Puppeteer (The Thorns Series 4): The Thorns Series

By Amanda M. Blake

Be Yourself. Become Yourself.
Can you keep a secret?

 

In the aftermath of the exposed affair, Tobin isn't doing so well, pulling away from Olivia, his work, his life. When he ends up in a club to hate himself in someone else's company, he crosses paths with Ephraim, an enterprising alchemist with whom he experiences instant unexpected chemistry. Just as uncomfortable with his identity as Tobin, Ephraim offers him something no one else has: answers about who he is and the chance to change.

 

Meanwhile, Olivia's dealing with her own fallout, but between a fire at the gallery, tense interpersonal relationships, and Tobin not acting like himself, she struggles to find a foundation that doesn't crumble beneath her feet.

 

Someone doesn't want her in their fairy tale world. They're pulling the strings behind the scenes to systematically destroy her, and she has so much and so many people to lose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amanda M. Blake
• Release date: Oct 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223748588

Book preview

Tobin could speak now, but he still wasn’t saying much.

He managed numbers and schedules, kicked and cajoled the printer when it started printing wonky, could arrange shipping and contracts while heavily medicated, if not quite in his sleep. The business was running smoothly.

But there were whole stretches of days when he and Olivia didn’t say a word to each other. Tobin would blame himself for the cooling of their admittedly strange relationship, but if Olivia had wanted to talk to him, she would have.

She’d promised to tell Tobin what had happened to her while collecting the ransom for him. He’d never promised to tell her what had happened to him in return, but she’d gotten the SparkNotes version when she’d walked in on him fucking the prince in a dungeon cell, both of them dehydrated, underfed, dirty, naked, and cheating as hell.

Olivia Rowe—his boss, his friend, his partner—had seen him naked and having sex with a man he shouldn’t have been with for so many reasons. It didn’t matter that she was an autodidact in matters of anatomy and had already guessed what he looked like. It didn’t matter that she was fuzzily bisexual with a slew of nonbinary and sexually adventurous friends. It didn’t matter that she still loved him.

That had only made it so much worse.

Tobin didn’t have the same tolerance for humiliation as her. He’d accompanied her home when she’d been drugged and half-undressed, and it hadn’t been clear whether someone had done that to her or she’d done it to herself; when she hadn’t even known what she’d taken; when there had literally been unidentifiable fluids on her body; when she’d barely been able to walk and he’d had to somehow prop up this woman bigger than him and significantly taller in heels. But she’d still been able to look him in the eye the next morning—or to be more accurate, usually the next afternoon.

So, maybe she’d only been disappointed by him having an affair with the fiancé of another woman—a young woman he’d considered a friend and whose welfare mattered to him. Maybe Olivia didn’t care so much about the state she’d found him in.

But Tobin cared. And he was so much more disappointed in himself. That was usually normal for him, but it had reached all new depths he hadn’t thought himself capable of.

Knowing that Olivia didn’t share his condemnation didn’t make it any easier to talk to her. She didn’t understand religious reservations; she only understood that he had them. She couldn’t fathom why he didn’t let them go to feel better about himself.

She couldn’t comfort him, and he didn’t want to be comforted. He sometimes wanted her to hit him with a yardstick, because she had one, and because he respected her enough that it would hurt more coming from her than himself. But she kept using it to create straight lines, and he continued being very not straight in his office, some days not saying a word to her, just texting necessary information—even though they used to talk to each other over the gallery and studio walls.

And then there was the matter of her not talking to him. Tobin had always known—or suspected—that there were entire humiliations that Olivia hadn’t shared with him, and he suspected that a few of those had happened in the process of trying to rescue him. Which only added fuel to the shame fire, because if he and Caspar hadn’t been screwing around, they wouldn’t have been kidnapped in the first place, and Olivia wouldn’t have had to do whatever she’d done in order to rescue them. Overly garrulous though Olivia could be, she locked her lips as tight as a safe about some things, and none of them were good.

They had plenty to not say to each other.

And the fact that Prince Caspar was living with Olivia in her loft storage space wasn’t helping. Tobin knew Olivia hadn’t invited Caspar to stay with her because she was choosing anyone’s side. She was far from impartial, but she loved both Adelaide and Tobin, so Caspar staying with her wouldn’t show either one favor. But although Tobin didn’t like the idea of Olivia taking care of him the way he sometimes had to take care of her, he couldn’t deny to himself that it hurt a little that she was taking care of Caspar, as though being turned into a swan had forged this bond between them that had never been there before.

Olivia was uniquely attractive, if not exactly beautiful, and Caspar swung both ways, but she was with Griffin again. Although Griffin had proven himself a jealous man—or whatever he was—he wasn’t threatened by Caspar living in Olivia’s loft. So Tobin shouldn’t have been jealous, either, especially since Caspar wasn’t his, despite the fact Tobin had kept his mouth shut during the transformative curse and Adelaide had relinquished her claim—thus sending the Hunters’ arrangement with the Sleeping Kingdom’s royal family into minor chaos and necessitating Caspar’s move.

From what Tobin had heard over these ceilingless walls, living with Caspar had done nothing to dismantle her friendship with Adelaide, who had apparently experienced her own trauma during the ransom experience—beyond just seeing her fiancé with another man’s cock up his ass. She called often.

Sometimes it felt like shit didn’t stick to Olivia.

Tobin knew that was untrue and unkind. But feelings didn’t stop just because he knew them to be false or wrong—which was the singular cause behind all his messes. And Tobin didn’t like mess.

No matter how many times he rearranged the pens in his desk caddy, it wouldn’t tidy up the chaos he’d made of his life. And as long as he kept everything locked behind clenched teeth, the cause of that chaos was going to keep pumping its slow-acting poison into his blood.

Tobin picked up his phone. Four in the afternoon on a Thursday. He wasn’t going to make it through Friday.

Liv, I’m going to duck out early and take tomorrow off.

Texting like teenagers in a classroom. That’s what their conversations had been reduced to over the last four weeks. And he wasn’t asking for permission.

Take the time you need.

Of course she hadn’t said no. If he’d told her she was sending him on an all-expenses-paid trip to the Bahamas for two weeks, she probably wouldn’t have said no.

He was taking advantage of her. Sure, he hadn’t had much in the way of days off that hadn’t been caused by rapacious sorcerers, rat infestations, or goddess vendettas. But before those had happened, he hadn’t wanted time off work. He would have preferred for Olivia to eschew irresponsible decisions, but he’d still crawled out of bed at two in the morning for her, followed her to the other side of the world to rescue princesses as though he were in any way capable of helping.

After everything she’d done for him, he owed her his life multiple times over, even accounting for the time he’d saved hers.

But he was taking advantage of her. And punishing her. For something she wasn’t responsible for. For something she wasn’t even doing. Care and maintenance of his artist was part of his job, but he literally phoned it in lately. Olivia was in pain, too, and he wasn’t helping.

Still, she had a big, scary monster to hold her in the dark again, a knighted prince in her loft, and a little of her own magic to wield—not to mention a vengeful goddess who seemed to have taken an interest, given Olivia’s proximity to men the goddess had turned into beasts over the last millennia or so. Olivia had enough people in her corner—powerful people.

And she was so much stronger than him. If she didn’t have a slightly scrawny, undershaven, rumpled, pathetic assistant hanging off her shoulders like Alfred Pennyworth every minute of every day, she’d probably survive.

He didn’t have anyone.

Tobin shut his laptop with emails still outstanding and stepped out of his office.

Olivia was in the studio in front of another one of her Infernos. When she wasn’t working on commission, she kept coming back to Infernos these days, which so rarely sold that they weren’t worth the making from a business perspective—even if they raked in a damn good bit when they did sell. Fortunately, between the Art Nouveaux, nude studies, and the fairy tale series, plus commissions, she could afford to waste time on art therapy.

The current piece that people watched her paint through the studio picture windows had an awful lot of tentacles.

Olivia glanced over her shoulder as Tobin walked into her periphery. She was wearing green cat-ear headphones, so she wouldn’t have heard him close his office door or the sound of his shoes. Hard to sneak past her keen eyes, though, even with a painting to distract her. She lifted her chin in acknowledgment and smiled.

She could fool everyone else with her vivid color addiction—blue hair, carnival pink corset and tutu, purple patent-leather hooker boots the same shade as her lipstick—but Tobin knew better. After witnessing enough smeared lipstick and lashes askew, a person started seeing the face underneath. It didn’t matter how brightly she smiled.

He offered a perfunctory wave.

Taking advantage of her. Hurting her.

He kept walking.

She’d gone to hell and back to rescue him, but she could live without him for a little while. He couldn’t spend his whole life revolving around Olivia, no matter how much her gravity tried to pull him back into her orbit.

It was easier for him to pull her into the blame instead.

Without her, things would have been safer. Simpler. Blissfully more boring. It wouldn’t have been paradise, because he still had his own failings, but he certainly wouldn’t be where he was now, as low as he could possibly go—rock-fucking-bottom, with Adelaide’s accusations ringing in his ears whenever he reached the silence of his small apartment.

All the more reason not to go home. The thought of going out, though…

He’d gone longer than usual without clubbing, which was an improvement, although it didn’t feel like one. But every time he considered swallowing his pride and any presumption of repentance, he remembered nails on his chin and being called ‘puppy’ by an enchantress who had turned more than her share of men into dogs. He craved oblivion, which he could get in spades if he went looking where he always had. But he didn’t deserve oblivion, and he certainly wasn’t allowed to get it where he so desperately wanted it.

Home it is.

He wasn’t a bucket of chuckles at the moment, and the evening didn’t promise to get any better, but he had a subscription to every takeout app known to man and several streaming accounts, and he didn’t have to go to work tomorrow. He’d binge-watch and binge-eat his way to something approaching oblivion—not enough to eliminate the memories he needed for keeping himself in line, but maybe enough to get some sleep.

Tobin’s cousin Antonio waited for him in the apartment lobby, lounging on one of the benches. As Tobin entered, the doorman nodded to him with an expression that Tobin couldn’t read, but seeing Antonio was warning enough that something wasn’t going to plan that evening, given that people had never been part of the plan.

Who died?

Antonio glanced up from his phone. Hey, primo, how’ve you been?

I’ve been better. Who died?

Don’t be mad.

Well, now I’m mad and I don’t even know why. Who died?

Antonio tucked his phone in his back pocket, then shoved his hands into the front pockets, unable to meet Tobin’s gaze. That told him volumes on its own, because if Tobin was the disappointment, Antonio was the wild child of the Morales side of the family. He did what he liked and looked people in the eye while he did it. When the rest of the family had disowned Tobin, Antonio had been there, telling Tobin that he could call anytime.

He still didn’t know what Antonio actually thought about him coming out. It was something they didn’t talk about, which seemed to be what kept most of Tobin’s relationships intact these days. But whatever Antonio felt, it didn’t stop him from regularly checking in.

Your family is here, Antonio said.

Tobin stood still and silent for what probably seemed like too long. Which family? What family?

Yours. Most of it.

Specifics, please.

Don’t hyperventilate, primo.

I don’t think I have much choice in the matter. Who. Is. Here?

Everyone. Well, not Abuelita, but your parents, your brothers and sister, my parents, my sister, Ramon and Alicia and their baby, your Aunt Mary and Uncle Cyrus. Everyone.

Tobin weighed the option of just turning around, walking out of the building, and finding a hotel. Or maybe taking a taxi to his car and driving south for the winter. "And by here, you mean…"

Waiting at your apartment door and probably driving your neighbors crazy. Tía Dora wanted to surprise you, and you know how Uncle Ben is when he gets an idea in his head. He didn’t want me calling you, really wanted it to be a surprise. I told him you didn’t like those kinds of surprises and seeing me down here would be enough of one.

"Okay, just so I’ve got this right: My family, who has had nothing to do with me for five years, aside from the assorted pamphlet mailed to my address, decided to swarm upon me en masse like a plague of locusts—without calling or emailing like a responsible plague—on a Thursday night as a pleasant surprise? All the blood drained from his head, which sent his consciousness floating about two inches higher than where he normally felt it. He pressed his hand against his forehead, as though that would keep him grounded. Or is this, like, random drug testing to make sure I’m clean?"

Are you? Clean, I mean? Antonio started toward the elevators, and Tobin found himself following, the rapidly sinking sensation of dread and inevitability making him lightheaded all over again.

Tobin pushed the elevator button. The doors opened right away, which spared them additional awkwardness in a situation that had already surpassed awkward and gone directly to miserable in less than ten minutes.

I’m obsessively tidy. That hasn’t changed from house to apartment.

No, I mean the other kind of clean.

In the elevator, Antonio continued to slouch like he had when he was a teenager. Tobin was an executive assistant, and Antonio was in IT. Funny how hanging out with someone they’d known as kids reverted them to their younger selves—which didn’t bode well for when Tobin saw the rest of his family for the first time in five years. The last thing he wanted was to be nineteen years old all over again.

If you mean ‘Do I keep recreational drugs out on my coffee table?’ then the answer is no. My drug of choice is coffee, which is not only legal but encouraged. He did a few others now and then, but he didn’t keep anything stronger than wine in his apartment. And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had the wine.

No, I mean… Come on, man, you know what I mean.

Tobin had really thought he’d meant drugs, but now all the blood that had rushed from his head before came flooding back into his face. You mean, am I laying off the men and laying on cheap hookers of the feminine persuasion instead?

You always did have a way with words, Toby.

Only Abuelita is allowed to call me that, and that’s because I can’t stop her or else she pretends she can’t speak English. And then when I talk to her in Spanish, she pretends she can’t hear.

Your parents are going to want to know—

The elevator opened onto one of the middle levels of Tobin’s personal hell.

The family reunion he’d never asked for had gathered outside his apartment door. He was honestly surprised that Sabrina hadn’t picked the lock to let everyone inside. If their mother hadn’t been there, maybe she would have.

Five years hadn’t made much of a difference to his mother and father. A few more gray hairs in the black wave swept back from his father’s forehead and temples, a touch of a receding hairline, but he still appeared distinguished. His mother’s hair was bound up and held in place with a comb, not a single gray strand in sight, which meant she’d colored it recently. The lines by their eyes and mouths had become more pronounced but hadn’t yet multiplied.

His brothers and sister were more of a surprise, because his younger teenage brothers had gotten tall and lanky, and Sabrina was full-on coed in leggings and a crop top.

They were gathered like wasps around a paper nest, speaking a little too loudly over each other to be heard. At the ding of the elevator, half the family turned around in hopes that it was for them, but Tobin couldn’t mistake the hesitation that followed their revelation.

Tobin, mijo, Tobin, Tobin, Tobin, Tobin. His mother pushed through the fray and came after him with her arms open, tears already sparkling in her eyes.

Jesus, she was going to cry, then Tobin was going to cry, and then they were all going to cry, because Tobin couldn’t help but choke up every time his mother was upset. One of the strongest, most vivid memories of his mother was her rising from the living room sofa after he’d come out and going to the main bedroom, where a closed door hadn’t quite shut away her sobs.

Tobin met his mother halfway down the hall. She was a head shorter than him. His mother wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek to his chest. Her tears made his shirt cold, but she fought not to cry too hard as she hugged him with the strength of small people who didn’t think to modulate that strength the way bigger and taller people tended to.

Mom, I have ribs, and they are breakable. But Tobin didn’t let his mother go for another beat or two, because it had been so long since he’d hugged her.

Sorry, mijo. I’m just really happy to see you.

You’re later than we thought you would be, his father said, waiting within the throng. When Tobin had still been a member of the family, his father had offered the occasional three-second hug and back pat weirdly common among straight men, but like Tobin, he’d never been a physically demonstrative person, and he only ever said ‘I love you’ to his wife and his daughter. With his sons, he’d shown love by giving his time—usually doing things that suggested the opposite of love to Tobin, who had never been outdoorsy, no matter how many bonding trips his father had taken him on or how many family hikes Ben had thought appropriate for a family of six.

I’m actually off early. I would have left sooner if you’d let me know you were coming.

The utterly neutral expression on his father’s face and the evenness in Tobin’s tone suggested that they both knew that if Tobin had known this was coming, he would have called Antonio and said he had Ebola.

His mother tucked her arm into his elbow to pull him down the hall like he was an intransigent toddler. We wanted this to be a surprise.

A Thursday surprise? Tobin asked.

We’re taking a family trip this weekend. We hoped you’d join us, his father replied. Definitely didn’t sound like it had been his idea, but Ben Morse usually bent over backward to love, cherish, honor, and obey his wife—which spoke volumes about the last five years. His father clearly didn’t want to have anything to do with his estranged son, but no matter how teary Tobin’s mother became, it had taken her five years to request that they see Tobin again.

This is something I should have known about weeks in advance. You know how important a schedule is when managing an artist. For all you know, she has a convention. Or an art show. Or a…wall she needs to paint or something.

His father crossed his arms a lot less defensively than Tobin did. And you’re not allowed to take time off?

Not on convention weekends, no.

Does your artist have a convention this weekend?

No. But you didn’t know that.

Tobin, your mother is asking you to spend time with your family, and your family is standing outside your apartment instead of being invited into it. We raised you better than that.

You raised me for nineteen years, and you still don’t know I don’t like surprises? But Tobin grabbed his keys and unlocked the two dead bolts.

Is it such a bad neighborhood? his mother asked.

I just like security.

Tobin undid the lock on the knob, but he paused before opening the door. There wouldn’t be anything he needed to worry about on the coffee table or the bookshelves, but it occurred to him that he still had that damn picture hanging in the living room across from his bed, a print from Olivia’s nude collection that no one but himself, Sylvaine, and the occasional partner he’d brought back to his apartment knew that he had. It was tasteful, more anatomical study than erotic, and no one blinked that Olivia mostly drew and painted women for that collection. But they’d blink that he had it.

Antonio had asked him if he was clean. No dirty magazines, no porn on his personal computer screen, no unlabeled pills on the kitchen counter, but that framed picture was going to be a problem. Just as he hadn’t furnished his apartment to entertain, he hadn’t decorated for his family, hadn’t expected them to ever see him again, much less his apartment. Spare as the décor was, the print would stick out like a sore thumb on the sore point that was his sexuality.

He pulled back the key and turned around. His family surrounded him like spectators around a fish bowl. The urge to retreat—to push through his door and lock it behind him before anyone could make it through the doorway—rushed through him with his quickening heartbeat. What exactly was the surprise plan tonight? Were we just going to have dinner? Because there’s a really good Indian place around the corner, if you want to walk with me.

I need to use the bathroom, Sabrina said.

They have bathrooms in Indian restaurants, too, Sabrina.

Don’t be a brat, Tobin. I need to pee now.

Charming. Tobin sighed. Might as well tear off the bandage. Come on in. I’m not exactly set up for a family picnic, so don’t crowd the cushioned surfaces.

Tobin opened his door and scanned the room to make sure his clothes were in the hamper, his closet closed—just for aesthetic purposes, not because there was anything else to hide. If he tried to stash the frame under his bed or behind the couch now, he’d be too conspicuous.

I have water and lemon if you want it. Tobin grabbed the pitcher that he kept in the fridge for mornings. I can also make coffee—cold press or latte, whatever’s your pleasure.

I’ll have water after I pee. Sabrina left her purse on the kitchen island and darted to the bathroom without additional comment.

His family was more subdued entering the apartment, perhaps because he hadn’t been exaggerating when he said it wasn’t set up for family. Kitchen, living room, bedroom open, with a bathroom off the living room and a closet off the bedroom—a single person’s flat. He could afford more these days, but he liked it, even though the only view was another building’s wall. It was nothing like Olivia’s loft, which had a million-dollar view for a less-than-a-million-dollar price tag, but he usually kept the curtains closed, anyway. The studio gallery was expansive enough for him the rest of the time. His office alone was almost the size of this apartment, and unlike Olivia, he hadn’t furnished it with anything but his desk on one side of the room.

Tobin set the water on the island next to Sabrina’s purse and searched through his cabinets for enough glasses, determinedly not looking in the direction of the print in the living room.

His mother poured herself a glass. Antonio accepted one, too. Tobin’s brothers just wandered around awkwardly before draping themselves on his couch.

Ben Morse stood between the bedroom and living room with Tobin’s aunts and uncles from both sides of the family. Tobin’s muscles tightened in his neck and back. He didn’t want to look, didn’t want to be seen looking, but his body rarely listened to his brain in circumstances like this.

His father stared up at the nude print of a reclining man. It was nothing that would require a fig leaf, but Olivia had only just avoided showing the start of pubic hair, and the line of flank stayed unbroken. Despite the fact that the man lay down, there was undeniable tension to his body, as though he were just on the brink of stretching. It was a study in musculature for her, a design of pencil, charcoal, and a touch of watercolor that might have actually been tea or coffee—understated in comparison to the brilliant colors of her Art Nouveaux, the dense stories of her fairy tale collection, the complication of the Infernos. Some of her nudes edged on other collections, depending on her state of mind, inspiration, whether they’d been commissioned, and how patient and interesting a model was, but there was nothing particularly special about this man’s appearance. Tobin couldn’t even remember the model anymore. It was the almost-motion, the potential energy, that fairly crackled in the lines and shadows and had drawn him to the picture when he’d been rifling through her print bins.

When he’d first become Olivia’s assistant, Tobin hadn’t had much knowledge of art beyond a few art-history-type courses in high school, and he would never completely understand Olivia’s world beyond the business side, but he could tell that she was good. The print on his wall wasn’t the only one that had mesmerized him, even though most of her subjects were women. Other people wouldn’t understand the complicated feelings he had for Olivia’s paintings, almost as many as he had for Olivia herself. He couldn’t explain why he’d chosen this print over all the others, why it made him stop and stare for minutes on end without any sense of time passing.

But no straight man, no matter how secure in their masculinity, would adorn their bachelor pad with a male nude, even a narcissistic one of themselves. They probably wouldn’t touch the feminine subjects of the Art Nouveaux or fairy tale paintings either, but they definitely wouldn’t put up a print of a naked man, not when there were so many beautiful women for them to choose from.

Ben Morse stood there, hands at his sides, temple jumping, although he didn’t flush the way he did when he was absolutely furious. He stared up at the picture as though he could burn it under his gaze, or as though if he stared at it long enough, it would change—like he might notice something that would make the figure female, so he could somehow justify it to himself.

Tobin hadn’t thought anything could be worse than getting caught with Caspar, but all the memories of his middle and high school years flooded through his head. Praying to change, praying not to get caught, praying to get caught, working up just enough courage to sit down in front of his family to tell them he was gay before they found out in a more humiliating way—like walking in on him and a friend from school ‘studying’ while he was between girlfriends, or a teacher catching Tobin with another boy in the theater auditorium of their Catholic high school. Tobin had, for a brief moment, wanted to control the narrative more than he’d wanted to hide it completely, because he hadn’t been sure how much longer his luck would hold—or how much longer he’d wanted it to.

Half of him had hoped they would rally around him, reassure him that the Bible didn’t condemn him for what he wanted—that the admonition against man with man was actually condemnation against the practice of pederasty, that Sodom’s sin was inhospitality, that the God they knew still had a place for him beyond a life of celibacy or commitment to a woman, whether he wanted to vomit at the idea or not.

The other part had wanted them to soundly condemn him, confirm what he felt and feared—that there was a natural order to things beyond mere biology of fallen creatures, and he had violated that natural order. He’d hoped they would call his desires perverse but say they would help, encourage his recovery while he struggled, as with any other addiction, because they loved him and would ask the saints to intervene while they held him accountable through meetings and confession.

They had not accepted him, which had been both a sickening disappointment and sickening relief. But neither had they offered to stand by him in his weakness. His brothers and sister hadn’t responded as viscerally as his father or as tearfully as his mother, but neither had they spoken up in his defense then or contacted him since.

Until now, when so many members of his family had just appeared without warning at his apartment as though nothing had happened, nothing had changed. Except it had. The quiet scrutiny of every inch of his apartment not only brought up the old memories and feelings from when he’d been kicked out of Eden with Adam and Steve, but he had all new nausea to add on top of it, like an overloaded, five-day-old pizza.

He could have just as easily made the devastating error of infidelity with a woman. Antonio wasn’t exactly known for restraint in the realm of fornication, much to the pearl-clutching disapproval of most of the family. Yet Antonio was still part of that family, his weaknesses overlooked, if not accepted, while what had happened with Caspar in comparison somehow seemed a confirmation of everything wrong with what Tobin was, an inevitable conclusion to an unfortunate desire. The last thing Tobin wanted to do was give his family more ammunition against their reprobate son.

He quickly downed half a glass of lemon water, hoping it would settle his stomach before the shit hit the fan. Because unless his father swallowed back what pulsed in his temples now, he was preparing the shit to fling, and Tobin wouldn’t be able to stop him from exploding in front of the entire damn family.

He wouldn’t do that when Mom wants to mend fences. You’re anticipating apocalypses, like you always do. As wrong as it can go, it probably won’t.

Sabrina returned to the island and pulled her phone out of her purse to answer a text. You going to be able to come down to Virginia this weekend with us? I was really hoping to spend some time with you. There’s this show I think you’ll like…

I don’t know. I didn’t plan on an impromptu road trip, and I’d have to be back before Monday.

How much work does managing an artist even require? Sabrina asked. Always sounded like one of those bougie jobs where you rake in the cash for a few hours’ work with rich people.

His father opened the nightstand drawer. Condoms and lube weren’t exclusively gay by a long shot—just circumstantial when paired with a nude print—but if his father started opening dresser drawers, it was going to get even more mortifying. He was probably going to start counting the tissues in the bedside bin next, as though Tobin never needed to blow his nose.

Within the waves of nausea, anger bubbled up like sulfuric acid, stinging the back of Tobin’s throat. He’d invited them into his home; he hadn’t consented to a homosexual scavenger hunt in his apartment.

You’d be surprised at how much work goes into caring for an artist who can afford to be cared for. Tobin stepped away from the island, leaving his sister and mother without a segue.

He felt as though he were shaking from the inside out—less from fear now than fury—but when he glanced down at himself, he looked steady as he weaved between family members. On the way, some of them jerked back, an involuntary reaction from whatever disgust they harbored. After all, they didn’t know where his body had been.

His father waited for him, his lips a familiar thin line. At over six feet, he loomed. He wasn’t as tall as Griffin, but even in his silence amid the noisy chaos of their family in such a small space, he intimidated just as much as when Griffin had sent out magic to submerge Tobin’s mind in nightmares, his worst fears one after another, like dreaming awake and drowning in one’s sleep at the same time.

I’m not going on that family trip, am I? Tobin said.

You have a sister and two brothers I have to protect, his father replied.

What do you think I’m going to do to them? God forbid they hang out around a sinner. It’s not like Jesus did that or anything. Oh, wait…

‘Go forth and sin no more,’ his father replied. That was always what He said to the sinners He met. Repentance, Tobin. He gestured to the print, to the entire bedroom. I see no repentance here.

It’s a work in progress.

Have you given confession?

Tobin couldn’t answer him. He’d tried for a while, but he hadn’t been able to go to confession in good conscience for the last four years, not when he knew he’d just turn around and do what he shouldn’t, over and over again. He could have done what so many did—confess his sin in bad faith and hope he could penance his way out of the worst of purgatory—but he knew himself too well and expected far better. So he stayed away in hope that God would change him on His own, that the urge would subside or nausea would overtake his lusts. All of which had yet to happen.

Thy will be done. Was who he was God’s will or human weakness? Did it matter anymore?

I thought if we gave you space, let you witness the fruits of your actions, how they poison your life and that of your family, you’d get it out of your system enough to realize it was wrong.

You didn’t give me space. You told me I had until midnight to leave before you called the cops on me for trespassing. Then you told me to never come back.

Actions have consequences, Tobin. You always liked that—cause and effect, reliable, clear. Against spending the rest of eternity separate from God, what I did to you was nothing. You were old enough to live on your own, take care of yourself.

I was only halfway through college and ended up forty thousand dollars in student loan debt, plus ten thousand in credit card debt just to stay afloat until I could get a real job. I was lucky, Dad—lucky that my first job was with an eccentric woman who doesn’t believe in negotiating in her own favor.

Antonio joined them with a can of soda in one hand. "I’ve seen pictures of that woman on Insta. That chick is extra as hell. And she looks like she knows what to do with all that extra, you know what I’m saying?"

Antonio, now’s not a good time. If Tobin didn’t know any better, he’d say Antonio’s drink was spiked. Tobin supposed he could have had a flask somewhere on him, but he didn’t smell like alcohol. Maybe he was just high on the fumes of guilt and hypocrisy thick in the apartment. A Catholic Geiger counter would be going crazy right now.

No, really, Toby—

Don’t call me Toby, and I won’t call you Tony.

"How do you work with an ‘artistic’ piece of ass like that and not try and sleep with her? I mean, really, even liking something else, how can you not? Surely she’s asked, a cute, sensitive boy like you." Antonio ruffled his hair.

This is the part of my nightmare where I detail every single one of my teenage fantasies in front of family and friends, all while wearing a pastel pink banana hammock, isn’t it?

Just the thought made him want to tortoise into his body, leaving nothing but a torso and indentations where his head and limbs should be.

Turns out, sleeping with your boss is highly discouraged, no matter what they consider professional attire. Tobin tried to inch out from under Antonio’s arm around his shoulder. Sure, it was great that there was one person in the room who didn’t think they’d catch the gay by proximity, but Tobin had a defined sense of personal space and barely let Olivia cross it.

Okay, I get that, but you don’t even want her? That’s what I’ll never understand. She’s not, like, Scarlet Johansson, but she’s— He gestured to indicate two of Olivia’s more prominent assets that she’d never had any issue showing off when she wanted to.

Antonio, that’s enough.

In case Tobin had ever wondered where he’d gotten his own long-suffering expression, it presently graced his father’s face as he fought to maintain composure.

Sorry, Tío, but isn’t that why you’re pissed off in the first place? Because you thought he’d eventually grow out of it and discover some hottie he liked ‘exercising’ with instead of hanging pictures of pretty men on his wall? Antonio gave Tobin a pointed look that suggested a male nude was exactly opposite of the kind of ‘clean’ he’d been referencing in the elevator.

"I didn’t know you were coming. Otherwise, I would have made it all very easy for everyone to pretend everything is fine. I could have even put it in the closet, just to make everything that much more of a cliché. By the way, my boss has a very…large boyfriend. Tobin held his hand up as high as he could so they’d know exactly what he meant by that, rather than the other obscener thing. Our relationship is Luke and Leia, not Leia and Han."

Leia kissed her brother.

He’d walked right into that one. Terrible example. Look, I’m not her gay best friend or anything, but believe me, that’s not happening in a million years. The print was a gift from her, by the way. A lie, of course, but a tiny one. He wouldn’t put it past her gifting him one in the future without the slightest idea why it was inappropriate. "And she does visit."

The second he said the word ‘gay,’ everyone collectively took a breath. The tiny word expanded into the pause.

Circe had killed him at her animal conservatory. That was the only plausible explanation for this.

You’re not even pretending anymore, are you? Ben Morse said, deep voice too big for the confined space.

I came out because I didn’t want to pretend anymore. Lying to everyone and myself may have made things more comfortable at the potluck, but I don’t see how lying on top of being gay makes the problem any better. And yes, I hear myself say these things, but I’m going to keep ignoring it, Tobin said, holding a finger up at Antonio. Faking it didn’t get me anywhere. It didn’t change anything. It didn’t fix me.

So you acknowledge it’s a problem, his father said.

I never said it wasn’t. Jury’s still out, but I wouldn’t be so lucky.

The jury’s not out where it matters. What the world does in courtrooms and on Congressional floors doesn’t make a difference to God.

Theological jury’s still out. But you’re missing the actual point.

Which is?

I just wanted your help! Tobin hadn’t meant to yell, and he certainly hadn’t meant to choke up while doing it. God doesn’t help those who help themselves. If people could help themselves, they wouldn’t need God.

That’s not even a Bible verse. Sabrina spoke in a normal voice at the beginning but became more subdued as she realized how loud she was in such a densely quiet room. Where’s it even from?

Greece. Aesop’s Fables, Tobin replied automatically. "I wanted to figure out with you where to go from there and how to live with it. Instead, you threw me out like a baby to the wolves, or a baby with the bathwater…whatever."

I had your sister and your brothers to think about. I had your mother to think about, his father said.

What the hell was I going to do to them? Corrupt their immortal souls because they might question whether or not I’m okay? Last I checked, not being clear on matters of theology isn’t part of the heavenly criteria. It just helps organize things down here.

This is what I was protecting them from. His father thrust an accusing finger at the print, then threw his arms up in frustration. This perversion on display to your young, impressionable siblings, who might have considered experimenting like their big brother if I’d kept you in the house. And the way you talk—always so ordered and logical—you’d convince them to tolerate it, accept it, try it, embrace it, the way you convinced yourself into it. Just listen to yourself.

"No, listen to yourself. No point in trying to be civil anymore. I can throw around the churchy, head-of-household talk just as well as you can, and that’s what bites you. ‘The devil knows every word of Scripture,’ and all that. But this isn’t about sin. This isn’t about corruption."

Then what is it about, Father Tobin, wise and aged one? Impart upon us your wisdom.

Okay, maybe he’d inherited the sarcasm, too.

None of us are here talking about the Seven Deadly Sins of the rest of you. We’re not talking about Sabrina’s lies, Tío Julio’s drinking… We’re not talking about the time Marcos spent in prison or about your brother, who’s still there. We’re not talking about Antonio being goddamn lucky he hasn’t been subpoenaed for child support payments, or heaven forbid that other thing we don’t even want to think about. As long as no one plays ‘Billie Jean’ at the party, he just hops into the next girl’s bed.

Hey, person who’s been keeping in touch right here, primo. You want to take it down a notch? No more arm around the shoulder, though.

That’s just the stuff everyone knows about and talks about behind everyone’s back—because gossip is okay with God, right, Dad? Does everyone really fucking want me to get into the family secrets?

Mijo, please, his mother said softly.

Sorry, Mom. Mea culpa for the language. He’d been around far too much sailor-level cursing in the workplace. "The point is, everyone here has sinned. Not everyone’s gotten better or has any intention or ability to stop. But only two people are exiled from the family—Uncle Martin, who murdered his wife and daughter, and me, the homosexual. If sexual sins were the standard for shunning, I could think of at least three of you who should be kicked out with me. But you’re not. I’m not hurting anyone else, just myself, yet my offense is so great, it’s somehow on par with murder? No, you didn’t kick me out because I was such a bad sinner. I’m living with all the guilt we both think I need. You kicked me out because I disgust you."

"Of course it’s disgusting. Tobin’s father slammed his fist down on the foot of the bed. The comforter and mattress sounded like they’d been hit in the abdomen, air shoved out of their lungs. Tobin wasn’t the only person who flinched. If you were smuggling in disease-ridden prostitutes and snorting bad coke from their stomachs, I’d have kicked you out then, too. It’s disgusting, Tobin, and it goes against every admonition to man and woman about how to be men and women. Your mind, your soul… Something is wrong with you, and here you are, proving my point with your words, as though God Himself isn’t the Word, as though He doesn’t have dominion over the languages He split to confuse us out of our own pride—pride that leads us to this place that you’ve put us in, over and over again."

Which you clearly had no part in. Tobin barely recognized the snarl in his voice that was mostly to cover up the slow tightening of his throat around the obstruction within it. "I’m not saying I know everything, but you don’t, either. And if you’d still kick me out of your house today—not for doing gay things but for having the audacity to be gay—then you might as well leave right now. This is my home. I’m kicking you out so that I can be just as miserable, helpless, and alone as you wanted me to be. Who cares if I’ve suffered? Who cares if I’ve maybe been going through something terrible only tangentially related to the issue at hand? All that matters is the gay. Because that’s all I am to you. Well, what are you waiting for? Go. I’m not having a party, I’m not catering a dinner, and I’m not going on a road trip with people who can barely be in the same room as me without putting on a gas mask."

As usual, Ben Morse said, quiet, cold, you always have to close the drama with a scene.

"I don’t know whether you got the memo, Dad, but I’m a fucking drama queen."

Tobin. His mother touched his cheek, tears in her eyes again. They’d been so close when he was younger, despite the lies of omission, but all that had dissolved when she’d never returned any of his attempts to contact her afterward. He loved her so hard that if it were possible to will oneself straight, he would have done it a long time ago—or right now.

But he couldn’t. He covered his mother’s hand with his own and lowered his head. Mea culpa, Mom.

Some of his family had already filed out, perhaps grateful to be free of the tension. Tobin’s immediate family and Antonio remained. Antonio seemed miffed but not altogether upset, which Tobin counted as a gift, because he’d expected to have burned that bridge by setting fire to the dirty laundry. But Tobin supposed that where there was no shame, there wasn’t much in the way of offense.

Must be nice.

We were giving you a chance, his father said, eyes narrowed and arms still crossed.

No, you weren’t. You came looking for my failure in your little home inspection. Tobin met his mother’s eyes. No accusations like in his father’s, but there was disappointment, which destroyed him more. "If I have to work on this on my own, I’ll keep doing it on my own."

You call this working on it? His father nodded at the print.

"I call that art. It’s all over Rome. I’m not very decorative, and it reminds me of Olivia. Not entirely a lie this time. Look, you and I aren’t going to see eye to eye on this, Dad. We never will. We agree on one thing: We don’t like that I’m gay. But where we disagree is that I know it’s not going to change. I’m not bringing a nice girl home for Thanksgiving, proposing on the Riviera, celebrating with a big, cathedral white wedding, or having children. It’s just not going to happen. He demurred to his mother. I’m sorry. I want to be what you dreamed for me, but I can’t. Barring spontaneous de-gaying, I’ve just got to work with what I am."

"What you do. Which you’re obviously still doing," his father said.

I told you, I’m working on it. Tobin stepped away from his mother. It seems like it should be easy, but it’s not.

"How hard is it not to touch a man?" Antonio asked, with genuine curiosity rather than biting wit.

Antonio, you have literally no room to talk to me about self-denial.

Antonio tilted his head with wry assent as he finished his soda.

Go outside with your parents, Antonio. Ben Morse managed to rein in most of the bile, but not quite all. You’ve been more than helpful.

No problem, Tío Ben. Stay frosty, primo. Try not to shoot at friendlies next time, yeah?

Tobin couldn’t bring himself to apologize, but he raised his chin in acknowledgment as Antonio left.

His brothers had escaped from the couch, out of the way of the artistic ammunition, to stand with utmost awkwardness in the kitchen with Sabrina. Tobin couldn’t tell if the awkwardness was because they were teenagers or whether they were just as put off by Tobin as their father.

Sabrina appeared unfazed, despite the fact that Tobin had called her out, too, so Tobin didn’t know what she thought about everything, although she was doubtlessly entertained. Like he’d pointed out, she was an accomplished liar, so she could have thought anything without it smudging her poker face.

Antonio may be misguided, but how is he wrong? his father said. You didn’t have to hang that picture. You don’t have to touch anyone you don’t want to, which suggests that if you’re continuing to pollute your body and mind with this persistent, unconfessed sin, it’s because you want it. You might be lying to me or yourself, but it’s really quite simple. It was one thing for you to come out to us, but that you continue to engage in these activities… His father’s thin lip curled involuntarily at the very thought. You spit in God’s face, and you spit in mine. If you think anything you’ve said to me today is something that you could say at the feet of God Himself, you’re further gone than you believe, than we hoped. I stand by my decision to protect my family from what you brought into it.

I’m sorry I’m not recovering fast enough for you. Must be dizzying up there, looking down at mere mortals like the rest of us. Tobin wanted more water but was afraid it would repeat on him, and turning his back on his father would be a kind of retreat.

Given how often you’ve ridden your own high horse, I’m surprised you can tell the difference. His father shook his head, disgust still carved into his expression in a dozen subtle ways as he reached for his wife’s hand. You know what you need to do to be part of this family again, Tobin. Until that happens, understand that you’re hurting your mother every day you insist on your lifestyle over the love of God and family. We should leave. We still have a dinner to go to, and we’ve been denied from this door.

I didn’t deny anyone, Tobin said quietly, voice catching.

In deed if not in word.

Tobin