Page 39 of How to Be Remy Cameron

“Retro!” A laugh eases through my throat like honey. “You look hot in them.” I don’t even flinch. My mouth clearly has no chill, so I continue. “Wow. This is terrible. And offensive. The epitome of disaster.”

Ian’s mouth rises on one side. “Word vomit.”

“There are research studies on that, right?”

“Extensive.” Ian cocks his head. “I can send you a few links.”

It’s still warm for October. The breeze swirls between us bearing scarlet leaves and promises, with hints of apples and smoke. The sky is the perfect shade of blue. I love it. This awkward hush between Ian and I doesn’t exist when our surroundings are filled with such unpredictable magic.

“Hey,” I whisper, then clear my throat. “Do you wanna, like, go somewhere?”

“Somewhere?”

“It’s the weekend, and we’re two lame teenagers hanging out in a school parking lot.”

“Speak for yourself.” That solo dimple creases Ian’s right cheek. “I’m not lame. I have it on good authority that I’m retro and cool and… hot?”

I look away. Fire prickles beneath my cheeks.

“Come on.” Ian’s fingers squeeze into my shoulder. “We can just, uh, drive.”

“No destination in mind?”

“Somewhere for cool people like myself and lames like you, obviously.”

My laugh is carried by the cozy-warm breeze. It’s loud and geeky and I don’t want to take it back.

Our ride to Somewhere isthe easiest thirty minutes of silence I’ve ever experienced, mostly because it’s filled with Ian’s eclectic collection of ’80s music. His phone is plugged into the aux chord; the interior of the car is filled with a steady flow of synthesizers and guitars and awesome.

“This is?” I ask.

“The Bangles,” he replies, fingers drumming along the steering wheel.

“And that last song—”

“The Smiths.”

I nod along, watching him sing under his breath. He’s off-key but doesn’t care. Ian’s in his own world. I love how music does that—takes us to the middle of a packed arena with a spotlight and a microphone, even if we can’t sing the ABCs without our voices cracking. Music doesn’t just seep into our souls; it wraps careful fingers around our nerves and presses new life into them.

The windows are cracked open. Fresh air with the scent of orange leaves circulates through the interior while music escapes into the neighborhoods we cruise through. The sky is a canvas of melting pinks and blues. Clouds are brushed gold by the sinking sun. It’s The Magic Hour.

A song kicks in, all acoustic guitar and bass. “I know this one!” I thump my palms on the dashboard. “George Michael!”

Ian’s soft dimple reappears. He drives a manual transmission and shifts gears like a race car driver. I’m not coordinated enough to text and walk simultaneously. Watching Ian pump the clutch with one foot, using the other to gently press the gas pedal while his right hand eases us into a higher gear, all while he talks about music, is nirvanic.

“Careful,” warns Ian, “you might become cool around me.”

“Knowing who George Michael is isn’t cool. It came with my gay card.”

For the first time in a long time, I flinch. I don’t know why. After the first six times, coming out became as basic as telling a stranger my name. It became a joke: “Hi, my name is Gay and my sexuality is Remy Cameron.” Over and over, I’ve had to acknowledge my sexuality as if it’s a warning. The thing is, you always have to come out. Every day. To new people, to people you’ve known forever, to people who keep trying to ignore it.

I’m this.

I’m that.

Yes, I’m still Insert Anything Other Than Straight Here. And maybe that bothers me a little some days. But I’ve gotten used to it. Until now. Now it feels like the first time I’ve acknowledged my sexuality as this thing that could possibly matter. I don’t want it to be a big deal, but it’s abigdeal.

Ian’s expression is neutral. His eyes stay on the road, but I watch him earnestly. “I haven’t actually…” His words fade, cheeks reddening. “I haven’t received my card in the mail yet. I just became a subscriber.”

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