"I can explain," Was the first thing I said.

My mother turned away from the phone screen as if she couldn't bear to look at it anymore and sat down in the nearest armchair, a hand to her chest and an ashen expression on her face. For a long, terrible moment, the room was absolutely silent.

Then my father looked up at me. He let the phone fall out of his hands, and I heard the sound of its screen cracking on the wood floor.

"Then explain," he grumbled. "Explain this, Nathaniel Connor Jean. And do a good damn job."

It was as if neither of them took any notice of the mess the house was in. They didn't care about the cans scattered across the floor, or the cushions that had been pushed out of place. My mom was still sat in the armchair, staring blankly ahead and repeatedly tapping her palm against her chest as if it would help her control her heart rate.

"Last night was a mess, okay?" I said lamely, having no idea how to discredit the literal photo evidence they'd seen. "We did dumb stuff. Dares, you know? None of it—none of it meant anything."

Without another word, my father picked up my phone. He crossed the room to stand in from of me, and I had to refrain from stepping back. "You're telling me you did this," he turned the phone around to show me a picture of Lucas and I in the hot tub, "Was a dare?"

I needed to say something. I needed to get myself out of this corner. All I had to do was think. I could come up with something. Lying was my forte.

But I was stuck.

I froze up. My brain abandoned me, leaving me with my mouth open, waiting for something intelligent to leave it. Nothing came. What could I say? He had a picture right there.

"Explain," he barked, startling me out of my silence.

"What do you want me to say?" My voice had never been so quiet. I felt like a small child being scolded by an imposing stranger. My father was a big man. He was scariest when he raised his voice. Staring up at him under the weight of his glare, I felt tiny.

    "I want you to tell me that my son isn't a fucking faggot!" I flinched as he yelled. He took another step towards me, and this time I did take a step back.

     I tried to lift my chin and at least feign confidence, but my quivering hands gave me away. "And what if I can't tell you that?" I whispered. Dread held a vise grip my stomach—I had just, after six years of hiding, sort of come out to my parents. But there was something else, too, mingling with the dread. Something like hope—hope that they wouldn't do anything drastic. Hope that I hadn't just put everything at stake for a few pictures. Hope that they might just be really mad for a while, then eventually become tolerant, and one day maybe even accepting.

       There was no point in pretending. I'd wasted so much time pretending. Pretending hurt.

But not as much as honesty did.

    My father handed me my phone, his eyes more angry than I'd ever seen them, though the rest of his face was strangely calm. Over on the armchair, my mother began crying.

     "I want you out in two hours," my father said, turning his back on me. My hope shattered, like porcelain artwork crushed under a malevolent boot. Just like that, without a second thought. That was the worst part—the fact that eighteen years didn't mean a goddamn thing to him. The fact that he could so easily say those words with zero remorse, as if they brought him no pain at all. The fact that he hadn't even hesitated. He hadn't thought of an alternative—as if I were merely a bad coworker causing issues, who could be fired in the blink of an eye to fix the problem quickly and efficiently. That's how he thought—in terms of business, always.

     Maybe I should have left it there. But now I was angry. "No," I said indignantly, forcing heaps of confidence into my voice. My father's form halted mid-retreat. Then, slowly, he turned to face me. "I'm not going anywhere."

     "Excuse me?"

      "You heard me!" I snapped. "This is my home as much as yours! You can't come here once a goddamn month and then dictate to me who I'm supposed to be!"

       "Watch me!" He yelled, his voice overpowering mine entirely. "This house is still mine. I pay the bills, I make the rules. And no way in hell will I allow a faggot to live under my roof!"

      "I'm not just some faggot!" I raised my voice to match his. "I'm your son. Does that mean nothing to you? I've spent the last eighteen years of my life doing everything you asked, forcing myself to be good at everything you wanted me to be good at. I made myself the perfect fucking son for you!"

      "You are not my son! Do you hear me?" He snarled. "You are not my son! And I will not have a stranger in my house! You are sick. I don't care where you go, but you're not staying here!"

      "You've never been a parent to me!" I retaliated. "Neither of you! You're never here! You think money replaces time! It doesn't. I've had to parent myself and my sister in your absence for as long as I've been alive! This is my life, and you don't deserve to take it away from me!"

     My father laughed darkly. "You know what, Nate? You're right. You're so right! This is your life. You're eighteen, I can't tell you what to do. If you want to be queer, that's your choice. You do whatever the hell you want. And since you're so independent, you can do it in your own house."

     I opened my mouth to argue more, but words evaded me. He'd twisted around everything I'd said to use it against me.

       He huffed, seeing that he'd won. "Two hours, Nathaniel, or I'm calling the cops."

He didn't say anything after that. He turned, leaving his suitcase where it was, and stormed upstairs. My mother stood to follow him, but stopped in front of me to sob the words, "How could you?" The anger in her eyes was just as intense as my father's. She wanted to yell the same way he had, I could tell, yet she was standing there crying, playing the fragile victim, trying to make me feel sorry for hurting my poor mother. As if I would fall for that.

I didn't respond. I didn't know what to say other than what she wanted me to say, and I wouldn't say that. Never again. So she, too, left, and I was alone in the living room.

I wasn't sad. Their words hadn't hurt me. And I wasn't worried, though I probably should have been—I didn't know where I'd sleep that night, but that was the last thing on my mind.

I was just really, really angry. These people—these two strangers—had never once been here for an important moment of my life. I didn't know the meaning of motherly love or fatherly protection. But I'd still answered to their beckon call. Nate, we want you to play soccer. Nate, put down that book and pick up a ball. Nate, try harder, we want you to be the best. Nate, Nate, Nate, Nate.

I did it. I always did it. If they wanted me to run faster, I ran until I collapsed. If they wanted me to kick harder, I practiced until I was in an ankle brace. I'd never forget the day they'd come home after a two-month long trip and found me on the couch reading a book on astrophysics. They'd told me to forget science and focus on soccer.

All-the-while, I'd been teaching myself to cook and clean and bandage cuts and buy groceries and care for myself and my sister.

All of a sudden, none of that mattered. All that mattered was a couple of pictures. It was so fucking stupid, I wanted to scream. I wanted to kick and hit and throw a goddamn tantrum, but I didn't have the time. Two hours, that was it.

So I rushed upstairs and dug up every suitcase I could find. I packaged into them every item I owned—I didn't want to leave anything behind. If they wanted me out, I would be out. They didn't deserve to have a single trace of me left behind. I packed every piece of clothing, every shoe, every video game, every movie, every soccer ball, every random item I found under my bed.

I worked furiously. I wasn't sure whether it was my anger driving me, or the time limit they'd set, but I didn't waste a minute. When suitcases wouldn't close, I made them close. And when suitcases weren't enough, I turned to my old backpacks, my sports bags.

Then I started unloading. I grabbed as many bags as I could and made rounds downstairs to my car, shoving them into the trunk, then the backseat.

     The fourth and final time I left my room, all that remained there were the sheets on my bed, the lamp on my nightstand, the TV on the wall, and the pictures hung up. I shut the door for the last time, bags slung over my shoulders, and froze when I saw my sister entering her own bedroom. She must have just come back from Emma Lee's house.

      When she noticed me, she stopped dead. Looking at her, I realized that her eyes were teary. "Jenna . . ." I said, searching for something I could possibly say.

     She held up a hand to stop me from continuing. "Is it true?" She asked.

      I blinked in surprise. "I . . .it—"

      "Is it true?" She asked again, more firmly this time. "What mom and dad said. Is it true?"

      I swallowed the heavy, thick lump in my throat. I saw fear in her gaze, and hope. Hope that I'd say no. That it wasn't true. "What did they say?"

     "You know what they said."

     I did. "It's . . . It's true."

     Jenna's face twisted up in disgust that stung like a needle to the neck. She wiped under her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie and turned to wordlessly enter her room.

     "Wait!" I called, dropping my bags and rushing to catch her bedroom door before it closed. "Jenna, come on! Don't—"

     When she whipped back around to face me, her eyes were narrowed. "I can't believe you. I really can't believe you."

      "Can't believe what? I'm still the same Nate, Jenna!" I said, my voice pleading. I tried to step into her room, but she pushed the door to blockade me out.

     "No, you're not!" She sniffled. "My brother is  . . . My brother is the coolest guy I know. He's funny and talented and caring and normal. He's fucking normal."

      "I am—"

      "No you're not!" She yelled, furiously wiping at her cheeks. "Don't tell me you're normal when you're not! You're a freak! I don't even want to be near you right now! And you better not tell anybody; you've done enough already. I don't want to be known as the girl with the gay brother!"

       I took a shaky breath. For the first time that day, something else was moving in to replace my anger. I didn't want to argue with her. I didn't want to see her glare for another second, because it really, really burned.

     I retreated from her doorway. Her eyes seared into my back as I picked up all of my bags. When I turned back to look at her, tears streaked her face. "You dropped your wallet," was the last thing she said to me before she slammed the door, rattling the wall so violently that a picture frame fell to the ground with a loud crash. I saw our faces, mine and Jenna's, years younger and smiling toothily. Now, though, the image was splintered and cracked. Siblings, destroyed.

      It hurt to look at, so I averted my gaze and picked up my wallet. This was it. My last trip down these stairs. Then I'd be gone.

      But when I went into the front room, my father was there, and I could tell he'd been waiting for me. I didn't look at him. I tried to walk past him. A final show of defiance before I left.

     As I passed however, he reached out. Not to stop me, or to hug me, or to hit me, or to shake my hand. No, he reached out and plucked my wallet right out of my grasp.

      I turned on him. "Give it back," I snapped. "That's my money."

     The smile that spread across his face was so cruel, it seemed impossible that it was being administered from a father to his son. "Actually," he said coldly, "it's my money. Every bill and card in this wallet—every bank account you leech from—is a product of my hard work. Therefore, it is my money. You're cut off."

      A sense of dread settled over me as my brain slowly processed what was happening. He was taking my money. All of it.

       "I know you hate me, but please—I need that money!" I begged, hearing the desperation in my own voice. "I need it! You don't!"

      "Get a job," my father snarled. "This is your life. Make your own goddamn money!"

      In a despairing, last-ditch attempt to retrieve every penny I'd ever saved, I grabbed at the wallet and ripped it from my father's grasp.

     A loud smack resounded throughout the room, and everything grew eerily silent. In my shock, the wallet fell from my hand as I stared, wide-eyed, at the man in front of me. It was only a second before the pain arrived—a sharp stinging and throbbing in my left cheek. I could feel the skin there heat up, picture it turning red.

      I was so stunned, I didn't move as he picked up the wallet and, with malicious glare, shoved it into his pocket. "One more thing before you go," he grumbled. "The living room. Clean it. Get those cans and bottles off of my floor and take responsibility for your mess."

     My eyebrows raised incredulously; he was seriously asking me to be his fucking maid after he'd just abandoned me, after he'd hit me. "It's your house," I spat. "Clean it yourself." And I left. He didn't try to stop me.

      A sort of numbness fell over me after that. I felt as though I were outside of myself, watching from a distance as Nathaniel Jean loaded his car and drove away without a second glance. No anger. No despair. No fear. I felt nothing, as if I were a mere silhouette, drained of any actual character.

I drove aimlessly—after all, I had nowhere to go. I thought of going to Lucas', but I knew he'd just freak out, and Shawn would probably be home. I thought of camping out at Eric's place for the night, or even Sae's or Halima's or Lilly's. Each time, I decided against it.

I somehow ended up in the empty parking lot of the town's public gardens. I figured that this was the best I would get, and settled for spending the night there.

     It was only then, when I'd made that decision, that the realization really struck me that the last few hours of my life had been real, and this was what they meant. I'd been disowned. Kicked out.

     No more warm bed. No more microwave. No more money. No more Jenna.

       I seemed to re-enter myself then. Instead of watching Nathaniel Jean, I was Nathaniel Jean, and I was homeless. I was a glass container holding pressurized gas, and someone was stood on top of me, pounding their fists against my surface until I began to crack, and the gas pushed forth with a vengeance, leaving me shattered and scattered across a cold tile floor.

       I broke down.

      I cried. I yelled. I sobbed. I punched the steering wheel, listening again and again to the sound of the car's horn piercing the air, until my knuckles turned raw. I gasped for air, only to feel acid drip down my throat instead. Then I was choking, choking on air and acid and terror and anger and sadness and nothing.

     I looked around desperately for a water bottle, only to realize that I hadn't brought one. I'd been so focused on clearing out my room, I'd forgotten about the things I really needed. No food, no water.

    My hands shook violently as I coughed and sputtered, and I gripped the steering wheel tightly, feeling as though I needed to anchor myself to something or I would drift away.

       I'd never before felt so isolated. Loneliness ate at me, flipping me inside out and leaving me barren, completely exposed. I couldn't be alone right now. I needed someone here. Someone to talk to. Someone to cry to.

      I grabbed for my phone, my finger hovering over Lucas' number through the cracked screen for minute after minute. I didn't call him, though. I didn't want to. For once, Lucas wasn't what I needed.

     Instead, I went to the keypad and typed in a number that I'd memorized by heart when I was nine, maybe ten. I still remembered it. I remembered it perfectly.

      The phone rang once, twice, three times before someone answered. I considered that the number might not even be his anymore, that he might have changed it. "Hello?"

      The voice was deeper than I remembered, that was for sure. But I recognized it.

     "Hi," I croaked, trying my best to control my breathing and sound somewhat normal. "Is this Kenny—Kenneth? Kenneth Jean?"

"Yeah, that's me; who is this?"

I had to cover my mouth to muffle a sob. It was him. Eight years later, it was him. I should have thought more before I called him. He could hate me. He would hate me. The thought of talking to him now made my heart swell in excitement and constrict in apprehension at the same time.

     "It's Nathaniel Jean. Your—your cousin."

I heard Kenny inhale sharply. Then, "No it's not. No way."

With a shaky breath, I said, "Yeah, it is. Hi, Kenny."

Kenny was silent for a long time. Or maybe it was only a few seconds that felt like forever. I tried hard not to let him hear that I was crying, but it wasn't long before another sob racked my body. It was strong, and after it came, I couldn't find it in myself to stop.

"Nate?" Kenny spoke up as soon as he heard me cry, his voice clouded with concern. "Nate, what's wrong?"

"I'm sorry," I gasped. "Kenny, I'm so sorry."

"Sorry for what?" He sounded anxious now. The same way he'd sounded when I'd fell and cut up my knee real bad playing soccer in the backyard eight years ago. "Nate, what's going on?"

"For listening," I said, my voice cracking pathetically. "I'm so sorry f-for listening and abandoning you and . . . I'm so sorry."

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Kenny said gently. His voice still held the soothing quality of family. After so long, he still sounded like family. And right now, he was the only family I had. "Nate, I never blamed you for any of that. You know that, right?"

    I hardly heard him. My entire body was shaking now. I wasn't even sure if I was breathing. It didn't feel like I was.

     "Nate, what happened?" Kenny worried. "C'mon, Nate, I need you to breathe. Just breathe for a minute, kay? I want to help you, but I can't if you don't tell me how to. Breathe, hun."

     Hun. Kenny had been calling people 'hun' for as long as I could remember. I used to say it, too; I used to do everything he did.

     I tried to take a deep breath, but again I only felt the sensation of burning in my throat, and I was choking again.

     "Nate, breath," he said again, though I could hear alarm slipping into his voice now. "Whatever it is, just breathe."

      I couldn't. I genuinely couldn't. I would suffocate, I was sure. I couldn't breathe.

     "Remember the first time I came to your house, when I made you binge a bunch of Disney movies?" He said randomly. "You didn't think you'd like them, but you fell in love with Mulan. Every time I came over after that, you'd make me watch it with you. It was our thing; our movie."

I did remember that. He'd gotten me obsessed. To this day, I still loved Mulan. I didn't voice any of that, though. My voice wasn't working.

"And remember when I bought you that cookie making kit one winter? You were seven, I think. We spent all of Christmas Eve trying to bake and frost cookies. Mine looked like lumps of charcoal, but yours came out to be the most perfect little gingerbread men."

Through my sobs, I laughed. I'd been so happy that day.

"And on Christmas Day we made a gingerbread house." Kenny chuckled. "It was hideous, but you were so proud of it, so I loved it. I still have a picture of it on the fridge. You're in it, too, smiling with a missing front tooth."

As he spoke, I focused on my breathing. I listened to his words and nothing else—not the voices telling me that my life was ruined—and told myself to calm down. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.

He told story after story. The time we went to the park and swam in the lake even though our parents told us not to. The time Kenny brought Call of Duty, which I wasn't allowed to play at the time, and let me run around shooting virtual strangers. The time we played Just Dance for six hours until we both passed out on the living room couch. The times we traded Pokémon cards, the times we wrestled and raced—he always let me win—the times we practiced soccer for hours on end until I fell in love with it.

     All the while, I forced myself to breath. Inhale, exhale, until I could feel the harsh beating of my heart subside, until I regained control of my body. A few stray tears still escaped my eyes, but I was okay. Or at least closer to okay.

     "Nate?" Kenny could hear the change. "Are you . . ."

      "I got kicked out," I told him finally, trying and failing to keep my voice from shaking. I didn't hesitate or wait, because I knew that if another second passed, I wouldn't have been able to say it again.

    "What?" He gasped. "Oh my god, why?"

     I shut my eyes tight. Somehow, there was something extra terrifying about telling Kenny. At the same time, though, I'd never so badly wanted someone to know.

     "They saw a picture on my phone," I said slowly. "Of me and . . . Of me and my boyfriend."

       Kenny was dead silent for a long, startling moment. Then, his voice hardly a whisper, he said, "Holy shit. Nate, oh my—holy shit. Wait, I'm not helping, sorry. When did this happen? Where are you staying?"

     Wiping again at my cheeks, I said, "Just a few hours ago. I'm in my car . . . I don't know where to go."

     "Can you stay with your boyfriend?" He suggested.

     I shook my head, though I knew he couldn't see me. "His brother's not—it wouldn't be a good situation."

      "What about a friend?"

      "Maybe, I just . . . I don't know. I'll figure it out."

     Another prolonged silence fell. Then, "Do you want to talk about it?"

      Did I? I wasn't sure if I could tell the story without breaking down again. At the same time, maybe keeping it to myself would leave me worse off. "Kinda, yeah."

       So I told him everything. I told him about how I was stupid last night, and how all of my teen idiocy was captured on my camera. I told him about leaving the phone, with the pictures pulled up, in the living room, not expecting my parents to arrive home for another week. I told him bout my dad's rage, my mom's tears, my sister's outburst. I told him that I'd been left with no money to my name, except for maybe some change in the pockets of my jeans.

      "Everything was going so well, too," I said bitterly. "I was finally happy, you know? I liked myself and I had a boyfriend and I had friends and I got into NYU and everything was starting to really look up. But it's like there's some cruel work of fate that's determined to keep me from ever being totally happy. No matter how hard I try, I can't have it all."

     "Jeez, Nate," Kenny breathed. "That's so screwed up. I wish—god, I hate that place. Full of horrible people, yet the bad things always happen to the few good people. You don't deserve it—I sure as hell hope you don't think it's your fault."

      "No," I said, "I don't. I could've been more careful, though, and now . . ."

      "My family can help," he proposed. "You know we can. If you need—"

     "No way," I interrupted swiftly. "I'm not taking money from you."

      "We can afford it, Nate," Kenny said. His family lived in a penthouse; I knew he could afford it. That didn't matter, though. "I'm not gonna just sit back and watch you struggle."

     "And I'm not gonna just start asking for donations after abandoning your family for the last eight years," I insisted.

     "That wasn't your fault," Kenny argued. "You know it wasn't. You were what, ten? There was nothing you could do. I never stopped seeing you as family. And I support my family."

      "But—"

       "Listen, we don't need to worry about that now. If you ever need help, just know I'll be happy to provide. And think loans, not donations, if that bothers you. Also,"  he added, "You need to find somewhere to say as soon as possible. You can't live in your car."

     I sighed, running a hand into my hair. "I don't know. We'll see. Honestly, right now housing is the least of my concerns. I just . . . Everything is so fucked up."

     To my surprise, Kenny chuckled. "I keep forgetting that you're not ten anymore." Then he seemed to realize that this wasn't exactly the time, and he said, "Sorry, not helping again." His next words came more cautiously. "I can't speak from experience, because I'll be honest I've never been in your place or anywhere close, but—"

      "Wait," I cut him off again. "I don't . . . I don't want advice right now. Maybe I need it, but I don't really want it. At least, I think I don't. Not at this moment. Maybe I do, god." I wasn't even sure what I was thinking anymore. My brain sent me a million different signals at once, and I didn't know what to make of any of them.

      "Okay," Kenny said slowly, sounding as confused as I felt. "What do you want, Nate? Tell me how to help you, and I'll do it."

     "Just . . . Just talk to me."

      It was an odd request, but it was what I wanted. To catch up on what I'd missed. To make up for lost time. For a distraction. "Tell me everything."

     "Er, okay." Kenny still seemed confused, but he complied nonetheless. "I own an interior designing company in Manhattan. I have a fiancé—his name is Nicholas. Last year, we got a puppy together. She's the cutest little . . ."

     And so he continued. He told me everything I needed to know, and some things I didn't. I kept telling him to keep going, because I wanted to hear all of those little things. I wanted to know Kenny again. He was still my cousin. My favorite cousin. Once upon a time, my favorite person.

      "I want to come visit you," I said, maybe an hour later, when he'd run out of things to talk about. "When I move to New York. Is that okay?"

     "Are you kidding?" Kenny said. "You better!"

     The eagerness in his voice pushed a smile onto my face. In his eyes, I was still his cousin. His favorite cousin. Once upon a time, his favorite person.

     "I can show you New York," he offered. "Help you get used to the big crowds and loud noises and small angry men."

     My laugh was cut off by a yawn. I didn't want to end the call just yet, but I'd never felt so drained. I was absolutely exhausted mentally. "I think I'm gonna head to sleep, Kenny."

     "Alright," he said, and I could hear the warm smile in his voice. "Sleep well. Find somewhere to stay. Tell Lucas what happened. And call me tomorrow sometime; keep me up to date."

      "I will—times four," I said, happy to hear him chuckle. "Thank you, Kenny."

After he hung up, I fell asleep quickly. I won't lie and say it was a good rest. The car was uncomfortable and cold. I tossed and turned and tossed and turned. My dreams were less dreams, more replays of the night's events.

      There was an underlying pleasantness, though. Images from my childhood of Kenny and I, and maybe even some images from the future.

      He was a part of my life that I'd thought I'd lost. Looking back now, I wondered if coming to terms with my sexuality would have been infinitely easier if I'd kept in touch with Kenny behind my parents' back. Maybe, maybe not. The past was over with; now it was time to focus on the friendship I hadn't even realized I'd missed so much.

     At least, it was easier to focus on that than everything else going on in my life.