Blaze’s POV
The drive to my parents' house feels endless.
My hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles white. The GPS says twenty minutes. Feels like twenty years.
Nine years. Nine years since my father pointed at the door. Since my mother sat frozen at the kitchen table, tears streaming, unable to look at her own son.
Nine years of silence. Birthdays uncelebrated. Holidays spent alone. Achievements they never acknowledged. And now I'm driving back like nothing happened.
Sophie reaches over from the passenger seat. Squeezes my thigh.
"Hey." Her voice is soft. Grounding. "Breathe. It's going to be okay."
"You don't know that."
"No," she admits. "I don't. But I'm here. Whatever happens."
I glance at her. She smiles—warm, encouraging, genuine. She really believes this will work. Believes people can change. Believes my parents have spent nine years regretting what they said.
I want to believe it too.
The neighborhood looks exactly the same. Tree-lined streets. Pristine lawns. The kind of suburban perfection that hides a thousand secrets behind closed doors.
Then the house appears.
Same white shutters. Same manicured lawn. Same basketball hoop in the driveway where I spent countless hours as a kid.
Shooting free throws until the sun went down. Practicing moves I saw on TV. Dreaming about the NHL while my father watched from the garage, beer in hand, occasional nods of approval.
A lifetime ago, with a totally different person.
I park at the curb. Sit there. Can't make myself move.
"Blaze." Sophie's hand finds mine. "We can leave. Right now. Just say the word."
I should. Every instinct screams to put the car in drive and never look back. Instead, I open the door.
We're halfway up the walkway when the front door swings open.
My mother stands there. Older than I remember. More gray in her hair. Lines around her eyes that weren't there nine years ago.
Her face crumples the moment she sees me. Joy and guilt and something complicated all tangled together.
Then she's running. Arms wrapping around me. Holding tight like she's afraid I'll disappear.
"My boy." Her voice breaks. "My sweet boy."
My throat closes. Eyes burning with tears I refuse to shed.
I hug her back. Breathe in the familiar scent of her perfume. Let myself feel, for just a moment, like I'm home.
But there's awkwardness beneath the warmth. Words we're not saying. Years of silence hanging between us like a curtain neither knows how to pull aside.
She steps back. Wipes her eyes. Looks at me like she's memorizing my face.
"You're so handsome." Her hand cups my cheek. "Look at you. All grown up."
Movement in the doorway. My father appears.
Older. Greyer. Shoulders slightly stooped in a way I don't remember. His face is unreadable. That same mask he always wore when emotions got too complicated.
"Son." One word. Nine years of distance packed into a single syllable.
He extends his hand. Not a hug, not a fatherly embrace, just a handshake. Like I'm a business associate instead of his child.
I take it anyway. The grip is brief. Firm. Distant.
And I catch it. The barely perceptible flinch when our palms touch. The way his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. The flash of something in his eyes before he buries it.
The disgust is still there. Just hidden now. Tucked away beneath a veneer of civility. He hasn't changed. Not really. He's just gotten better at pretending. The realization settles into my chest like a stone.
Sophie breezes past, breaking the tension. All charm and warmth and social grace.
"Mr. and Mrs. Wilson! It's so wonderful to finally meet you." She hugs my mother like they're old friends. Shakes my father's hand with a perfect smile. "Blaze has told me so much about you."
A lie. I've told her almost nothing. But they don't need to know that.
Within minutes, Sophie has my mother laughing. Complimenting the decor. Asking about family recipes. Fitting seamlessly into this house like she's always belonged here.
My mother looks at her with something like hope. Like Sophie is the answer to prayers she's been whispering for nine years.
"Come on." My father gestures toward the back porch. "Let's have a beer. Catch up."
I follow him outside. Leave Sophie charming my mother in the kitchen. The screen door swings shut behind us.
We sit in uncomfortable silence. Two chairs facing the backyard where I used to play as a kid. The sun sinks toward the horizon, painting everything gold.
My father hands me a beer. Opens his own and takes a long drink.
"Season's going well," he says finally. "Saw the highlights from last week. Hell of a goal."
Here we go. Talking about safe territory–Hockey. The one thing we've always been able to talk about without landmines.
"Thanks. Team's really clicking this year."
"Playoffs?"
"Looking good. Should make it deep."
He nods. Takes another drink. Asks about stats and standings and the upcoming schedule.
I answer on autopilot. Grateful for the neutral ground. For questions that don't require me to bare my soul.
Neither of us mentions bisexuality. Neither of us mentions the years of silence. Neither of us acknowledges the elephant suffocating every word we speak.
The sun disappears below the tree line. The porch light flickers on automatically.
"Sophie seems nice," my father says eventually. Something shifts in his tone. "Good head on her shoulders."
"She is."
"Pretty too." He glances at me sideways. "The kind of woman who'd make a good wife."
My stomach tightens and I take a long drink, not responding.
There it is. The reason for the welcome. The explanation for the sudden warmth after nine years of cold silence.
They think Sophie is my girlfriend. Think I've come back "fixed." Think the son they rejected has finally become the son they wanted.
Something feels deeply wrong. The reconciliation is too sudden. Too convenient. Too tied to the woman sitting in their kitchen.
My parents went from disowning me to welcoming me home. And the only thing that changed was Sophie on my arm.
Not me. Not them. Not any real growth or understanding or acceptance.
Just the appearance of heterosexuality. The promise of grandchildren and a daughter-in-law and the normal life they always wanted for me.
I should say something. Correct their assumptions. Tell them Sophie is just a friend and I'm still the same bisexual man they kicked out nine years ago.
But I want this so badly.
Want my family back. Want Sunday dinners and holiday phone calls and parents who show up to my games. Want to believe people can change. Want to pretend, just for a little while, that I belong here.
So I swallow the doubt and push down the wrongness. Ignore the voice screaming that this foundation is made of sand.
"Boys!" My mother's voice carries from the kitchen. "Dinner's ready!"
My father stands. Claps my shoulder. The touch is awkward. Forced.
"Good to have you home, son."
I smile when we walk inside. Pretend everything is fine. Play the role they need me to play.
Sophie catches my eye across the dining room. Something flickers in her expression. Almost like satisfaction.
I blink. It's gone. Replaced by her usual warm smile. Must have imagined it.
I take my seat at the family table. Let my mother pile food on my plate. Let my father pour wine like we're celebrating something.
And I pretend. Because pretending is easier than truth. Because I'm not ready to lose them again.