Page 95 of On Thin Ice

“I could say it’s new,” I began, my words coming out slowly. “But honestly? Probably since the moment I first laid eyes on him.”

Funny how close love and hate could sit—how easy it was to confuse the two when you were trying like hell to protect yourself.

I’d spent weeks convincing myself I couldn’t stand him. That he was annoying. Loud. Too much. A complication I didn’t ask for.

But the truth was, I hated how much I noticed him.

How he got under my skin, not for all the reasons I initially claimed, but because he read me like a book no one else had ever thought to open.

God, I’d tried to hold onto my frustration and irritation, to the wall I’d spent years fortifying.

But every time he smiled at me without expectation or teased me without fear, a piece of that wall cracked. Then another. And another. Until I was standing in the wreckage with nothing left to hide behind.

Bell never once asked me to be someone I wasn’t. He just kept showing up—brilliant, ridiculous, and tender in ways I hadn’t expected, filthy in ways I hadn’t known I needed.

And little by little, I stopped fighting it.

Because somewhere deep down, even from that very first moment, I think I knew: Stryker Bell was going to matter.

He was going to be my everything.

Marjorie’s gaze softened, her whole face going gentle in the way only people who’ve been there too can manage. People who’ve lived it and knew.

She laid her hand over mine on the table. “How long have you been holding that in?”

A soft huff of breath escaped me—half a laugh, half like something was caught in my throat.

“You mean the fact that I’m a gay man trying desperately to pass for straight?”

She shrugged, her hand giving mine a small, affectionate squeeze before pulling away and linking her fingers together over her abdomen. “Sure.”

I let the silence settle. Let it stretch just long enough for the truth to rise to the surface, quiet and inevitable.

When I told Bell I’d try—when I said I’d work on acknowledging our relationship—I hadn’t expected it to happen quite so soon. But sitting here with Marjorie, it didn’t feel rushed.

It felt right.

She’d become something like a second mother to me in the years we’d lived next door to one another, her blunt kindness and unshakable ease something I didn’t have with my actual mom.

And being queer herself, I knew I could trust Marjorie with this truth I’d kept locked inside me.

So I finally let it out. Spoke the truth I’d only ever said to my agent, Lacey, and then Bell: “My whole damn life.”

Marjorie was quiet for a long moment, her eyes scanning my face like she was searching it for something. Finally, with a soft exhale, she reached for her wine glass again, turning it slowly between her fingers. “Did I ever tell you how I met Barbara?”

I shook my head. “No. You’ve mentioned her, but I’ve never heard the full story.”

Her smile was wistful. “We both worked at UT’s library, but in different departments. We saw each other in the staff lounge all the time and quickly became friends. She had this wild halo of dark curls and the sharpest wit I’d ever encountered. Used to leave these little post-it notes on the vending machine with snarky commentary about the food choices.”

That made me smile. “Sounds familiar.”

Marjorie’s mouth curved. “Oh, she would’ve adored Bell. Same brand of clever irreverence.” She sipped her wine. “Anyway, I was smitten from the get-go, but Barbara … well, she was careful. Grew up in a deeply Southern Baptist family. Still, we moved in together shortly after we met, and for the next seven years, everyone thought we were just best friends and roommates.”

She paused and glanced toward the sliding glass door, where Bell’s silhouette passed by inside the house. It looked like he was pacing.

“I didn’t mind at first,” Marjorie continued. “Thought maybe time would help. That she’d eventually feel safe enough to be seen for who she was. Whowewere. But then one night, I asked if she didn’t finally want to tell people the truth about us. She froze. Told me she couldn’t. Not because she didn’t love me … but because of what it would mean. What it would cost. This was the early 2000s, so things were a bit different than they are now.”

My chest tightened as she spoke because I knew that fear. Knew exactly how it could hollow you out. I also heard what she wasn’t saying—a lot had changed in the ten years since gay marriage had become legal in Texas.

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