Page 101 of How to Be Remy Cameron

I start with the essay. Facebook. Messaging Free. Meeting Free. The thing with Ian. Fighting with Rio. My dead mother and Mystery Donor. My fading dreams of Emory. It’s as if a dam inside me splinters before shattering, and my thoughts are the flood. I talk so much, so long, that I’m hoarse. But it’s out. All of it.

Dad doesn’t say a word. Periodically, it looks as if he wants to, but he doesn’t. He lets me talk. He lets me finally breathe.

Afterward, his thumbs are on my cheeks, catching tears. I don’t know when I started crying. I’m not sure I’ll stop.

“Kiddo,” he says, sadly.

“Don’t.” I try to shake my head, but I realize I’m trembling all over. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m not,” I whisper.

“But you don’t have to be,” he tells me. “You don’t always have to be fine.”

I let him pull me in, wrap his arms around me. Tears dampen the cotton of his UGA T-shirt.

“When you were younger, I was terrified. I’ve always wanted to protect you. All parents want to protect their children. I tried so hard when you were little. But I knew, one day, there were things I couldn’t protect you from. Things that I’ll never face.”

He doesn’t name those things, but I know what they are. I’m black and he’s not. I’m gay and he’s not. I’m adopted and he’s not.

Dad kisses the top of my head. “You’re amazing, kiddo. You’re so strong.” There’s a tremor in his voice. “Maybe I can’t protect you from everything, but I feel so blessed knowing you’re strong enough to face some of it by yourself.”

“I’m not.”

“Not fully, but you’re much braver than you give yourself credit for.” We breathe together—inhale, exhale. “I know you’ll ask for help when you need it. When you’re ready.”

Will I?I want to ask him. It took so long to tell him.

“I should’ve been a better dad.” He’s sniffling.

I hide in his chest a little longer. “You’re great.”

He guffaws, wet and broken. “If I am, it’s because of my son. Because he’s hashtag cool-as-eff.”

“Dad, no.” I pull back with tear-stained cheeks.

Dad’s nose is red. His eyes are shiny jewels. His grin is a sunrise—comforting and renewing. “Talk to Rio,” he tells me. “If the Ian thing works out, great. If not? That’s okay too. And this essay…” I groan. “Write what feels right. Yes, your mom and I would love it if you aced AP Literature, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world if you didn’t.”

“It wouldn’t?”

“Your mom coordinates real-life Anne Hathaway romcom movies. I tell people how to power their Wi-Fi on and off. We’re doing okay without AP Literature.”

“But what about Emory?”

“What about it?”

“Dad.” I exhale shakily. “It’s all I’ve dreamt about for the past two years. Emory. Writing. It’s my path. Where I should be.”

Dad squeezes my shoulders and laughs, not condescendingly, but amused. “Kiddo, Emory is a wonderful place, but it doesn’t have to beyour place. You don’t have to commit yourself to one dream.”

“But you did.”

“You think UGA was my dream?” Of course, I do. It’s all he bleeds: black and Bulldog red.

Dad sighs heavily. “UGA wasn’t my dream school. It was the school closest to home. That’s why I chose it.”

“Why stay?”

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