Page 109 of How to Be Remy Cameron

“Thanks,” he says when Trixie steps away.

“Sing!” Brook shouts.

Mr. Tattoos-and-Guitar strums a few chords, and Ian grips the mic. His voice is… terrible. It’s squeaky, and, honestly, singing isn’t his calling. But Ian’s really going for it, eyes closed, mouth way too close to the mic. It’s seriously one of those out-of-body experiences, a disaster you can’t prevent. And I love it. Ian’s singing that one song about letting love open the door, that one song I love. Except it’s slower and chill and probably the best version I’ve ever heard.

Rio and Lucy get up to dance. Brook is a hot mess of yelling and clapping. The geek girls sing behind us. The old man leaves. But the college zombies order more coffee and ditch their textbooks to drag their chairs closer. And no one gives Ian hell about his voice.

It’s epic.

When he’s done, Ian’s a violent shade of red. But he’s smiling at me.

Mild confession: I’m hardcore smiling back.

We’re standing outside Zombie, Ianand I. Our friends’ version of giving us privacy means they watch intently from inside with their faces pressed to the glass.

We’re quiet for a long time. It’s chilly, but I don’t mind. I’m standing close enough to absorb his heat, but not too close to be obvious, just in case. In case what happened ten minutes ago wasn’t what I thought it was.

“Was it too extreme?” Ian finally asks, so soft.

“Extreme?”

“Too over the top?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

I stare at my Vans. “What was it for?”

His feet shuffle in front of mine. His hand closes the gap. Our pinkies link. “For you,” he whispers.

My brain overdoses on endorphins. I can’t deal with the blush overload. “It was great,” I say.

“Really?” There’s something electric in his voice.

“Perfect. Weird.” I knot my ring finger around his. “Perfectly weird.”

“Thanks.” I can hear his relief but still can’t look at him.

It’s so easy to be cynical about romance. I’ll admit, after Dimi, I thought love wasn’t worth it. All those big romantic gestures in movies? In books? Unrealistic. They’re always so lame and corny and it never happens like that. But that’s bullshit. It happens. People do wild, over-the-top, certified mushy things for the ones they care for. And it’s not bad. It’s epic.

“So,” I finally lift my eyes, “Brook knows, obviously. And…”

Ian bites his lip. “I came out to Lucy and Rio. And Trixie.”

I nod.

“And Aunt Jilynn.”

My breath catches, a sharp noise.

“She was…” I wait, then he finally says, “She was great. She told me she loved me and how incredible I am. And that I better visit soon. She was so Aunt Jilynn.”

Our shoulders relax simultaneously. Our breaths come in hushed puffs; the toes of our shoes touch.

“A few friends back in Arcadia know too.” His nose twitches. The cold spreads pink into his cheeks. “Not a lot of people. I’m still… I’m taking it slow. Testing the waters.”

“And?”

---