Once the kitchen is serviceable, Mom and I cook dinner for everybody as a thank you for helping. We act like everything's normal, like tomorrow's just going to be a normal day at our beloved small-town diner, and I send Dana, Tony, and the rest home after they've finished their meals and their coffee.

Cleaning up with Mom after everybody else has gone home is almost enough to make me believe things are going to be normal, too. But then the red and blue lights flash outside and the sheriff's deputy who talked to us this morning invites himself back in.

"Thanks for coming back out here, Deputy," I hear Mom say, and a cold chill shudders through me, my stomach instantly souring.

"Of course, ma'am," he says with a friendly smile. He's about my mom's age, because of course he is. "You said you had more to add to the statement?"

"My son does," she says, casting me a glance.

There's no choice here. I can't tell her no, not when she's called the sheriff's office out here. I just have to somehow make it through this. Which means I have to lie. Again. Not just to my mom this time, but to a sheriff's deputy.

I kept it vague when he first showed up this morning. I told him where it looked like the person had entered, that they weren't after the cash register, and I said I'd had some unpleasant customers in the diner a few days ago.

But as I talk to him this time, with Mom wiping down counters and getting things prepped for tomorrow—despite the fact that we're definitely not opening, according to her—I have to spin a bullshit tale of what might have happened.

Oh, yeah. Those two guys definitely threatened me. I didn't think much of it then, but there's no one else I can think of who'd want to do this. No, I don't really remember what they looked like. They weren't locals, I know that much. Car make and model? Sorry, didn't catch it.

"I'll be honest with you, Mr. Tillman: What you've given me isn't a lot to go off. I can talk to some of your regulars when you're open again, see if they remember anything more. Other than that…"

"Yeah, sorry for the trouble, Deputy. I wish I could remember more, but we get a lot of travelers in here."

"Don't doubt that," he says with a grin. "My wife's been badgering me to come here ever since she saw y'all on the Food Network."

"You should bring her by sometime! On the house."

I'm all good cheer and hospitality as I lead him out of the diner. A harsh chill sweeps in when the door's opened, but at least that's the only place where the outside's still coming in.

I stand there, watching the deputy pull out of the parking lot. All the while I can see my mom's reflection in the glass. She's bent over the stove, scrubbing away. It takes her a couple tries to straighten properly, and I can see her suck in a breath as she does.

Here she is, working through the pain, busting her ass to help me get this place sorted out. And I can't even handle my own shit. I sigh and finally turn around to face her, knowing it's not going to go great.

"You should go home," I say gently, on some off chance she's not going to be as stubborn as usual. "I'll finish up here."

"My son was the victim of a goddamn hate crime that—for some reason—he's playing off like it was nothing. No, Eric, I don't think I'll go home."

I let out a shaky breath, my palms resting on the cool counter. "Mom…"

"How often do people threaten you?" She turns that fierce gaze on me, standing straight as an iron rod.

"What?"

"You told that deputy those boys threatened you. How often does that happen?"

Fuck. I know I've dug my own grave with these lies, but I can already imagine what she's thinking. I didn't raise my son to take shit from a couple of inbred pricks.

I grab a clean rag and the bottle of disinfectant and start cleaning a counter that's already been rubbed down at least twice this evening.

"Not often," I finally answer.

"Then why couldn't you identify them? Why aren't you telling the sheriff's office what they need to know?"

Her voice is half pleading, half mad as hell, and I swallow the lump in my throat, scrubbing harder at the spotless countertop.

"You remember when I was in high school, and Justin Leiman made my life a living hell?"

She's silent, and I glance over my shoulder to find her staring at me, her arms folded over her chest. "I remember."

"You told me to ignore him. That all he wanted was attention. That if I focused on the shitty things he did, I'd miss all the good things." I pause, my fingers curling around the rag. "And you were right. When I stopped being afraid of him, he moved on."

"Jesus Christ, Eric." I hear her let out a heavy breath, but I can't bring myself to look at her. "That was high school. And I'd already given your principal a piece of my mind."

My head snaps up at that and I feel that old, familiar ache. Even back then, she didn't trust me to fight my own battles. As much as I love my mom—as much as I know she just wants to protect me—that stings.

"Yeah, well. You were still right. People like Justin don't deserve the time of day from me. A couple of guys came in here and thought they'd play 'corner the fag.' Big fucking deal. Tony spit in their food, Dana kept giving them the wrong drink orders, and they were out of here within an hour. I didn't think about them past that."

That much is true, at least. I have better things to do than worry about a couple of idiot kids trying to one-up each other. And honestly, I've been way too secure in myself and my sexuality to even care what complete strangers think of me.

It wasn't always that way. That's how I ended up with Blake. But I'm not opening that can of worms. I've told this lie, and now I'm going to live it.

"I'll get cameras installed tomorrow. I'll talk to the alarm company first thing in the morning. The whole town's seen this place busted up, and you know how they can be." I think of Reeve, and just how fired up he looked about the whole thing. "Nothing like this is going to happen again, Mom."

She sighs and comes over to me, taking the rag out of my hand and tossing it aside. Strong hands reach up and cup my cheeks, and her blue eyes stare up at me with concern.

"I don't care about the diner, Eric. I care about you."

The way she's looking at me now, I want to tell her everything. My heart aches with the burden I've been carrying around for years. But I can't do it. My mom's the strongest person I know—I don't want her to see she raised a weak son.

"I'm okay," I tell her, resting my hands over top hers. "I promise." I lean in and press a kiss to her forehead. "Now. Will you go home and get some rest?"

"You've been running around all day, Eric, and you'll be back in here doing the same damn thing tomorrow. I'm not leaving until you do."

Well, that settles it. I make a deal with her—she can follow me home, as long as she agrees not to come in tomorrow unless I need her—and we do one last check before heading out.

It does calm my nerves a little to see her headlights in my rearview window, and I manage to get my shit together in something more than a convincing show by the time we make it to my apartment complex.

"You know you can stay with me. I've got plenty of room," she says, fussing with my scarf.

"I know. I also know the last time I stayed over, I got to see Dr. Kesner's very bare ass," I say with a smirk.

She waves this off, a devilish look in her eyes. "Ted's ancient history."

"Emphasis on the ancient," I mutter.

We fall back into our same old routine, and again it feels like none of it happened. Like it's any other day. A little rough, sure, but far from insurmountable.

"Call me if you need anything, all right?" she finally says, and even that just sounds like a casual offer that could include… well, anything.

By the time I head inside my building, I feel lighter. Somehow, I've convinced myself that it's all going to be okay. I've even bought into my lie about two random idiots trashing the diner.

The thing about lies, though, is that they don't hold up so well when you shine a light on them. Or when you shove a carousel horse at them.

As I'm fumbling for my keys, my hand comes down on it. A fresh wave of nausea hits me hard, but I try not to let it pull me under. Blake sent his message. He threw his little hissy fit. He expects me to ruin my business and my relationships. He expects me to come running back to him once I have nothing left to lose.

But just like Justin, I know he'll fuck off if I can ignore him long enough. I have to believe that, because the alternative is—

"Oh, Eric! Glad I caught you."

Mr. Greene, my next-door neighbor, stands at the elevators. His little pug, Cleo, snuffles at me until he lets her say hello. I crouch down and greet her properly, giving her a full pug-rub.

"If this is about the diner…" I start, hoping to head him off.

"No, though Patty told me about that. So sorry." I give him time, but eventually turn a patient smile his way. Finally, he remembers. "Someone came by looking for you. Tall guy. Blond. Patty said he looked a little like Chris Evans. Or was it Chris Pratt? I can never tell the difference."

He keeps talking, but all I can hear is this distant ringing, like someone's set off a grenade right by my ear. The world around me even starts to look white and hazy, the walls pulling in closer and closer until they're almost on top of me.

I don't need Mr. Greene to describe him any more than that. I don't need him to tell me what he was doing here. I know exactly who it was, and I know what he wanted.

And the fact that he knows where I live…

"Thanks, Mr. Greene. I'll take care of it," I manage, stumbling to my feet so hard that I have to thrust my arm out to catch myself on the wall.

"You okay?" I hear him ask, but I just wave it off and force my key into the lock.

When I get inside, I turn on every single light in my apartment. Every single one. My legs are like jelly, my hands shaking so bad it takes me three tries to fumble with the switch on my bedside lamp.

He's not here, and there's no sign he's been here. But it doesn't matter. I can feel him everywhere, like some thick, oppressive cloud of smoke just waiting to choke the life out of me.

And as I think that, it honestly feels like there is a thick cloud of smoke invading my lungs. I can't breathe. With every gasping, wheezing inhale, my lungs seem to tighten like they're turning to stone. My heart's going a million miles a minute, my chest feels heavy, and I honestly feel like I'm going to die at any second.

Somewhere in my panic, I see a face. Gruff. Bearded. Smiling, if reluctantly.

If you need me, call me.

I don't think about it. I just reach for my phone, stumble through the contacts, and dial.