When I left my parents’ house for what I hoped would be the last time two years ago to board a plane to New York and start my new life as a writer, I swore I’d make a name for myself and never come back.

Neither of those things came true.

Instead, my holiday season started with my editor calling me into her office to tell me I was being laid off two weeks before Christmas. So, I’d packed my bags and once again got on a plane, this time to spend the holiday with my parents and younger sister.

All kinds of thoughts rolled around in my head as I drove—or more accurately, bounced—southbound away from the Detroit Metropolitan Airport along the pot-holed wasteland that was I-275 toward Monroe, the tiny town I was born in and had only grown to hate more since I’d left it.

As the freeway opened up to reveal the dots of buildings in the town growing larger on the horizon, my level of anxiety grew in proportion. I’d have to tell Mom and Dad about my joblessness at some point, but how the hell would I break the news? Was there any such thing as a good time to tell my parents over Christmas ham that I’d been laid off?

There was also the issue of my sister, Sara, who’d almost certainly seen my anxiety-laced, vaguely worded posts on Facebook about my predicament by now. My begging for job leads had gotten so desperate at times that it scared me, so God only knew what my friends thought about it.

But as I exited the freeway and turned onto Telegraph Road to start the last long stretch of the drive from the airport to town, I passed the street that led to Nike Park, one of the old parks I used to frequent as a younger, only-slightly-less-intelligent man, and remembered my family members weren’t the only people I had to worry about—lucky me. There was also Ben Bashaw, the one and only person I’d stopped for half a second to think about before making the decision to leave Michigan after I’d graduated college.

Ben and I met in that park five years ago during a round of soccer with my friends when I’d launched the ball straight into the path of the giant mowing tractor Ben had been driving. Somehow, he’d seen it and stopped the tractor long enough to retrieve it from the tangle of weeds and underbrush he’d been about to demolish, and when he’d handed it back to me, his outstretched arm corded with muscle, dusted with dark hair, his skin bronzed from days laboring in the sun, I’d known right then and there I was screwed.

Things only got more difficult when I’d later taken a job as a deli clerk in a mom-and-pop grocery store on the edge of town and found Ben also worked there, in both the deli and as part of the floor crew. To this day I’m not sure how it all started, but we’d gotten to know each other with laughs and pranks at work, which eventually led to spending time together outside the store’s cinderblock walls, and then we’d started dating, whether or not we’d ever called it that.

I thought I’d forgotten all about Ben, or at the very least had moved on from that different time in a different life, but it came back to me in a rush of memories of freshly-cut grass, chirping crickets, and the sweet sweat of bodies joined in the night under rumbling summer skies. Though I tried to shake off the memories, they only kept coming as I drove through town, and grew to a fever pitch when I turned left at the intersection of Telegraph and Dunbar Road, passing the grocery store I’d worked in with Ben for nearly three years.

I hadn’t seen or spoken to him since right before I’d left for New York. I’d moved back in with my parents briefly after graduating from the University of Michigan, and Ben had invited me to a nice dinner to celebrate—and I’d chosen that dinner as the time to tell him I’d soon be moving to New York to take a job writing for a tech magazine. He’d pretended to be supportive and happy for me, but beneath his sparkling eyes and smiles, hurt and rejection lurked. Though we’d never spoken about it, there’d always been a sort of agreement that despite how great it was, whatever we had going between us couldn’t last forever, for a number of reasons.

Ben was twice my age, worked two jobs—one for the city’s parks and recreation department, the other at the grocery store—and wasn’t out as gay. That part hadn’t bothered me too much at the start, but as we grew closer and talked about our future, whatever it might’ve looked like, I’d realized that there wasn’t going to be a future that included us being together.

But I’d never been able to forget Ben, and probably never would.

The sight of my parents’ house as I parked the boat-like rental car I’d been given on the oil-stained driveway brought my mind to more pressing matters. The house hadn’t changed, which wasn’t a surprise given that almost nothing changed in Monroe except for the stuff that was ruined by the constant snow-salt routine. The siding was still a dirty white color, like mud-spattered snow, and its faded red shutters still made it look like a sad candy cane in an even sadder Christmas movie—appropriate, given the abysmal Christmas we were sure to have.

As if she’d been waiting at the door with bated breath, my mom dashed out of the house, slipping and sliding across the patches of ice that dotted the driveway, and flung her arms around me as I stepped out of the car. An odd mixture of fresh-baked bread and cheap perfume caught in my throat, my vision slashed by blowing strands of her thinning hair, and I pushed her away from me gently just to be able to breathe again.

“Oh, Rylan, I can’t believe you’re here,” she said, her eyes glistening with tears. Her hands found my cheeks and held me in place as she turned my head from left to right, as if I were a doll she was examining for any scratches or dings that might’ve happened while I was out of her sight.

“Hi, Mom,” I said and she let out a choking sound before clapping a hand over her mouth and embracing me again. This was the kind of thing she’d always done, ever since I was a kid, and though I’d found it annoying then I found it comforting now. It was exactly what I needed without even knowing. The only thing that would’ve put me more at ease would’ve been her patting me on the back and whispering that everything would be OK, because it certainly didn’t feel like it was going to be OK.

“This is the best Christmas present I could’ve ever asked for,” she said, her voice strained. If only she knew what the real gift was.

“Likewise,” I lied. I would’ve rather been anywhere in the world than there in her arms—not that I wasn’t happy to see her—it just would’ve been better under other circumstances. She released me and stared at me, probably afraid that if she looked away I’d disappear like some Christmas ghost. She might’ve gone on like that for the rest of the afternoon if my little sister hadn’t darted out the door behind her, a tall blur of blonde hair and bony limbs.

Sara threw her arms around my waist and nearly knocked me over in the process. When I got my balance back, I ground my knuckles into the top of her head, pushing a wail out of her, and wheezed when she punched me square in the gut. Clearly it wasn’t just her height that’d grown since I’d left.

“Jesus, what the hell was that for?!” I shouted as she slipped out of my arms and ran to Mom’s side.

“For waiting so damn long to come home,” Sara said and Mom scowled at her choice of language, though it wasn’t very intimidating since Mom had lost her height advantage over Sara.

“I can’t believe how tall you’ve gotten. You’re not my little Oompa Loompa anymore!” I said and jumped out of the way when Sara slung another punch at my shoulder.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough. God, you haven’t even been home for five minutes and you two are already at it,” Mom said. “Help your brother unload his things,” she ordered Sara and despite the dramatic eye roll she gave me, Sara walked with me to the back of the car. After popping the trunk with the keyfob, I let her reach into the trunk for the smaller of the two bags I’d brought before I tickled her sides, making her flail and scream.

“Knock it off before one of you gets hurt, that’s the last thing we need!” Mom shouted and I released Sara but not fast enough to dodge her right hook, which caught me in the shoulder and stung like hell.

“Ow! Who the hell taught you to hit like that?” I asked, massaging the space where she’d hit me.

“Dad did,” she said with a triumphant smile.

“Of course he did,” I said and rolled my eyes, which made her laugh. When she was sure I wasn’t going to try any funny business again, she yanked my backpack from the trunk and flung it over her shoulders.

“Come on, dinner’s almost done and I’m fucking starving,” she said and hearing her swear like that made me do a double take.

“You’re a little too young still to be talking like that,” I said as I reached for the handle of my suitcase.

“I’m 17, I’m not a baby,” she said.

“Maybe, but the last I checked, Oompa Loompas don’t swear,” I said.

“Don’t forget, I know where you sleep.”

“Likewise,” I said and she smirked at me before she turned and stalked off into the house, Mom following behind her. It was funny. Nothing really had changed and yet at the same time everything had changed in the relatively short amount of time I’d been gone. Maybe Dad had changed too. Doubtful, but maybe.

My suitcase bumped across the craggy, ice-covered driveway as I made my way to the house. My sister’s spastic toy terrier met me at the front door, jumping up and down on my legs and making the kind of noises I usually associated with exorcisms, and I was surprised she remembered me.

“Hi, Hope,” I said, my voice going high pitched, as I bent down to pet the dog. She threw herself down on the hardwood floor and rolled over, expecting me to pet her stomach, so I complied and she whined and groaned her approval. When she was appeased, she skittered out of the way to let me in and I stopped in the tiny little living room behind the two burgundy reclining chairs we’d had for as long as I could remember.

Mom had put up the Christmas tree in the right corner by the one large window in the room—but behind the TV, no doubt at Dad’s insistence. She’d also decorated the rest of the room with faux holly branches and berries and, of course, string after string of those corny white icicle lights that went out of style like ten years ago.

“Here, let me help you with that,” Mom said as she tried to take the suitcase handle from me, but I held firm.

“It’s on wheels, Ma, I think can handle it,” I said and she frowned at me.

“Fine, smart ass, suit yourself,” she said, making Sara chuckle. “You can have my room, I’ll sleep with Dad upstairs in the loft,” she continued, which caught me off guard. Mom and Dad had been sleeping apart for years, so what was this all about?

“Why can’t I sleep in my old room?”

“Because it’s mine now,” Sara said, smiling at me.

“I guess I should’ve seen that coming. You were always a diva,” I said and Sara scoffed.

“Says you, Lady GayGay.”

“That’s right, now bow down,” I said and Sara burst out laughing while Mom sighed. OK, so, maybe not everything had changed. At least Sara and I still had our banter, so it was safe to assume we had Dad’s distaste for it too.

“Are you hungry, honey?” Mom called after me as I made my way down the hall to her bedroom at the end on the right, Sara right behind me.

“I could eat, yeah,” I called back.

“Eat dick maybe,” Sara said with a laugh, quiet enough that no one but us would hear, and I halted to whirl on her.

“How dare you expose my deepest, darkest secrets?” I asked, one hand on my chest to feign hurt.

“Honey, please, everyone knows you’re the Queen of Cum,” she said and this time I burst out laughing. Where the hell had she gotten such a raunchy mouth? It sure wasn’t from me.

“Oh my God, you’re disgusting,” I said.

“You love it.”

“Yeah, OK, maybe a little bit. Just keep a lid on it around Dad, OK?”

“Honestly, I think maybe he needs a little dick himself, it might make him less grouchy,” she said and I choked back a howl while she snickered along with me.

“That’s an image I’m never going to get out of my head, I hope you’re happy.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, giving me a curtsy and shrugging my backpack from her shoulders to the ground before slipping into the bedroom across from Mom’s—the bedroom that used to be mine—that now looked like something out of a junior fashion magazine. There were posters and tear-outs of too-skinny models wearing things even I wouldn’t have deemed fashionable covering the walls, and assorted, unkempt makeup supplies were strewn about the small desk in the room, which was also new. A faint cloud hung in the air of the room, no doubt a result of Sara’s mad scientist makeup experiments.

She flopped on the bed and reached for her phone, which was plugged in and if I knew her half as well as I thought I did, that was probably because she never put the thing down long enough for it to charge.

“Hurry up, dinner’s ready!” Mom shouted down the hall over the screeching of a kitchen timer, so I dragged my bags into her bedroom and dropped them beside her king size bed. When I rounded the corner into the kitchen adjacent to the living room a few moments later, I was bowled over by the smell of the food—and my Dad’s less than enthusiastic face.

He’d always looked a little rough around the edges—a career in heating and cooling in Michigan of all places has a way of wearing a man out like that—but he seemed to be worse now than I remembered. The full head of hair he used to have had receded so far back on his head that he’d shaved it all off and the lines on his face that were previously nothing more than suggestions of aging had become deep trenches, crisscrossing his cheeks and forehead and making him look more like a leather handbag than a man, which was an oddly fitting look for him. It gave people a clear, visible warning about the prickly, unpleasant guy who lived in that weathered skin.

“The hell are you lookin’ at?” he barked from his chair as he slopped a pile of mashed potatoes onto his plate. Yeah, nice to see you again too, Dad.

“The potatoes. They look fantastic,” I covered, my eyes darting from the steaming dish in front of Dad to Mom for guidance. She shrugged and gave me that look, the one that told me to tread lightly because Dad was in another one of his “moods,” which was code for saying he was drunk, and passed me a plate from the stack she’d assembled on the kitchen counter between the stove and sink.

“Really? They look like mushy slop to me,” Dad said and though anger bubbled at the back of my throat, I swallowed it down. Getting into a fight with him was never a good idea, especially not when he’d been drinking. Though it was so common it bordered on pathology, I was still a little speechless that Dad hadn’t been able to resist the urge to drink his weight in booze the day that I came home. If I’d asked her, Mom would’ve sworn it wasn’t personal, that it was just because he was on call at work and stressed out, but that excuse had never held much weight for me.

Sara skated across the kitchen in her socks then, and she probably would’ve crashed into me if she hadn’t stopped herself on the wall, but I was grateful for it because it took the attention away from Dad. Mom handed her a plate too and wordlessly we set about carving off pieces of the meatloaf she’d baked and piling slivered green beans on our plates, careful as always not to let the juice from the beans dribble across the plate and contaminate the meat.

“You think that beard makes you look more like a man or something?” Dad asked, pointing at my face with his knife as I sat down across from him at the far end. Again my blood pounded in my ears but instead of lashing out at him, I chuckled.

“It gets pretty cold in New York, Dad,” I said, keeping my eyes on my plate so I wouldn’t have to see the look of derision he’d no doubt be giving me.

“I guess you won’t be needing it anymore, huh?” Sara asked as she sat down to my left and if I’d been holding anything, I would’ve dropped it.

“Why not?” Mom asked, eyeing me over her shoulder as she made her own plate. I gave Sara the sternest look I could muster, willing her not to say another word. She mouthed “Sorry” to me but it was too late, the flood gates had already been opened.

“Rylan? Why not?” Mom asked, facing me, her plate suspended in air by one shaky hand.

“I got laid off from the magazine,” I said to the pile of food in front of me, as if it might dull the words.

“Sara, you knew about this?” Mom asked.

“I saw some stuff on Facebook, but—” Sara started.

“I’m surprised it took this long,” Dad scoffed in interruption, and I looked up to find his icy eyes raking me. “I hope you didn’t think you were going to live here again.”

“I’d sooner live under a bridge,” I snapped and pushed back from the table to go back to the room and get my things. Mom thundered down the hall after me, ignoring Dad’s shouts to let me go, and she cornered me in her room.

“Rylan, I’m so sorry, he didn’t mean it, you know how he is, he just—”

“Save it, Mom. He doesn’t want me here any more than I want to be here. I’m just gonna go, it’ll be better for all of us,” I said.

“No, please don’t go. Please,” she begged, linking her fingers with mine. It almost worked, almost convinced me to let it go and play the part of the good son I’d been playing my entire adult life, but I couldn’t do it.

“It’s not you, you know that. I just can’t stay here with him,” I said before I kissed the back of her hand, still linked with mine, and pulled myself free of her grip. Her heartbreak played out on her face, moving from shock to anger to sadness like a three-act play. “I’ll see you tomorrow or something,” I continued and while she was searching for the words she had to have known wouldn’t make me stay, I scooped up my bags, carried them to the car, and flung them in the backseat.

It took everything I had not to turn around as I watched Mom standing in the driveway, disappearing in the rearview mirror. I had no idea where to go, but any place had to be better than home—as if I’d ever been able to call that house my home in the first place.