“I’m not counting on it,” I painfully admit. Today is about acceptance. Orion has encouraged me to control what I can and accept what I can’t. “I’m having a really lovely time with you, but would you mind if I actually called Scarlett? I’m feeling really inspired to set some things straight with my family after being welcomed by yours.”

“Do you mean . . . ?” Orion asks.

“Yes.”

I’m going to call my parents and tell them it’s my End Day.

4:36 p.m.

Coming out as gay was one thing. Coming out as a Decker is another.

I came out as gay to Scarlett our first moment alone while she was recovering at the hospital. “I love you, Val” was all Scarlett said out loud, and her knowing gaze said everything else. I’d wanted to come out to my parents that afternoon too, but they spent so much time praying at my sister’s bedside that I knew I should wait. A couple days after Scarlett was home, I knew I had to make my move so I could get everyone to adjust to our new normal instead of returning to our old normal, where I had to be closeted. I sat my parents down in the living room and came right out with false confidence. It was tricky to tell if they already knew. I had thought about all the times my father would say “He’s a queer” as an insult or how my mother suspected any single older man must be gay if they weren’t married with children. There weren’t any knowing gazes from my parents like there were with my sister. But there were lectures—lots and lots of lectures with the headline being that I’m doomed to damnation if I choose sinning over Christ.

Will my parents still tell me I’m going to hell once they discover it’s my End Day?

I’ll get my answer soon.

I called Scarlett a few minutes ago, and she supports my choice to let our parents know. I don’t know how she would have dealt with this if I hadn’t come to this decision myself. As far as I’m concerned, she’s their favorite, but would they have held a grudge against her for not telling them it was my End Day? We’ll never have to find out, I suppose.

I’m upstairs in the brownstone’s living room, next to the internet modem so I’ll have a stronger signal for the Skype call with Scarlett and our parents. Orion props his laptop on top of this corner desk, its cord plugged into an outlet because it’ll die if it’s not charging. The desktop background is cluttered with Microsoft Word documents with file names like Watch Me Watch You and Golden Heart and Life Hostage and Never Right, Always Left.

“You’ve written so many stories,” I say.