Page 39 of Baran
“I’ve reopened all your accounts,” his father said suddenly, interrupting Baran’s thoughts. “I’ve been a fool, and I want to make things right. I want to spend time with you, if you’ll let me. I’m proud of you, Baran. I hear you’re going to college. I’m proud of you for that. I want to be a part of your life.”
Baran nodded, unable to find the words to express everything that was swelling in his chest. The hope, the confusion, the pain.
He took a shaky breath. “I…I want that too,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “I want to be a part of your life too. But it’s going to take time…I can’t just forget what happened.”
His father nodded, understanding. “I don’t expect you to forget. Just…give me a chance.”
Baran felt a tear slip down his cheek before he could stop it. But this time, it wasn’t just sadness. It was something else. Something fragile and new.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Baran whispered, wiping his eyes quickly.
His father gave him a soft, hopeful smile. “So am I. Would you like to live with me while you go to school?”
“I’m living Darien Moore. We’re seeing each other.” Baran didn’t want to live with his father. The thought of leaving Daddy Darien made him reluctant to move from where he was. Securing his new relationship with a man like him didn’t come every day. Living with his father might not work out. He was domineering and still had a lot of old ways.
“So that is what his interest was in you.”
“What does that mean?”
“He threatened me, and he insisted I talk to you and give you a chance.”
“So, everything you just said is meaningless.”
“I’m telling you this, so you know what kind of man your boyfriend is.”
“I should have known you couldn’t change in a few days.” Baran walked away. He left the building in his tux, took a cab to the nearest men’s store, and bought jeans and a T-shirt. He changed into his new clothes and bagged his tux. On his way out, he stopped at a bank and pulled out some cash. His father had not lied about reinstating his accounts. He didn’t know how to feel. Baran found the subway and sat by the window of the train, his fingers gripping the edge of his seat as the city blurred past him in streaks of neon and steel. The rhythmic clatter of the tracks beneath the train was a dull hum, but his mind felt like it was crashing against a wall, over and over, each thought tumbling into another, each emotion knotted tighter than the last.
He still didn’t understand. How could he? He’d been sitting there, trying to make sense of his father’s words, his father’s eyes—wide with an emotion Baran couldn’t quite place—when it all spilled out. Darien. Darien hadthreatenedhis father to talk to him. To give him another chance. The words themselves made little sense. They twisted inside his chestlike a blade, painful, confusing. How could Daddy Darien—his boyfriend—do that? Why? And what did it mean for him?
His father had said it so matter-of-factly, like it was just something that happened, something beyond their control. The threat. The pressure to forgive. To let him back in, like there wasn’t some twisted history between them. And then…his father’s reluctance. His father’s refusal to meet him halfway. Like the only reason he was even talking about giving Baran a chance was because Darien had forced his hand. That was the part that made Baran’s stomach tighten in knots.
The wordsthreatenedandchancekept echoing in his head. How was he supposed to feel about that? Darien, someone he’d fully trusted to begin with, was now somehow involved in this—whatever this was. That hurt him so deeply there were no words to match his emotions. And his father…Baran didn’t know who his father was anymore.
He’d walked away from them both without saying a word, needing space, needing to think, to breathe. He didn’t know where to go, but his feet had taken him to a subway as usual, the bright lights outside drawing him in like a lifeline. How the hell was he supposed to forgive either of them?
The train ride to Brooklyn felt like a blur, the seats too hard, the air too thick, his mind spinning faster than the wheels beneath him. He didn’t know what to feel. He didn’t even know how to react to the dozens of missed calls and voicemail notifications that buzzed on his phone. His father. Darien. He couldn’t bring himself to listen to the messages. Not yet. Not now. Maybe never. Every time the phone buzzed, it felt like his chest would crack open.
He thought about what it would be like if he never talked to either of them again. It seemed so easy, so final. A part of him wondered if that was what he needed. But another part of him—a part he didn’t want to acknowledge—was still clinging to theidea that somehow this mess could be fixed. That things could go back to normal. But how could they, after everything?
Baran finally arrived in Brooklyn. He found a hotel. It was the kind that felt like a temporary solution, like a place to hide from Darien. He checked in, slipped the key card into his pocket, and took the elevator up to his room. The walls inside were bland, unremarkable. The kind of room that no one would remember. It suited him.
He dropped his bag on the floor, then sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the surrounding space. The hum of the city outside, distant and muffled, felt like the last connection he had to something real. He was so angry. So hurt. But there was something else, something he didn’t know how to name. It was a gnawing ache deep in his chest, the kind that never went away, no matter how far you ran or how long you stared at a blank wall. The feeling that nothing—nothing—would ever make sense again.
Baran pulled the blanket over his legs and lay back, staring at the ceiling. His phone buzzed again. He didn’t check it. He couldn’t.
As the night drew on, the weight of his thoughts settled around him like a heavy fog, making it harder to breathe. The calls kept coming. His father. Darien. And him, stuck somewhere in the middle, between forgiveness and a rage he couldn’t escape.
Chapter Nineteen
Darien
Darien’s frustration mounted ashe scanned the crowded room for Baran. The gala was in full swing, people milling about, lost in conversation or admiring the art, but Baran was nowhere to be found. He’d promised they’d stay together, but now, standing there amid all the noise, Darien couldn’t help but feel something was amiss. Where was he? Why wasn’t he answering his phone?
As he moved through the throng of people, Darien caught sight of Baran’s father, lingering in front of a painting. The olderman’s gaze was focused on it intently, his posture stiff, as if the art held some answer he was trying to puzzle out. Darien didn’t hesitate. He approached quickly, feeling an edge of desperation.
“Mr. Aslan,” Darien said, his voice clipped, a sharpness creeping into his tone that he couldn’t quite mask.
The older man turned slowly; his expression was unreadable. Darien barely recognized the flicker of emotion passing through his eyes—something distant. “Darien,” Mr. Aslan greeted him, almost too casually. “Looking for Baran?”
