, greedy. Leaning back, I shift so I’m half lying on the couch and grab at the buttons of his shirt and he laughs, straightening as he yanks it over his head and off. I wriggle to get myself flat on the cushions as he moves over me, rubbing against my hip a little, and I squeeze him over his jeans and smile into his mouth. A groan rumbles out of him.

“That’s so good,” he says.

It’s always so good, ever since that first time, after all the waiting.On our couch.Gripping his waist, my chest tightens. Am I further into this than he is? More committed than him? I’m his first in so many ways. Am I going to give my heart only for him to retreat into his shell and go back to his family? Ormaybe worse: This is a first fling for him and he’ll move on and experiment. And it dawns on me now, clear as day: I didn’t love George. I saw what he was like and held back. With Alex, I haven’t been able to do that. Ever since that first night when he came over and cooked dinner and looked after me after a grueling day at work, I’ve been knocked sideways, all in. These last few weeks with him living here have been blissful. Mentally, I’ve fast-forwarded to a happy-dudes-together future, but—Oh God—we have never had that conversation. How does he see what we’re doing here? Maybe I’m only shocked he went back to his family because I love him—I couldn’t be so careless with this relationship, with his emotions. But maybe it’s not the same for him.

---