Emotion clogs my throat, and I shake my head furiously. “No. We are going to discuss this. I want to understand your double standards, Dad. Why is it okay for you to wreck families, but not me?”
Carrie shoots me a supportive smile.
“Canyon, it’s not that simple. You two are—”
“Don’t fucking say we’re brothers,” I snap. “We both know that’s a bullshit answer. Why don’t you want us to be happy?” My voice cracks at my question. “Why, Dad? Why can’t I be happy? You broke me!” Stupid tears form in my eyes, and I angrily bat them away with the palms of my hands. “You broke the three of us when you hooked up with him.” My tone is acid. “I wanted to hate you, and for fucking forever, I did, but then Alis…” I bury my face in my hands, stifling a sob. “He just made me happy. I love him, and I fucking miss him.”
It grows quiet, but Carrie’s soft hand finds mine beneath the table, squeezing it tight.
“I thought dads were supposed to love their kids unconditionally,” I whisper, unable to meet Dad’s stare. “I didn’t realize there were limits.”
“You know I love you,” Dad hisses. “More than anything.”
“But…” I lift my head to meet his stare.
His anger softens as he studies me. “No buts. I love you more than anything. I’m allowed to be angry, though. Just like you were.”
“What about you?” I demand, turning my attention to Quinn. “Since he’s not really your son, does that mean you can turn it off?”
“He is my son,” Quinn bellows, earning a few annoyed glares nearby. He drops his voice to an icy, low level. “He. Is. My. Son.”
“He was always so afraid of disappointing you,” I blurt out, unable to filter my words at this point. My heart is cracked open and flooding out. “It crippled him. He didn’t even have decorations in his damn room because he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to push him away just like his mother did.”
Quinn freezes at my words. “He knows I love him and am proud of him.” His nostrils flare. “But not this.” He flutters his fingers at me.
“This is happening whether you like it or not,” I snarl out. “What I don’t understand is how you could be so willing to give him up? He’s fucking everything, and you don’t care!”
“Of course I care,” Quinn cries out. “He’s my boy. And now he’s with that filthy monster doing God only knows what. I’m terrified out of my goddamn skull. Do not for one second think you know the depths of how much I love him.”
“You ran him off,” I croak out, my eyes once again stinging. “What did you say to him?”
Quinn’s face falls, and he trembles. “I couldn’t look at him. Not right then.”
“You said that to him?” My hand fists, desperate to knock his head off his shoulders, but when I rise to do so, Dad yanks me back down into my seat. “You awful, fucking prick!”
A tear races down Quinn’s cheek, but he doesn’t swat it away. “He looked just like her. My sister. Tammy. Fucking his life up and looking to me to clean it up. I was just…I was just so pissed, but…” A sob escapes him, pained and horrified. “I just needed a breather. I needed to calm down. I didn’t want him to leave. I would never want that. Ever. He’s my little boy.”
Dad pulls Quinn to his side, hushing him as he cries. All I can do is stare helplessly. If Alis hadn’t run the first chance he got, maybe he’d see that everyone still loves him. That the love people feel for him isn’t contingent on whether he walks a perfectly straight line. Just like I knew, our dads would be pissed, but they’d get over it.
Alis didn’t trust me.
And now he’s gone.
Gone someplace where I can’t see or touch or speak to him.
I can’t protect him.
“I need air,” I mutter, rising from my seat.
“We board in twenty minutes,” Dad says, “so don’t go far.”
I hurry away from the table, breathing easier with each step away from them. Once inside the bathroom and in a stall, I lean back against the closed door and pull my phone out.
No reply.
I find his Instagram and leave him a voice message.
“They don’t care about us. Only about you. Tell me where you are. I’ll come get you. Please, Wonderland. I fucking miss you. I’m dying without you.”
The message goes unread, so I send him another one.
“I need to know everything we shared wasn’t just talk for you. What about the apartment? Our cat?” A pained sob chokes out of me. “Alis, I love you. Please. Give me something. Anything. I just need to know you haven’t let me go.”
I stare at the phone for the next fifteen minutes, waiting for a response. Nothing comes. Swallowing down my emotion, I exit the stall and find my family waiting for me with my bag. I sling it on over my shoulders, my phone still clasped in my death grip. We make it through the crowded area to our gate. As we stand in line, waiting to board, my mind drifts to Alis.
Stupid bleached-blond hair and fathomless brown eyes.
Taunting grins.
Soft, keening moans when I swallow his pierced dick.
The way he becomes hyper-focused when working on a sculpture, ignoring everything and everyone around him.
His teasing laughter when we watch Mubōna Ikari together and I geek out on all the scenes.
It’s only been days, and I miss him more than I thought possible. There’s no way I can go back to school next week without him. I can’t carry on like my heart didn’t just get up and leave.
The line moves slowly, so I flip back over to Instagram. His last posted picture was when we were skiing at the resort. It was a selfie of us—both of us wearing snow gear, sunglasses, and huge matching grins. The hashtag said #DaisukeAndChibi.
Pain and despair are anchors on my feet, dragging me under and blinding me in an abyss of what-ifs. All I can do is stare at our picture, the both of us so fucking happy, and try desperately not to cry. Dad clasps a hand on my shoulder, and I fall against him, losing the battle with my emotions. He hugs me tight, whispering assurances I want to believe.
We’ll get him back home soon.
Don’t worry about a thing.
He’ll come back to us.
The line moves, and Dad shifts us forward some. My phone buzzes in my hand. I tug away from him, hoping for a text from Alis. No text. But he’s posted a picture. It’s a selfie. He looks strange wearing a suit, and he’s not smiling, but the bottle of Coke in his hand makes my stomach flip. There’s a person in the background of the picture—some guy dressed in a black suit—glaring at him. Above that guy is the house number 1141. His hashtag says #IWantToSeeMyCat. Seconds later, there’s a private message—just one word. At first, I don’t understand why he says the word “First,” but then I realize it’s the street name.
He wants to go home.
He wants me.
Dad urges me closer to the gate where an airline worker waits. I shake my head in disagreement.
“N-No. I’m not getting on that flight.”
Quinn frowns at me. “What? Why?”
“I know where he is. I’m going to go get him.”