The second Mom walks through the door, she knows something's off.
She's still in her blazer and heels, juggling a tote bag and car keys, but her mom-sense is on full alert.
She sniffs the air like she's checking for gas leaks.
"Why's it so quiet?" she asks the moment she sees us—me, Lucas, and Alex—sitting around the dining table like three suspects in a crime drama.
Lucas is pretending to check his phone.
Alex is staring at the salt shaker as if it had personally wronged him.
I'm doing my best impression of a background character.
Dad follows behind, loosening his tie, looking equally suspicious. "Did y'all kill the dog we don't have?"
Mom's eyes narrow. "What happened?"
Lucas opens his mouth.
I panic. "We were just talking."
Wrong answer.
Lucas makes a scoffing noise.
Alex shifts in his seat.
Dad drops his keys in the bowl by the stairs with a loud clink. "Okay, someone spit it out. Now."
Lucas pushes his chair back. "I just said what everyone's thinking."
"Oh, here we go, for goodness sake Lucas," Mom mutters.
"That maybe it's time for Alex to move out."
The air goes rigid.
Alex sits up straighter. "Seriously?"
"Lucas," Mom warns, "we talked about this."
"I didn't agree to anything," Lucas shoots back. "He's been here for weeks. He has friends, connections, a whole social Rolodex."
"I said he could stay," Mom says, voice clipped. "This is my house, not yours, last I checked."
Lucas laughs, but it's dry, like he's holding something back. "Right. But apparently my room isn't mine anymore."
"Oh my God," I mutter under my breath.
"Nick," Mom says, "go upstairs."
"I—what? No—"
"Now."
I meet Alex's eyes for half a second. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't blink. But his jaw is clenched.
Lucas doesn't even look at me.
So I get up.
I leave the room.
And I don't go upstairs. Not really.
I grab my phone, sneak out the back door, and call Camila.
She picks up on the second ring.
"Yo," she says. "Why do you sound like you just ran from a crime scene?"
"Because I did," I whisper-shout, pacing barefoot across the porch. "My entire family is imploding in real-time and I'm the only one who didn't throw a grenade."
"Oooh. Spill."
I sit down on the porch steps, still buzzing with nerves. "Lucas came home. Saw Alex. Decided now was the perfect time to accuse him of inappropriate vibes."
"Lucas what?"
"Literally said he's too comfortable around me. In front of everyone. At dinner."
Camila lets out a long, dramatic gasp. "Damn. Did Alex say anything?"
"Yeah, he defended himself. And then Mom and Dad came home mid-fight and it just—" I flop back on the step, staring at the stars, "it got worse."
She's quiet for a beat.
Then: "You okay?"
I don't answer right away.
Because the truth is—I'm not sure.
I feel embarrassed, like I got exposed for something I didn't even fully understand yet. Angry, because no one even asked how I felt. And confused, because Alex didn't say anything when I left. No explanation, no reassurance. Just... silence.
"I hate this," I say finally. "I hate feeling like everyone's watching me waiting for me to mess up."
"They're not."
"They kinda are."
She sighs. "Okay. Yeah. A little. But also? You're not doing anything wrong."
"I don't even know what I am doing," I admit.
"You're being a teenage gay disaster. Welcome to the club."
I smile. "Do I get a jacket?"
"Only if you survive this week."
We sit in silence for a while—her breathing on the other end, me under the soft hum of porch lights and crickets.
"You wanna come over tomorrow?" she asks.
I nod, then realize she can't see me. "Yeah. Please."
"Cool. I'll make brownies."
"Let me guess you'll, 'make them slutty'."
"Oh, you know they will be."
"I honestly still wonder how that works."
"You'll see." She says and hangs up