The word seems to echo on the brisk morning air, hovering on the breeze long after Mom has patted my shoulder and brushed my hair off my forehead and gathered up her bags and gone inside to talk to the real estate woman. Because she’s selling our house. Because she’s getting a divorce. Fuck.

I glance up at the second story window to my old room, and swear that I can see a shadow shift behind the curtains. They’re probably in there right now, poking through all the stuff that I couldn’t bring to Deb’s. Or maybe they’re looking out the window right now, wondering why I’m still standing in the cold with a crumpled letter in my clenched fist.

I turn away from the suburban house I called home for over sixteen years and trudge back to Deb’s, my enthusiasm of the morning long wafted away on the bitter wind.

It’s my fault. I know that everybody says that kids can’t cause marriages to break up, and maybe that’s true, but they can sure as hell be a contributing factor. Mom and Dad might not have been the fucking Huxtables, but they were happy until I decided that I had to get laid. And if I hadn’t gone to Liberty Avenue that night, and met Brian, and fallen in love... even though they don’t think it’s love, even though nobody thinks it’s love... everything would be different now.

My life’s a mess, and now their lives are fucked up, too. And Molly! Shit, what about Molly?

Snow is starting to fall as I turn onto the sidewalk that leads to Debbie’s house. Just a light dusting -- I can tell right away that it won’t stick. But it’s the kind of day where Mom would pull out her cookie sheet and bake, always joking that she didn’t know why she bothered because she’d never make them as good as Gramma Alice, and soon the house would be filled with the scent of ginger and chocolate and pumpkin spice, and Dad would put down his paper to steal a cookie still cooling on the sheet, and we’d all ignore the burnt bottoms and tell Mom that they really were just as good as Gramma Alice’s. Better, even.

Now Molly will never have that. And it’s all because of me.

So I know what I have to do.

I square my shoulders as I reach the front door. My key turns easily in the lock and the house is blessedly silent, so I have no reason to delay. I take the stairs two at a time and push open the door to my room.

The sketchbook is lying right where I left it.

I flop onto the chair and drag it onto my lap, my fingers just brushing the cardboard cover for a moment before I flick it open. I flip through the pages, scanning rapidly through the images etched in pencil. I can remember each and every one.

The fruit still-life, done just to see if I could be inspired by something as mundane as a pear. I really wasn’t, but it turned out halfway decent anyway.

Lindsay cuddling with Gus. I’d barely met the girls and they’d already invited me into their home and fed me and made me feel like a real friend, not one of Brian’s tagalong tricks.

Gus sleeping. He wasn’t supposed to be sucking his thumb. There were strict instructions to carefully remove the thumb and replace it with his soother. But he looked so content that I couldn’t do it. And I think it’s cute that he has an oral fixation, just like his father.

Deb’s quartet of clown figurines. A bit too realistic, really. That one kind of freaks me out.

And interspersed throughout the conventional images of family and friends, the view from the second floor study hall window, the senior team practice... is Brian.

Brian sleeping, sprawled out on his stomach, one leg thrown out from under the covers, arm hugging the pillow to his chest. Brian sleeping, head thrown back, mouth open, fingers splayed open on his chest. Brian sleeping, curled on his side, one arm still stretched out from where it had rested around my waist until I crept from under the covers and grabbed my sketchpad.

And there’s one... one of Brian staring off into the distance, looking pensive and mysterious. He was really studying his computer screen at the time, working on something for the office I guess. And I managed to get the basics down before he noticed me, heard the pencil scratching on the paper or something, and barked at me to quit it. I think it was something about “If you‘re going to hang around here, you better find something useful to do.” And then he reached out and grabbed my hand and rubbed it against his groin and I forgot all about sketches.

I can get rid of the others, but I can’t find it in my heart to toss the ones of Brian.

So I carefully rip them from the book and place them in the bottom drawer of the bureau before heading downstairs. Now that I’ve made the decision, I don’t let myself hesitate. The garbage bin in the backyard is only halfway full, and the sketchpad fits easily inside.

I rest my hands on the rim of the can, feeling the hard plastic dig into my palms.

I can do this.

I might not be able to rebuild a marriage, or make everything right again. But I can give my parents one thing. One gift. I’ll still be queer, but maybe if I study hard and do well in business, I’ll be able to make Dad proud. Maybe it’ll be one less thing for them to fight about. Maybe it’ll make the difference.

I replace the lid on the can with a clunk that screams finality, and sneak a peek at my watch. I’ve only got twenty minutes to make it to Linds and Mel’s for lunch, and I’m going to have to bust my ass to make it there on time.