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Chapter Thirty-Nine

Justin

For some reason, I thought coming home would help me.

But the familiar rusty water tower with Go Coyotes painted in fading letters, the Dairy Queen sign missing three bulbs but still blinking valiantly, the peeling mural of our high school mascot on the side of Joe’s Feed & Seed that looks more mangy than menacing these days don’t seem to do anything to ease my heartbreak.

It feels like someone’s replaced all my internal organs with lead weights, and every time I think about Andrew, they get heavier.

I didn’t realize heartbreak is a whole-body affair.

My mom’s tiny rental apartment smells like lavender air freshener trying to mask decades of other tenants’ cooking experiments. The small second bedroom where I’m sleeping has been turned into a craft room, with a collection of half-finished craft projects scattered across every surface. It’s like Mom is trying to piece together a new life, one glue-gun disaster at a time.

Mom keeps finding excuses to check on me, appearing in the doorway with cups of coffee I haven’t asked for, her questions careful and indirect. “The airline didn’t charge you too much for changing your ticket, did they, honey?” and “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Each time she appears, her smile gets more worried, her hovering more obvious.

I spend my time scrolling through Andrew’s messages like they’re some kind of digital form of self-torture.

My thumb hovers over the reply button before I catch myself. Again. And again. And again.

Every message he sends me just cuts deeper.

I love you, Justin.

Somehow, while I was pretending to be someone else, I was the most real I’ve ever been with anyone.

I want you. I want you and me and Tabitha and Cassie. I want us. There’s nothing I want more.

I try to distract myself, but my form of distraction—Googling Andrew Yates—perhaps isn’t the best idea.

Because Andrew Yates isn’t just in the tech industry. He’s apparently its ghostwriter. The brilliant mind whose fingerprints are everywhere but whose face is rarely seen. His Wikipedia page stretches longer than my entire résumé, yet the Personal Life section consists of exactly three sentences and no photos.

Reading articles about him is even worse. The tech blogs treat him like he’s some kind of coding messiah operating from behind a curtain. The Invisible Architect Behind NovaCore’s Revolution . The Genius Who Built An Empire While Avoiding The Spotlight . They speculate about his pathological privacy and enigmatic presence like he’s some kind of tech Banksy.

His net worth makes me feel dizzy.

But it’s the rare personal profiles that completely gut me. The ones that talk about his intensely private nature, how he’s married to his work.

Then I find this tiny college newspaper interview from MIT, where Drew talks about how he started coding in high school to create a safe space when the real world felt too hostile.

And shame rears inside me yet again.

Because I was the one who made his world hostile.

I click on a video showing him on an industry panel at a rare public appearance, and the sound of his voice explaining complex concepts makes me grip my phone until my knuckles go white. Each word he speaks hammers home exactly how much brilliance I tried to dim back then.

I remember how I tried to boost his confidence, telling him he should try to step up from an entry-level help desk technician job.

God, he must have been laughing on the inside when I suggested he was capable of bigger things, knowing he’d already achieved more than I could imagine.

But then I think of Andrew’s face on the banks of the Thames when he told me how much he loves me.

Does it actually change anything to know he’s a tech tycoon?

I already knew he was brilliant. Does it matter that the rest of the world caught onto that fact before I did?

Drew’s name appears on my screen, along with the tiny icon showing the length of his latest voice message. My finger hovers over the notification before I quickly lock my phone, shoving it under my pillow like I’m a teenager hiding contraband.

That makes eighteen voice messages he’s left me in total. Not that I’m counting.

I don’t want to listen to his messages because if I hear his voice, my resolve will crumble like my mother’s always did. I’ll forget every reason why this is a bad idea and book the first flight back to London just to see his face.

I spend the night tossing and turning, my phone burning a hole through my pillow.

The next morning, Mom takes one look at my face, which probably resembles something between a zombie and a kicked puppy, and obviously decides enough is enough.

“If you drop me at work, you can have the car for the day,” she says. “It might do you good to get some fresh air. Maybe you should catch up with some of your old friends?”

Old friends. Right. Connor’s still in town, running his dad’s car dealership. Tad coaches the JV football team.

The thought of seeing them makes me feel like I did when I last tried on my old letterman jacket. Something that used to fit perfectly but now just makes me feel like I’m wearing a costume. What would we even talk about? How we used to make some kid’s life hell because we were too scared to face our own issues?

But I don’t want to prompt any more maternal scrutiny, so I agree to her plan.

After I drop Mom off, I drive aimlessly around.

Each turn feels loaded with memories I’ve been trying to outrun. I drive past the 7-Eleven, where we’d get Slurpees after practice, around the corner from where Connor’s dad’s garage used to be. When I finally stop pretending I’m not heading somewhere specific, Coyote Creek High rises on the horizon like a brick-and-mortar accusation of my previous sins.

I park outside the school. Through the chain-link fence, I watch the crowd of teenagers spill onto the quad for lunch. Some things never change. The jocks claim their territory by the vending machines, the theater kids dramatically sprawl on the steps, and there, over by a tree, a lone figure is hunched over a book.

My stomach tightens, remembering how Andrew used to sit curled up just like that, constantly trying to make himself invisible.

I knew what we did to Andrew Yates was wrong. I knew it at the time.

But I kept doing it for four years.

And yes, I’d been a teenager, but I still knew right from wrong.

Can I really judge Andrew for making a mistake for eight months when I made a mistake every day for four years?

I can’t forget that what I did to Andrew in high school started this whole thing.

My mind churns as I sit in my mother’s car. But I’m not thinking about high school anymore. Instead, I’m sifting through my memories from the past eight months, trying to work out what’s real.

And I keep circulating back to those moments with Andrew in my apartment. The way he’d sit cross-legged on my couch, completely absorbed in his laptop while Tabitha claimed his lap like it was her divine right. All those evenings spent watching comedy clips with Drew providing his own sardonic insights that made me laugh so hard my sides hurt. The way he looked at me when I was inside him. The way he always curled into me when we slept.

And then there was the moment when we said we loved each other. Among all the fakery and lies, that was my core truth.

And I want to believe it was his.

I finally drive back to my mother’s apartment.

I’ve still got to finish off my class-president speech. I’ve decided to do it as a PowerPoint presentation because after six years in sales, presentations are my safe zone.

But as I open the yearbook, my stomach starts to churn.

Because it’s no longer just a benign piece of memorabilia.

I flip through the pages until I find the Computer Club photo. The caption reads Andrew Yates (President) under a figure in the back row, half-hidden behind someone else’s shoulder. He’s got those thick-framed glasses that take up half his face, so different from his glasses now.

I scan the captions of the photos on other pages, looking for more pictures of Andrew.

A yearbook isn’t a great place for someone with prosopagnosia, but between Andrew’s distinctive glasses and the captions, I manage to find him scattered throughout the yearbook— Academic Decathlon : Andrew Yates accepts first place , Chess Club: Team Captain A. Yates strategizes , Honor Roll: Andrew Yates, 4.0 GPA .

Each photo helps me piece together the boy I tormented, connecting him to the man I fell in love with. There’s one photo from the science fair where he’s actually smiling beside some complicated-looking computer setup. The caption notes Junior Andrew Yates’s revolutionary database project won Best in Show .

I touch his smile.

I remember that science fair. Connor had “accidentally” spilled soda on Andrew’s keyboard right before the judging. Andrew had somehow gotten it working again, his hands steady even as his voice shook while explaining his project to the judges. Was that project the beginning of what became NovaCore, the system that made him a multi-millionaire?

But Andrew Yates is not mentioned on the Most Likely To page. No one in our graduating class bothered to give Andrew Yates a thought when we were thinking about which of our classmates would have significant futures. Because we spent so much time diminishing him, so caught up in our petty high school hierarchy that we couldn’t spot actual greatness when it was right in front of us, hunched over a keyboard in the computer lab.

By the time I have to pick up my mom from work, I’ve put together the skeleton of a speech.

I drive the roads to her work, the familiar streets blurring together like my thoughts. Every intersection is loaded with history now. The local swimming pool where I used to volunteer as a lifeguard, wearing that stupid red whistle like a badge of heterosexual honor, deliberately scheduling my shifts when the girls’ swim team practiced so everyone would see me watching them. The Sonic Drive-In, where I’d take girls on dates, always ordering the same burger combo meal because I’d overheard Bobby Ray say real men didn’t eat chicken sandwiches. The back lot of the Baptist church where I’d park early on Sunday mornings, spending those extra minutes adjusting my tie and rehearsing my posture—shoulders back, chin up, each step measured to Bobby Ray’s definition of how a man moves through the world.

It’s like the whole town has conspired to remind me that Andrew’s not the only one who spent time pretending to be someone else.

When I pull up outside the craft shop, my phone beeps with a message.

It’s from Andrew.

Justin, I put something together for you. I’d really appreciate it if you take a look.

The link opens to a simple web page with a black background. Text appears: The Truth About Drew Smith (and Andrew Yates)

A photo flashes up on the screen. It’s the selfie outside St Paul’s Cathedral where I’m squinting into the sun but we’re both grinning happily. His caption reads: I told myself I was just playing a part. I didn’t realize I was finally learning how to be real .

Then there’s the next photo of us at Greenwich. Then us together at the Tower of London.

The photo of us at Hampstead Court, accompanied by his words: Every time you trusted me with another piece of yourself, it got harder to keep pretending. Every time you showed me who you really were, I wanted to be brave enough to do the same .

He’s taken all the photos from my Christmas present, but each of them now has a caption.

The photo of Tabitha sprawled across Drew’s lap: Your cats saw through my act before I did .

A lump rises in my throat.

Every image cuts through my defenses, showing me how we both shed our masks piece by piece without even realizing it. Because yes, he lied about who he was, but these moments, the laughter, the quiet mornings, the way we fit together, were real.

They have to be.

But his photos don’t end where my photobook ended.

Instead, he’s added a selfie we took on Christmas Day.

We’re both wearing those ridiculous paper crowns. I’m grinning widely, and Drew’s smile is soft and real.

His caption is simple. By this point, I wasn’t pretending anymore. I was just completely in love .

It’s the story of us, rewritten from his perspective.

My phone beeps with another message from him.

I’m flying over for the class reunion. I really hope we can talk. I really hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.

I love you.

My heart stops.

He’s going to come to the class reunion?

I think about what it’ll take for Andrew Yates to come back to the place where he was tormented for four years. To see all of the people who bullied him so relentlessly.

To see me.

I scroll through the photos again, studying the happiness on our faces. So much happiness.

I don’t know why I’m surprised Drew made this for me.

He tracked down the flamingo snow globe for me.

He paid seventy-five thousand pounds to save me from an uncomfortable date.

He built a friggin’ app for me.

He showed me in so many ways how much he loves me.

Tears are in my eyes, and I’m impatiently wiping them away when Mom climbs into the car.

She takes one look at my face, and her expression shifts into that particular mix of worry and determination that only mothers seem able to achieve.

“Let’s go to Hector’s for dinner,” she says.

Hector’s Diner is where Mom used to take me as a treat when I was a kid, when I couldn’t get enough of their pancake stack with alternating bananas and cream.

“Okay,” I agree, starting the engine. “Comfort food sounds pretty good to me right now.”

Hector’s looks exactly like it did when I was ten. The ancient jukebox croons Patsy Cline like it’s stuck in a country music time loop.

Mom chooses the booth farthest from the door. She smooths the already-smooth paper placemat in front of her before she raises her gaze to mine.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on? There’s someone you’ve left behind in London, isn’t there?”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know what heartbreak looks like.”

Heartbreak. That sounds about right.

I blow out a deep breath. “Yeah, there’s someone. I screwed up, and then he screwed up…”

My mother blinks. “He?”

Fuck.

Being gay is such an insignificant part of the whole equation right now that I didn’t even think this through.

But I realize that’s maybe not the case for my mother. Just because the gender of who I love isn’t an issue for me anymore doesn’t mean it won’t be an earthquake for her, reshaping everything she thought she knew about her only child.

My stomach hollows, but I raise my gaze to meet hers.

“I’m gay.”

She nods slowly before her eyes fill with tears.

“Mom…” I’m not sure how I’m supposed to handle this moment. All those nights that I lay awake calculating the precise angle of her disappointment, measuring the exact weight of her rejection…none of them prepared me for the reality of her tears glinting under harsh diner lights.

She reaches across the table lightning-fast, grabbing both my hands in hers. “No…no, I’m not upset about you being gay. I don’t care about that. I love you no matter what, you know that, right, hon?”

I nod slowly.

“I’m just upset because it makes it even worse how I failed to protect you from Bobby Ray. I can’t imagine what that did to you, hearing the things he used to say.”

Now it’s my eyes prickling with tears. I blink them back because Bobby Ray doesn’t deserve to have any more tears spilled over him. But I don’t argue with her. She did fail to protect me from Bobby Ray. And that failure left a permanent mark on me.

“Is the guy Drew?” my mother asks in a soft voice.

I startle. “How did you know that?”

“You talked about him once. And there was something about your voice that made me think… I just realized I hadn’t heard you sound so happy since… Well, for a long time.”

Since before Bobby Ray.

The words lay unspoken between us.

“His actual name is Andrew.” I run a hand through my hair. “I went to school with him.”

My mother blinks at me, her forehead creasing as she processes this information, her hands still gripping mine across the sticky diner table.

“You met someone in London who went to school with you in Texas?”

“Yes. Except I didn’t recognize him at first. And I….” I swallow hard. “I used to bully him in high school. For being gay.”

Mom’s grip on my hands tightens. “Oh, honey.”

“He recognized me though. And he got a job at my company and moved into my apartment building deliberately because he wanted revenge on me for what I did to him.”

A server appears at our table, but Mom waves her away.

“But somewhere along the line,” I continue, “while he was pretending to be someone else, we fell in love. Real love. The kind where you can’t wait to tell them about your day, where you want to share every stupid thought that crosses your mind, where just being in the same room makes you feel…complete.”

Mom’s eyes haven’t left mine. “And then you found out who he really was,” she prompts.

“Yeah.” My voice cracks on the word. “And now I don’t know what parts were real or fake. But, he did so many nice things for me, small things and big things, without me knowing that he was behind half of them.”

“It sounds like he cares about you very much.” Mom’s thumb strokes my knuckles. “Even if he showed it in a very strange way.”

I snort because that feels like the understatement of the year. “He definitely showed it in a strange way.”

She adjusts the sugar packets in their holder, arranging them by color like she’s trying to organize her thoughts. “So, what’s happening between you now?”

“He’s asked me to forgive him. He still wants to be with me.” I press my palms into my eye sockets until colors burst behind my eyelids.

But it doesn’t bring me any clarity.

I drop my hands.

“And I still love him so much. I’ve been trying to work out if the guy I love is the real version or the fake. Because I know how easy it is to fall for someone fake, to be fooled by someone.”

Mom’s hands go still on her coffee cup. The fluorescent lights flicker above us, casting strange shadows across her face that make her look both younger and older.

“Honey, Bobby Ray showed us exactly who he was right from the start. We just didn’t want to see it.” She leans forward, her voice dropping. “Remember how he used to tell those jokes that weren’t really jokes? How he’d say awful things and then laugh like he was testing us?”

I nod, remembering how his laughter always held that edge, like a knife wrapped in velvet.

“But, Andrew…” Mom continues, “From what you’ve told me, it sounds like he started pretending to be someone else but ended up showing you exactly who he really is. And you showed him who you are, didn’t you?”

I nod. Because that’s the thing. Even while Andrew was playing a part, he somehow managed to make me more real. It was like his fake identity created a safe space for both of us to be authentic.

“The thing about walls is they don’t just keep other people out. They keep us trapped inside too,” Mom says quietly. “If you’ve found someone who helps you tear down your walls instead of building higher ones, maybe that’s worth fighting for.”

The jukebox switches to Dolly Parton singing about heartbreak, and I almost laugh at how perfectly the universe is scoring this moment.

“You and I both know relationships can be risky, Justin,” Mom continues in the same soft tone. “You put your whole heart into someone’s hands and just hope they’re careful with it.”

“But that’s the thing,” I say, tears prickling my eyes again, remembering how carefully Andrew had handled every piece of me I’d trusted him with, even while hiding pieces of himself. “Even though he lied to me, no one has ever made me feel as safe as he does.”

My mind and stomach both churn as I drive to my class reunion.

I’ve spent the last few days repeatedly going through the photos Andrew sent me, reading his captions, reflecting on my conversation with my mother.

But I still have no idea what I’m going to say to him when I see him.

Can I move past this?

Is he actually going to show up? It will take so much courage for Andrew Yates to walk back into Coyote Creek High School.

When I arrive, I discover the gym’s been transformed with white fairy lights strung across the ceiling where championship banners used to hang and round tables have been draped in maroon tablecloths.

And the irony is I’m using the app Andrew built to handle this occasion. It hums steadily as familiar-but-not-familiar faces swirl around me. Michael Rodriguez, who runs his family’s restaurant now. Rachel Thompson, whose campaign for class treasurer involved spreadsheets and who’s now, predictably, a hedge fund manager. Diego Ramirez, who swapped his Most Likely to Become a Rock Star yearbook prediction for a surprisingly successful career breeding show dogs.

But I don’t see Andrew Yates.

I didn’t even think to load him into the app tonight.

I’m talking to Sam Perez, my old vice president, when a figure catches my eye across the room.

He’s here.

I don’t need the app that Andrew built for me to recognize him.

I know the way he walks. I know the exact shade of his hair. I know the way he adjusts his glasses when he’s gathering courage, pushing them up with his index finger like he’s pressing an invisible reset button.

I might not be able to recognize his face, but I know him .

Andrew’s message circulates in my brain.

I really hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.

It’s so much to forgive. The sabotage, the lies, the deception.

The thing about forgiveness is that it’s not about forgetting. It’s about choosing to build something new on top of the ruins.

I know all about that now.

Because I’ve had a master lesson in forgiveness over the last eight months.

From Andrew Yates.