My childhood bedroom looked the same as it did all those years ago when I was living in it as a kid.
Our parents had kept both Aria and my old rooms that way we'd left them. Given how closely we lived nearby, we sometimes stayed the night at our parents' house and it made sense to maintain a bedroom for said purposes.
I'd moved out of my parents' house when I was nineteen. My job had been fortunate enough to allow me to move out earlier than most people would but I knew that was just luck and luck finds a way to run out.
As a teenager I'd always dreamed of having a small, cute place with someone I loved. For a long time, I believed that would be my ex-boyfriend Cameron, but when he died all those dreams flew out the window and I thought I would never see them again.
Lucky for me, though I didn't know it at the time, I had someone to help me work through that pain and a few years later I found myself living in a shared apartment.
But this luck was no different to the one I'd experienced as a teenager. It ran out long ago and I had moved to London as a result. Now I was back home and for the first time in my life and living at a different place than I was used to.
The walls of my old bedroom were still the same light shade of grey they had been for the last ten years. I'd painted them when I was younger and my parents finally let me begin to design my own bedroom the way I'd wanted it.
It may have seemed plain at first glance but the photographs and picture frames that adorned the walls begged to differ. Numerous items decorated the space; photos of friends, family, work by famous artists, maps, constellation charts. Anything that I found beautiful was arranged in a way that displayed every bit of artistic license I'd had in my small bedroom as a kid.
The furniture was plain but I'd never cared about such things. To me, a space was what you made of it, and I'd chosen to line the walls of my room with the thing I'd fallen in love with the most. Photography.
Cam had been the one to push me for a modelling job but I had loved photography long before that. I'd owned my first camera by the age of ten until I realised I loved being photographed more than doing it myself. My family differed in that respect.
The rest of my family were musicians, and Aria had followed in our parent's footsteps and now dominated the charts as one of the world's best-selling artists. Our father owned the record label that signed our mother when she was younger and I knew that music would always be something that bonded the three together.
That life had never been for me. Due to our parents' status and fame, Aria and I had both grown up in the spotlight since we were born. Mom and Dad did their best to shield us from it but the entire world knew the Evans by name. It was just that mine was stamped as a model rather than a musician.
There were days when I felt the repercussions of choosing a different path to the rest of my family. The nights when they would all sing and dance in the kitchen together, all the times we'd gone to see Aria perform on tour, the moments when we'd been stopped on the street because people wanted autographs from Mom, the way my father was known as an esteemed producer in the music industry.
I would never give up my modelling job for anything. I was completely and wholeheartedly in love with it, but it didn't change the fact that sometimes it isolated me from my own family.
Mom and Aria were gifted with angelic voices. Dad was a talented music producer and businessman. All I did was wear other people's clothes and strike poses for the camera. I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel a little lonely sometimes.
I'd never said anything about it but I had the feeling Mom and Dad had caught on from time to time. Whenever Aria struck gold in her music career, our parents would ensure that they extended their praise to both of their children. They wanted Aria and I to know how proud of us they were, even if one of us was shining brighter than the other at the time.
I'd once asked my father if he was disappointed I didn't follow on the musician path like Aria had. His response had been initial shock before he looked at me seriously.
"Listen to me," he'd said, leaning forward across the dinner table one night when it was only the two of us leftover. "You went out there and you made something of yourself. I see the look on your face whenever you do a shoot or walk in another show. You love it, just the same as Aria loves her music, and if modelling is the thing that makes my son happy, that's all that will ever matter to me."
Sometimes I had the feeling they'd left my bedroom the same way as a show of silent acceptance. It was the same way they'd left all of Aria's music posters up in her room and regularly cleaned the collection of guitars that remained there. It was a small but significant reminder that we never needed to prove ourselves to them. I wasn't sure I'd ever loved my parents more that day.
The next morning, I was startled awake by the sunshine filtering through the window and blinding me in a golden haze. In my hysteric state last night I had forgotten to close the curtains and rolled over with a groan as the day dawned on me unpleasantly.
Heading to the bathroom, I washed the sleep out of my eyes and took a quick shower. Most of the clothes in my suitcase were left over from old shoots where the designers had insisted I keep the clothes. Finally, I managed to find a blue pair of jeans and slipped a white hoodie on in the effort to look casual.
By the time I'd finished getting ready and packing up the room, an hour had passed and I realised I had been stalling. Part of me was tempted to just crawl back in bed and sleep the day away but I knew I'd only be delaying the inevitable.
The top floor was quiet but as I headed downstairs I could hear voices coming from the kitchen. Creeping around the corner quietly, I lingered in the doorway until the bile had stopped rising in my throat.
My parents and Aria were chatting in the kitchen. Mom and Aria were seated at the table with a hearty-looking breakfast and Dad was cleaning dishes in the sink. They were all laughing together until Aria looked up and saw me.
"Troye," she said, somewhat surprised around a mouthful of yoghurt.
Mom turned in her chair and her face softened. "Troye honey, come sit down."
"Nadia," Dad spoke gently from the kitchen.
Mom looked towards her husband and back at me. Reading an unspoken language between the two of them, she stood. She gestured to Aria, who reluctantly put her spoon down and followed Mom towards the doorway where I stood.
On the way past, Dad kissed Mom's cheek and she smiled sweetly at him before coming over to me. She squeezed my shoulder and gave me a warm smile before leaving the room. Aria sent me a soft look and followed in pursuit.
My face must've read confusion because after they were gone, Dad said, "I wanted to talk to you first."
I was still leaning against the doorway but at his words I pushed off and walked further into the room with a tentative step. My eyes were trained on the floor, avoiding my father's gaze.
The kitchen was quiet now. With Mom and Aria gone, the happy chatter had left with them and Dad was no longer washing dishes in the sink. I stood on the other side of the counter, waiting.
With a sigh, Dad dried his hands on a tea towel before putting it down and placing his palms on the counter. He took a breath.
"Admittedly, things got a little out of hand last night." he started. "I know it was our fault, but I think a conversation is due."
"There's nothing to talk about," I mumbled. "Anything you needed to know I told you last night."
"But that's not everything, is it? There's more to the story."
"What story?"
"The one that made you decide you didn't want to love someone."
"I love people," I said, a little defensive. "I love you, and Mom, and Aria. I love my friends, my colleagues."
"You know what I'm talking about, Troye."
My head turned and I stared out the window that overlooked the front yard. The lawn was freshly cut and the garden Mom so eagerly maintained was blooming. Everything was so beautiful and so simple all at once.
Dad leaned against the counter and gestured to the spot beside him. "Come here."
I went obediently because he was my father and I knew he'd always want what was best for me. That also meant I knew what was coming. Big heart-to-hearts were an Evans tradition.
The coffee machine was humming and Dad went over to pour a mug for himself. He must have known we'd be having this conversation because he placed a cup of tea in front of me instead of an expresso. It was green tea, but somehow the scent wasn't relaxing me like usual.
"Dad, I-"
"When you were little," Dad cut me off gently. "You had a habit of taking out all of our old photo albums and laying them on the floor of the living room. You would flip through them for hours."
I was silent, but he wasn't expecting an answer. "You'd do it at least once every two weeks," he continued. "You'd been doing it since the age of four but it was only when you were eight that I realised there was a pattern to your habit."
"We have many photo albums. My childhood, your mother's, Aria's baby book, yours, family occasions, holidays, birthdays, your mother's tours, all of my business investments." Dad remarked. "But your favourite album to look through was of your mother and I before you were born."
"I didn't understand it at first. Whenever you pulled them out, that was your go-to album. No matter how many times you saw the photos, you never failed to pull it out again the next time. I couldn't help but wonder what kind of fascination you had with it."
My father was taller than me by at least two inches. He was sturdily built and still had a full head of dark hair at his age that matched his dark eyes. In the younger photos I'd seen of him, he'd dressed more in a biker's getup before moving into expensive business suits.
I had always looked more like my mother and sometimes I used to wonder if it ever disappointed my father that I didn't turn into some burly Alpha-type like he was. If it did, he'd never said anything about it which made me believe it was just my own insecurities at times.
Before I had even decided on a career in modelling, I had been gifted softer genetics. My frame was solid and I was muscular and toned but there was a delicateness to my features that my father didn't have. My jawline wasn't as strong and I had lighter-coloured hair and eyes, but our differences stopped about there.
Despite my father's sharp-cut appearance, his personality was anything but audacious. He was refined and headstrong in the business world but when it came to his family, he was a giant teddy bear and wasn't afraid to show it. We'd been having deep conversations together since I was six years old. An inner tenderness had always been something we'd had in common.
Which was perhaps the only reason I was able to meet his gaze when he said, "I asked you once why you like to look through them so often and this is what you said to me: 'Because you and Mom look like you've found sunshine even when there's a storm overhead.'"
"I didn't know what you meant by that until you pointed to a certain photo. This photo." Reaching into his pocket, he produced a photograph and laid it on the counter in front of us. My brain stuttered as the memories of the photo came flooding back and I had to hold on to the counter to stop myself from falling.
The photo was of my parents when they were younger. Mom was nineteen and Dad was twenty-one. They were at a lake and sat in the back of a red pickup truck where a blanket was laid out in the back.
Mom was sitting sideways in Dad's lap, her head thrown back as she laughed. The sun had caught in her smile and her hair was long and wild in the breeze. The water glimmered in the background behind them and a guitar was sitting beside Dad's leg in the truck bed.
Most of all, it was my dad's expression that caught the eye. The way he was looking at Mom was the purest, most genuine thing I had ever seen. On his own face was a grin as he watched Mom laugh like he would go to war and level cities for that smile. The sunrays blared down on both of them in tones of gold and yellow and everything about the photo radiated a serenity I had never seen anywhere else. It was wholesome. It was the goal.
"You told me you didn't understand what was happening, but even that young you knew you wanted someone to look at you the way I looked at your mother in that photo." Dad said, smiling. "The way I've been looking at her for nearly thirty years."
"Why do you have this?" I whispered, tracing the photograph gently with one hand.
"Because I've seen you look at someone like that," he replied. "And I've seen them look at you the same way."
My eyes closed on their own as I breathed deeply. "That was a long time ago."
"Time doesn't change what was real, Troye. Only what we understand of it. I won't ever forget the way you looked at him, even if you didn't realise you were doing it."
My facade started to crack and I croaked out, "Why are you saying this now?"
Dad turned then, facing me directly but I couldn't meet his eyes. I felt his gaze bore down on me as he said, "I know it seems like sometimes those things are gone for good, but it's never forever. They can come back if you let them. You have a choice."
"I already made it."
"But it's not too late to change your mind. I need you to know that."
"What makes you think I don't?"
"When you told us last night," Dad answered carefully, "you looked so firm. So resolute. I haven't seen you so adamant about something since the day you told me you wanted to be a model. It was..."
"Reassuring?"
"Worrying." Dad said honestly and my head snapped up to stare at him with wide eyes. He shrugged, taking a sip from his coffee. "I want to be honest with you, Troye. What you said last night made my heart break. You spoke as if the world was ending."
"How else am I supposed to say it?"
"Like you're a twenty-four year old learning to live and love. Like a young adult just getting started with their life, not someone who's at the end of it."
"I didn't mean to sound like that."
"This whole decision sounds like that."
We were silent for a moment. I looked away and Dad, still watching me, sighed. He stepped forward, placing one hand on my shoulder with a gentle squeeze. "I know love has hurt you in the past, but is running from it really the answer?"
"I'm not running." I said. The lie was bitter on my tongue.
Dad watched me as if he was trying to find some deeper meaning behind my expression. His shoulders dropped and he exhaled before saying, "You know I'll support whatever you do, Troye. You're my son and if it makes you happy then that's all that matters. But I am your father. I've known you since the day you were born and I need you to hear me when I say this: problems with love aren't the end of the world. It can hurt, kill even, but trying to find happiness without love only leads to temporary fixes."
"So, what you're saying is, I can't ever truly be happy without being in love with someone?"
"Not at all. But you do need to have connection. Go out, meet people, try new things. When's the last time you went out with friends?"
I thought back to my years in London. I'd made friends there, many, but the timing never seemed right to see each other for more than an hour outside of work. In fact, I'd never really had friends who weren't colleagues first.
My connections in the modelling industry led to peaceful acquaintances with socialites and celebrities, but there was no deep friendship there. In high school I had friends but most had drifted away by now. All but one, and now that was gone too.
My delayed response gave my father his answer and he nodded. "Work makes you happy but it's not everything, son. You need more in life than the goals you're working towards."
I bit my lip, answering honestly because he wouldn't judge me, "I don't know how to do that."
"You're home now. You're back in California. For the first time ever you'll have your own place, your own independence, your own breathing space. Use it to your advantage."
"How?"
Dad shrugged. "Make a friend. Just one person that you can connect with outside of the agency and who you can get to know on a different level. It doesn't have to turn romantic-" he said when I opened my mouth to speak. "-but enough that you know this person through and through. I think you could use someone like that."
"Why aren't you guys enough?"
Dad smiled at me, trying not show the sadness in his eyes but I could see it as clear as sunshine. "You are always welcome here Troye, but it's healthy to have friendships too. Go out, be young. You're still growing into the person you want to be, so go and figure out who he is."
"I thought I knew who he was." I muttered, looking sideways. "Turns out that was just another thing I had wrong."
Dad pushed himself off the counter and walked towards me. He was opening his arms before I could even see it coming and in a matter of seconds, I was pulled into a giant bear hug. I fit comfortably in my father's arms as he hugged me and said, "I'm so proud of you, Troye. I've always been proud of you, but I also need you to be happy too."
"I am happy." I replied, but this time we both heard the hesitation in my voice. Clearing my throat, I corrected it, "Um, I'm getting there at least."
Dad smiled. "I know, and I can't wait to see where you end up."
He ruffled my hair as I managed to smile back and stepped backwards. "Well, I have no doubt your mother and sister won't let you leave this house without talking to them first so all I can say is, good luck."
I laughed, wholeheartedly for the first time in what felt like years. "Thanks Dad."
"I'm always here for you, kiddo. You know that."
"I do, and I promise I'll come to you if I need."
"You better. Now, get out of my kitchen. I promised your mother a frittata for lunch and God only knows how I'm going to manage that by noon."
That caused me to chuckle. My father was great at many things but handling the grill was where his expertise laid in the kitchen. I wasn't much different but I could at least cook a few basic meals without burning the house down. The exotic dishes were Mom's thing.
I turned to leave when Dad pondered out loud, "Where do we keep the mixing bowls?"
Laughing, I patted him on the shoulder sympathetically and left him to it.
***
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