Page 95 of How to Be Remy Cameron

“Everything okay?” I ask.

He’s studying the neighborhood. It’s after six p.m.; the sun is a bruised peach in the distance. November looks good in Ballard Hills. The trees are on fire; gold and crimson leaves everywhere, hardly any green left. Election signs fight for lawn turf. Pumpkins and paper turkeys guard front doors. The cooler weather gives the scenery a new gloss.

“I’m good,” he finally says.

“You seem distracted.”

He sighs. It’s not a good sigh.

Clover’s ahead, marking another tree. Her kingdom is expanding.

“My mom came to visit,” says Ian, like a whisper on the wind. “A quick visit.”

I lazily step closer. Our fingers almost brush, but Ian maintains a distance, an invisible wall.

“We talked.” He pushes hair behind his ear.

“About?”

“Me.” That one word is underlined, highlighted, and the font is huge. I already know what he’s going to say.

“She talked to a few family members about me… being gay. They’re not okay with it.” His nose wrinkles and, under my tight sweater, I can see his muscles contract but not release. He says, “I try not to let it bother me. It could be a lot worse. Itisa lot worse for other kids. It’s not as if she disowned me. She still… loves me. I’m not trying to impress her. I’m not trying to impress anyone with my sexuality. But it’s family. They’re all I’ve had for a long time.”

We pause at a curb. Three orange leaves fall between us. There’s a space and I hate it. I hate what it represents.

“But family can be a lot of things,” I say. “Friends and support groups and…” One word hangs in my throat. Ian tilts his head. We both know what it is. Neither one of us says it aloud.

It’s not my word to claim. It should be given. It’s another thing that should come with permission. Instead, I say, “Family isn’t always what we’re born into.”

Ian smiles at that. It’s small, but genuine. “It’s just been on my mind, that’s all.” His smile endures, but it’s weakening. “No big deal. Back to you and Rio.”

But I don’t want to talk about Rio. I want to tell him it’s a big deal. That all of this matters. And I want to reach out, touch his hand, but I can’t. Not because I don’t have permission, but because words hang in Ian’s throat too.

“I don’t know.” I start to walk again. Ian and Clover follow. “We’re just… I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

Ian hums noncommittally.

“Now I don’t have a date to the dance.” I try to make it sound like a joke, not an invitation. I fail.

We’ve paused four houses down from mine. Willow’sFamily Circuscurtains are visible from here.

“I can’t,” he mumbles.

“Sorry. I wasn’t— I mean, Iwas, but…”

“I’m not comfortable yet.”

“Okay.” That entire word tastes like a lifetime of lies. He’s not comfortable. He’s comfortable enough to flirt and kiss my neck and unbutton my jeans and fall asleep on my shoulder in his bed while his dad is gone, but not enough to go to a silly dance. I know that’s not fair. It’s an asshole conclusion, but I can’t help it. I wasn’t in the closet long enough to know what being “uncomfortable” meant.

Ian’s staring at his shoes when he says, “I need time. I like you.”

“I like you too.”

“This is good.”

“Good,” I repeat, numb and vacant. “It’s no big deal.”

I wonder if he wants to tell me it is. But he doesn’t. Clover barks, then trots off to our yard.

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