thank you, elliot

“Don’t fall down, tonight, you’re alive, and so am I. Hold on, we might hotwire this old car, and drive.”

-cavetown, everything is temporary

Elliot.

Four days before Thanksgiving.

I can’t stop replaying last night in my mind.

We weren’t sure what was going to happen the next morning, but right then, we could care less. The night was still and pleasant, just the perfect temperature, and the two of us were both excited and a little nervous, not to mention tired, considering how long the drive had been. We walked side by side into the vacancy office, our insides buzzing, unsure of the future.

But let me start a little earlier, as we made our way to the hotel, because that’s when it really started, in a way. I had fallen asleep for most of the ride, embarrassingly enough, but I woke up when he had taken an exit into town. I was confused, but I said nothing, because I was angry at myself for being such a terrible co-pilot. He was driving slowly, and the music was playing low—some sort of pop song— and I was looking straight ahead into the road, completely aware of his side-glances, but trying not to make eye contact. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to—I did—but I was afraid of how his eyes might look, what feelings they’d reflect. And what would he see in mine? What was I feeling? I searched myself and felt through the turmoil of emotions within me, like poking a stick in a flowing river, and tried to identify what its contents were. Happiness, sure. But also fear. Soon those two contenders would have to battle to the death, for only one could truly thrive. I just hoped the latter would be the loser. God, I really hoped it would.

I was watching the passing streetlights cast shadows on the radio, thinking it would probably be wise to start a conversation right now—because it was my duty to make sure he wouldn’t fall asleep—when he finally spoke up, clearing his throat. “Hey. So. Tomorrow. I was thinking.” I had to hold a That’s unusual joke back, for he didn’t sound like he was joking, and because I knew that he, no matter what, always thought every smallest thing through. Because people like us have to be careful, maybe. There are risks, probabilities that only a small mistake could trigger. I wish I were more like him, sometimes, because I know I could be a little reckless. Distracted. It was something my own mother used to condescend me for, when she still talked to me. But now I had to think for myself, for the most part. There was James in this picture now, and, like the driving, he’d do that for the both of us sometimes. It was a little terrifying that I was beginning to rely on him now, making myself vulnerable. What would happen if—no. Living in the moment. Look where we were headed, for goodness sake.

“I think we should go visit my mom,” he finished. That made me turn, but he wasn’t looking at me. He was turning on the blinkers, steering left. “She’s been asking me to visit. And there’s Thanksgiving coming up, so I told her I’d try and go.”

He made a mistake, I’d realized. He didn’t mean to say we. “Well, that’s nice,” I said quietly. “Tell her I said hi.”

He still wouldn’t look at me, even though the light turned red, and it was bathing him in the color, lighting his eyes up, softening his features. The car vibrated underneath my feet, and sometimes, when I’m overthinking, I remind myself that only a couple of feet beneath me is moving ground, and I am only being supported by a sheet of metal. It’s worse when I’m on the highway. More even when I’m driving. So I let James be my chauffeur. Always a little more emphasis on the French.

He turned toward me when the light changed green and the car in front of us was barely moving forward. “No. I meant the both of us.” Shit. “I’ve told her about you.” No. “And I think she’d like to meet you.” Why?

The words that came out of my mouth did not originate from the ones buzzing in my mind. “You told her about me? What?”

“Yeah. Not that way, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said quickly, easing my mind. “But I did say that you’re a good friend, one of the only good ones I have at school. And how you don’t have any family there to spend Thanksgiving with.” Good friend. I remember that.

“I, uh, don’t know. I don’t know. Is that a good idea?” Just thinking of sitting on a table with a dozen other, unknown strangers who’ll shower me in questions I’m not sure I can answer was already making my stomach lurch.

“Well, what else did you have planned for Thanksgiving?” he asked, changing the radio station to some alternative one, but commercials were playing, which I think annoyed the both of us. His tone was already dismayed.

“I don’t know. Nothing. I wasn’t going to do anything, really. Just the usual. You know.” It was true. I didn’t have anything planned, much less turkey for dinner. I was considering stopping by the mall and taking advantage of the Black Friday deals I could afford, but the amount of people that crowd up in there is intimidating. There was also this one, tiny little fantasy, of spending the day with James in my dorm and just eating Chinese and watching T.V., but I did nothing for it and didn’t even try mentioning it to him. We’re still not there, I thought. I don’t know where we were exactly, because whatever this romance thing was, it was only coming in short bursts and then we were back to being awkward.

Even our whole day together felt a bit graceless, though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy every minute of it. Most of it was driving around town, stopping by apartment buildings and retrieving mail, stopping by to say hi to some of his old friends. James would introduce me as his friend from school, which wasn’t too far off, if friends hold hands once in a while and occasionally flirt. As the sun was setting, we stopped by In-N-Out and sat on a table near the window, sitting only a few feet far from each other. He bought me a milkshake, and I bought the fries. And I’d grin at his silly jokes about how bad the burgers were on our side of California, and he’d grab my drink and take quick sips before handing it back to me gently. “It’s so good,” he would repeat. I would just smile and nod. I couldn’t help but feel everyone around us, paranoid someone would notice us. But James didn’t seem to mind, and anyway, we weren’t being obscene. If anything we looked like good friends, innocent and normal. Sometimes I have to remind myself how messed up the term normal sounds like, but it’s become habit. A part of me wants to scream, What? What, can’t two guys just love each other in public, damn it? But there’s the other voice, saying, Be careful. And no matter how loud the first one yells—the latter is louder.

I’m not sure how this whole dating thing works yet. I’m not sure if it’s right of me to say I already love James. I think I think too much.

But it was stupid of me to think we could spend Thanksgiving together, alone at school, isolated from the world the way I feel happiest at. That’s my happiness. But now it’s obvious this is not James’ ideal way of spending our days. And whilst I agree with him sometimes, the world can be a pain in the ass. I don’t want to do anything for Thanksgiving. Sleeping would be nice.

“The usual as in rotting away on bed all day?” I could only hear his sarcastic smile, because I’ve stopped looking at his stupidly handsome face and found much more interest in the lights of a building that advertised PALM READING. It looked closed for years. Tarot cards were painted on a sign near the door, the paint peeling off the cracking wood. Shame. I could’ve used a reading.

“No,” I lied. I kinda hated it when he read my thoughts, as if I was really that simple. Was I that simple? “No,” I repeated. “I was gonna catch up on homework and then maybe camp outside a store for Black Friday.”

“Were you planning on inviting me?” he asked.

“I didn’t know that was a requirement,” I said, and I have no idea why I was being so mean all of the sudden. Maybe because a secret part of me was still butthurt about how he ignored me for so long, though it wasn’t really that bad. For the first weeks at school, he would talk to me and smile. Then he ignored me completely and went two weeks without even muttering hello. But things started to change in late September, at the library, and then after the charcoal collaboration. Still, the thought that one day he’ll disappear and pretend nothing happened is both worrying and angering. I’m just being paranoid, though, because now I’m starting to see that he really cares about me, and I really care about him. And, what the hell, he just invited me to spend Thanksgiving with his family. That’s gotta be the point of no return or something. Not to mention I’d been his sole companion in a four-hour drive, round-trip, to San Diego and back. He himself asked me to accompany him. He let me play the music the whole ride there.

“Hey. I thought we were doing everything together now.” He sounded a bit sad. Confused. “Are you mad at me?”

“No,” I muttered, biting my lip. “No, sorry. I guess—I guess I just wanted to be alone.”

“Oh.”

“Alone with you,” I add, annoyed at the fact that I really had to point that out, despite this unspoken agreement that we have feelings for each other and that we had each other’s sides. Sometimes my mind is still in disbelief, sending ignorant questions like: was it really something you both agreed on, though? I have to remind myself that I’m being illogical.

He held my hand, that was it. That was all it took to take my mind into a damned frenzy. We had been paired together for an assignment—charcoal drawing, with a live model for reference—meaning we would have to compare our works with one another and juxtapose our styles or perhaps accuracy. The desks were positioned in a circle around the model, each one large enough to fit two people. This wasn’t our first time working together, but it was the first time it seemed different. Maybe it was because we had been hanging out at the library every day that week, our minds buzzing with our conversations, our quiet laughter. I had laid out my writing homework on the table near the non-fiction section—where it was much quieter—but also because I noticed it was where James would most often materialize with a small stack of books underneath his arm. He was habitually wearing bright, vintage looking sweaters or shirts, sometimes with glasses on his face, other times not. His shoes were leather and clicked even on the carpeted floor, but some days he’d be wearing high top Converse or Vans. He looked like he’d jumped right out of an old movie, minus the shaggy mushroom hair. I wouldn’t’ve been surprised if he had a Polaroid camera hanging down his neck.

James is tall and lean, with a careful, even stride that portrays confidence and effortlessness, radiating an almost superiority where ever he goes. He’s got light skin and a small nose, big brown eyes, hair that might’ve looked tidy once—short and faded from the sides, longer and wavy at the top—but it’s outgrown and now his hair curls down his jawline and fades into his sideburn peach fuzz. It falls down on his forehead and he’s always wiping it off his face in quick motions, but it’s no use. I saw him do this once again when I happened to look up exactly when he walked out of the Ea—Fu aisle, and our eyes clicked right on each other. He recognized me, of course, and I him. The boy who sat next to me for two weeks before the seating chart changed. For two weeks a friend, the next a stranger. And now—we nodded our heads in acknowledgement. I think I smiled. For what else was there to do? I couldn’t help it—I couldn’t help but liking the bastard, considering his looks and amiability and his half-grin. And when he moved just a few desks away in 2D Art, next to some girl with multi-colored highlights in her short hair, I couldn’t help but expect him to continue being my friend. To keep smiling, looking at me, saying hello and good morning. But he just stopped. He had me thinking: was it something I did? Or was I just temporary, a place-holder friend, before he could move on to someone better, like that girl? I assumed he would continue to hang out with me, but in those two weeks together, we didn’t exchange social media, plan to eat lunch, do anything at all. We just talked. We vented on about how school was exciting and how our student debt was unfair and our plans after we graduated. I found out he wanted to be a film director, particularly in animation, because he found it discriminating that animated films were strictly associated with children’s stories and not for adults. I raised my eyebrows and asked what exactly an “adult animation” was insinuating. We laughed when he blushed and stuttered how that was not what he meant at all, and I believed him. Because we were friends, or so I thought.

I know why he did it now, but still I wonder. And then, I was startled to see that he didn’t just walk away, deeper into the labyrinth of literature, but instead walked toward me and asked how I’d been. And I said, “Pretty good. You?”, which sounded lame but it was all I could muster after so much time without talking to each other.

He slightly smiled at me, his eyes scanning my mess of papers and the notebook in my hand. “Me too. You’re writing?”

I looked down, forgetting about the short story I was drafting for my Creative Writing class. “Yeah,” I said, looking back at him, as if making sure he didn’t disappear. “Writing a story. For homework.” And then came the forever-cliché question:

“Can I read it?” I’m sure he meant it well, showing interest in what I was doing and whatnot, but for starters, how could you just show interest all of the sudden, after leaving me to dry for so long? And second, well, I honestly find it a bit annoying.

I didn’t hand the notebook over. “Sorry. But I’m not even close to finishing it,” I told him, though I was really thinking, No, fuck off. Why are you talking to me again? Go back to that girl you sit next to. But I didn’t mean it. Instead I smiled apologetically. I wish I could be as tough as my mental persona, but I can’t help being nice. I can’t help but hope, and it hurts me in the end, and I never learn.

But this time, my cordiality didn’t backfire. Hoping didn’t hurt.

He just grinned and nodded. “That’s understandable. Mind if I sit?” He gestured toward the chair in front of me. I shook my head, looking down at my notebook, because my insides were screaming. This was like the first day of class all over again.

And so we caught up. And he apologized for not talking to me the whole time, because he was busy with school and whatnot, but also because he was trying to meet as many new people as he could, and sometimes he found it a bit overwhelming. I said I understood—I hadn’t even noticed!—and we changed the subject quickly, talking about both everything and nothing, laughing loudly and then quickly stopping because people were beginning to stare. And when the sun was beginning to set, he asked if I’d be there the next day. I wasn’t planning to—but I said yes. And so we met the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. During class, we said hi and smiled again, and then indulged in the conversations of our own partners. But after school, I looked forward to being with him.

I reminded myself every time that I shouldn’t get my hopes up and view the hangout as friendly, because there was absolutely no, no indication that James was into me. Not any that I noticed. He was just a boy who would meet me in the library to do homework together, a boy who had plenty of other friends and girls to talk to, things to do. He didn’t show any signs of being the type of guy that likes guys. He was quiet and reserved at most but would crack a wise one when the opportunity came. He’s much more organized than me, that’s for sure. He kept his side of the table kempt and orderly, with a system of operation, maybe even a User’s Manuel in his one-inch binder, which had those colorful dividers. He would smile and say hi to the girls that’d pass our table, sometimes even have a conversation with them right then and there. His voice is calm and a little deep, masculine, along with his body and face and entire existence. There’s three layers of masculinity, in my opinion. They have nothing to do with age. There’s boy. That’s the category I fall into, I think. I’m just a skinny, unorganized kid in college who still has no idea what he’s doing. Not to mention how pathetically hopeless romantic I am. There’s the maximum: man, which only applies to hunks like the actor for Superman or Captain America. And then there’s that perfect balance: guy. That’s where James fits. He’s just an adorable, beautiful guy. And I freaking love that. Not overly extravagant or complicated, for the most part. Not stupid and personality-less. But genuine, simple, and intelligent.

So that day in which we were once again partnered up for the charcoal sketching, quietly making plans to meet at the library after school, and he brushed his fingers on my hand, I was shocked. I looked at him, staring at my hand, resting on the table as the other drew on the canvas in front of me. Everyone was focused on their sketches, their heads buried behind the wood that held up their papers. No one saw him ease his hand onto mine and then whisper, panic in his eyes, “I’m sorry. Is that okay?” I was so confused, but I found myself nodding. He just nodded too, but he pulled his hand away and returned his gaze onto the model behind his sketch. “I was wondering, if you’d let me, if I tried.” Then after a second of thought, he added, “God, that must sound so weird.” I shook my head, even though it was weird, in a way. I had no idea if he was trying to say something behind those words. I wanted to say, No, I don’t mind at all. Hold my hand all you want. Please. But that would’ve been even weirder. So I just said the first word aloud.

“No.” He looked at me, confused. “It’s fine, I mean. I, uh. I…” I searched my brain for the right words. I couldn’t just ask him; do you like me? What if he said no, and I was misinterpreting an innocent gesture? Was it an innocent gesture? Should I have told him, then and there, that I liked him? I was beginning to panic.

“You don’t have to say anything. It’s okay,” he whispered, once again focusing on the sketch, too intensely. It might’ve been my imagination, but he sounded a bit hurt.

No! Say something! “No, no, no. James.” His name sounded strange but pleasing coming out from my mouth. He looked at me, our faces close and concealed behind canvases. “I just—are you suggesting something?”

“Would you be upset if I were suggesting something?” His eyes are as light as his hair. Stunning when the sun hits them.

“No! Not at all. I’d—I’d be upset if you weren’t.” There. There it was, hanging in the air. A confirmation. A possibility. Of what, I was still unsure.

He just smiled and said, “Okay.”

We didn’t speak another word until we met in front of the library, and even then, we hardly spoke at all. But his smiles said much more than words. And the simple act of sitting next to me instead of front of me spoke speeches. The way his legs would nudge onto mine could persuade nations into world peace. We said nothing aloud. If we did, I’m not sure we could take it.

I don’t know what exactly stopped us from admitting it for so long. There was no fear of rejection, considering how diverse the school’s population was. An art institute contains quite an amount of very, very different people. We could’ve been open about it, held hands in the hallways, kissed in the middle of campus, and no one would’ve bothered us. No one would even glance. But I think it was the fact that none of us could believe it was happening. I couldn’t believe it was happening. Years and years of day dreaming and wishing it would happen sort of developed a fear that in the event it did happen, I wouldn’t be satisfied. I had trouble thinking it could actually be real, and had no idea what it was really like. To be with another boy. To have a boy actually like me back. In my brain it was easy, uncomplicated. The imaginary boy was there when I was feeling lonely, depressed, or the typical hormonal turmoil. I would pretend he was there beside me in bed to help me sleep. But beyond those occasions? He wasn’t there. He wasn’t real, for one, but either way I was clueless on how relationships really worked, with a girl or a boy. But James is real, I’m real, and I think that’s unusual for the both of us. That was what held us back, I think.

So am I right or wrong to consider spending Thanksgiving alone with James, in my own way?

“So you wanted to do all that stuff with me?” he asked, alluding toward the homework and Black Friday plans I told him about.

“Yeah, maybe. But it’s okay, I get it. You’ve got family,” I said. And a life.

“It sounds nice,” he said. A moment of silence. “I mean it, you know. I’d love to spend Thanksgiving with you, your way. But I dunno, Thanksgiving is supposed to be special, isn’t it? And wouldn’t sitting around and catching up on homework be exactly like all our other days together?” I let this sink in. It hadn’t occurred to me how repetitive our days together were. Is that really all we did? Sit down and do homework? I try to recall any other things we did. We got lunch once, at the café at the south side of campus. Sandwiches. Then we went to the tables and did homework. Anything else? Something exciting? I’m left empty-handed. The most exciting we’ve gotten is holding hands, though that’s rare. And then there’s the time he kissed my cheek, though I still have trouble figuring if that was real. It happened quickly. We were walking back to my dorm together, the sky dark, the air cold. We weren’t saying much, really, just strolling side by side, the street empty. Then, at the entrance, he said, “Good night,” and pecked my cheek quickly before disappearing into the night. I was left standing outside the dorm room, stunned, a smile creeping up my face.

“That’s true. I hadn’t thought of that,” I say, a little flustered. “You’re right. It’s just, the thought of having to meet your mom is kinda scary, to be honest. What is she figures out—?”

“She won’t figure it out, don’t worry. I promise.” A song starts playing, but it’s cliché and annoying, and neither of us like it. He switches stations. A country love song.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I mean. Yeah. Sure, why not? It’ll be nice,” I shrugged. His smile sent wave after wave of butterflies flying in my stomach. So beautiful. “Who else will be there?”

“It’ll just be my mom. Oh. And her boyfriend, maybe.” James has mentioned how his parents divorced when he was younger, but he didn’t go into detail. His mother had been seeing a guy for a few months now. James said the guy was friendly enough, had a good job, and was definitely better than his “bastard of a father.” But it was hard to adjust.

“That’s cool.” Instant relief. A lot less people than I was picturing. “Alright, I’ll go, if you’re sure.” I braved enough to slide my hand over his, because it was resting on the dashboard between us. He looked down quickly, then adjusted so our fingers intertwined and squeezed. I almost fainted.

“Yes. Yeah, Elliot, I’m sure. I really am,” he assured me with a grin. “She’ll love you just as much as I do, believe me.”

Just as much as I do just as much as I do just—“Awesome.” I’m quite lame when I’m flustered. Also, I love it when he says my name.

James stopped playing with the radio stations and yawned. “Hey. Put some of your music on, yeah?”

“Are you sure? They’re mellow. I don’t want you falling asleep now.”

“Nah, the hotel isn’t that far. Just play something better than this crap,” gesturing toward the yodeling on the speakers with a laugh. I extended the aux cable to my phone, grimacing at the brightness and noticing it was well past midnight, and connected it. The song started playing. Everything Is Temporary, by Cavetown.

“A hotel?” My heart stopped. I hadn’t bothered to ask where we were heading,

“I have to use my extra FAFSA funds somehow. You don’t mind?” James tapped his fingers on the wheel when the beat kicked in, a grin tracing his face when I shook my head. “God, even your music taste is adorable.”

I made this big deal of throwing my hood on and pulling the straps so it covers my face tightly. “Ahh.”

He chuckled. “What?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“I freak out when you say nice things to me,” I said, my voice muffled underneath the cloth.

“Well, I think I’ll start doing it more often,” he replied. “You’re the cutest guy I’ve ever met. And I’m sorry I suck at dating you.”

I dropped my hood off my face, because I wasn’t sure what he said all of the sudden. “What do you mean?”

“You know. I…” He trailed off, searching for the right words. “Well. You’re the first guy I’ve gone out with, actually. And it’s different. A lot different. I’m not really sure how I should treat you, really. I’m used to having friends. I don’t have to think when I’m with my friends. But when I’m with you, I don’t know. I get…I get stuck. I’m not sure if there’s some sort of etiquette I’m unaware of, a ruling system. But I don’t want to do anything wrong. I…I really like you, Elliot.”

What. Is. Going. On? “James.” I laughed, a strange, strangled sound, because I was both relieved and confused and not to mention just utterly surprised. James, thinking too hard about me? It was unreal. “You couldn’t do anything wrong.” My mind thought of all those thirsty tweets online of people freaking out over celebrities, saying things like, they could run me over with a truck and spit on me, and I’d say thank you. I found them funny and a bit barbaric, but for a second I could almost relate all of the sudden. I wouldn’t say that out loud, not to James, though.

“Are you sure? Because I don’t want to sound too cheesy, or move too fast. I…I’m scared that if I do something, I won’t be able to stop myself anymore, you know?”

“Yeah,” I said. “But I thought that was my job to worry about.”

He laughed nervously. “So we’ve both been stuck on the same page now, haven’t we?”

I smiled, because in less than two minutes, all of my worries were blown away. That’s why he’s awkward. That’s why it feels one-sided, but his gestures say something else. Because I’m not the only one who’s afraid. “Do we still have to be?”

He slowed down into the Motel 8 driveway, he squeezed my hand and grinned at me nervously. “I’m ready to try.”

And so there we were, stepping out of his 2006 Toyota, the air blowing hair into our eyes, a star or two shining over our heads. The world was empty, though the parking lot was full, and the only sounds were our footsteps—for James was wearing his fancy shoes that night—and crickets. We had no idea how this was going to work. We had only acknowledged the fact that we were going to have to stop and sleep for a bit, but the hotel was not on the plan. And James was paying—I feel guiltier every time. The hotel looked fairly small, neither old nor new. There was a faint smell of cigarettes, though it wasn’t unpleasant. James opened the car trunk and slung a small backpack over his back.

He walked by my side, not holding my hand but instead bumping into me with a grin. I looked at him, startled, but caught on quickly. I smiled and shoved him in return. He hardly moved. He shoved me back, a little rougher, and when I almost fell he grabbed my arm and pulled me toward him with panicked laughter. I was laughing hard, saying, “Hey!” as he swung me back toward him and wrapped his arms around me. I was so surprised, I couldn’t stop laughing, but my mind was spinning because suddenly I was leaning onto his chest and feeling him vibrate as he chuckled. His arms felt strong around me, and I felt so safe. He smelled like coffee and sweat, because the sun was unforgiving as ever earlier that day, but it wasn’t unpleasant at all. I’d have James Scented candles if I could.

James let me go and we both laughed softly, making our way toward the vacancy office, side by side, a little embarrassed, maybe. The vacancy office was small, cold-lighted, with a middle-aged woman wearing glasses browsing the web behind the counter. I could see her Facebook feed reflecting off her small, round glasses. She turned toward us slowly, hesitating a little before saying, “Hello. How may I help you?”

James stepped forward. “Hi. We need a room to stay, if there’s any.”

The woman—Lucy, according to her nametag—smiled. “Of course. Let’s see.” She typed in her computer a bit slowly, having to look at each key before pressing it. “We get a lot of college boys around here,” she said, trying to start conversation. “With that new bar they just opened. Drunk and not allowed on campus.”

We both smiled lightly and shook our heads. “No,” James replied smoothly. “We come from upper California. Valencia.” Then, before she could respond, he added, “We’re sober.”

She laughed forcedly. “Oh! Okay! Um,” she paused, clicking on her computer. “So, that’ll be one room, two beds, right? There’s—”

James opened his mouth but didn’t say anything for a second. He glanced at me and before I could stop myself, I found myself saying, “No. One bed’s fine. Cheaper, isn’t it?” I directed this last part toward him, and he looked back at Lucy.

Lucy just gulped, her smile more confused now. “I—”

“One bed’s perfect,” James assured her, and I think we were both burning red as she just nodded quickly, swiped James’ debit card, and handed us our key without saying goodnight.

James led the way, and the streets were well-lit but bare. Only one or two rooms had their lights on, or T.V.s illuminating the walls with bright, artificial colors. I was briefly reminded of The Pedestrian, how he seemed to be the only man outside, the rest of society locked inside their homes, brainwashed by entertainment. But I wasn’t alone that night. James turned to me and held his hand out, and I took it. We made our way up a set of stairs to the second floor of the building, hand in hand, and I had to keep reminding myself to breathe.

What was going to happen when we stepped in our room? What was going inside James’ head? In my head? There I was, flat out saying that we should sleep together. Jesus Christ. And then there James was, encouraging it. Is this what we meant by turning the page? Because I was starting to think we were skimming through the chapters. I was starting to grow self-conscious, starting to feel afraid. I didn’t mean to suggest sex, no-sir-ee, that was the last thing on my mind. I just didn’t want James to spend so much money, damn it. And I kinda wanted to see the look on both of their faces. But what if James misinterpreted me? Was he going to expect me to do something once we stepped in there? Our hands were sweating, but neither of us dared move them. Nobody said a word.

We stopped in front of our door, and he slid the key in and turned, the door opening without much trouble. James reached in and turned on the light, revealing the small interior: a queen-sized bed; a small desk with a pen, paper, and phone; an old T.V.; a microwave; and an open door, leading into a bathroom with a large mirror, sink, and shower with glass doors. James let go of my hand and dropped his backpack on the floor roughly, slumping onto the bed comically and sighing in exaggerated relief. “Ahh, look at that one bed,” he breathed, closing his eyes and grinning exhaustedly. “Finally.” I sort of just smiled awkwardly, wondering what he was thinking, and watched him relax on the bed, glancing around the room once in a while. “Hey,” he whispered, opening his eyes a little. “Come here.”

I trudged toward him and eased myself into his extended arm, lying down beside him, facing him. His bright brown eyes looked shiny and weary. We grinned. “God, you’re precious, Elliot, you know that?” He wrapped his other arm around me and squeezed, his face sinking into my hair and my nose pressing underneath his arms, which wasn’t bad at all, if you’re wondering. James smells great. He was warm and sturdy, though for the first time I found myself thinking of our clothes as an obstacle. I tried shaking the thought away, embarrassed. But the zipper of his sweater was annoying, and my button-up shirt was stretching uncomfortably. “I can’t get enough of you.”

“Shh,” I whispered, but I didn’t really want him to stop. “James.”

“Elliot.”

I closed my own eyes and gulped. A stupid question, but one that had been on my mind since that day he held my hand in class. “Why do you like me?”

He loosened his embrace to look at me in the eyes. “Are you serious?”

And I was. Because I mean, James is good looking. He could date anyone he wanted to, whether girl or boy, because he has that charm, that aura of intelligence, that smile that could melt hearts just by looking at it for a second. And I felt so—so much less than him. He’s beautiful, and I’m…me. I don’t feel good-looking, or smart, or all that. I’m short, messy, unmuscular. I can draw, sure, I can write, maybe, but so can everybody else in that school. I’m not very unique. Not to mention he’s white, which is obviously not important, but still. I always assumed white guys were harder to get? Considering I’m not white myself.

I told him this, omitting that last part. “I just don’t understand what you see in me,” I finished quietly.

He narrowed his eyes, frowning. “Elliot. First of all. Thanks. And second, you too. You are attractive. You’re freaking cute. Don’t deny it.”

“That’s—”

“Don’t. You are. And you’re smart, talented. Don’t think I don’t pay attention to your work, to your responses in class. You’ve got the most potential in there and you know it.”

“You think so?” I was giving in, because he could be so sweet sometimes, and so stubborn.

“I know so, boy.” He grinned. “And I just like you because you’re different from everybody else at school. You’re not stuck-up or arrogant, though you have every right to be. You worked your way up there, independently, while so many others had unfair privileges.” He grew silent. “Including me,” he added. I think he was referring to how his family was more economically benefitted than mine. He took private art classes, studying in an art-specialized high school. I personally don’t think that’s unfair. It’s just how things are.

“Well. I don’t think you’re stuck up or arrogant,” I said. I think you’re perfect.

That made him smirk. “I try not to be,” he said, his fingers pacing my back, tickling me. “But please, never think, for one second, that I’m more than you. I’m not all that. Really.”

“Okay.” I smiled a little.

“Okay?” His lashes fluttered as he gazed at me tiredly, but his face was bathed in yellow, and he looked warm and beautiful, like a candle in still air, and for a second, everything was still.

And then I kissed him.

It happened suddenly, because our faces were so close together, and it seemed so easy, and I was just as tired as him. I closed my eyes and let myself fall into him, and he kissed me back, as soon his arms were tightening around me and only my arm was in between our chests, not pushing him back but just feeling his rapid heartbeat syncing with mine. His lips were soft, and I could feel the prickles of his shaved facial hair on mine, and he sighed onto me. That’s what made me stop, despite the fact that I was loving every bit of it. I pulled away from him. “Shit, James, I need to brush my teeth.” Routine is routine.

He laughed incredulously. “Elliot. Get back here.”

“James,” I countered, because I was already headed to the bathroom, catching my breath. “I’m not kidding, my breath stinks.” It didn’t.

“It does not,” he said, rolling his eyes. He shifted back onto his backside and stared at the ceiling, smiling. “I can’t believe you. Our first kiss and you interrupt to brush your teeth.”

“Hey! Dental hygiene is no joke, sir,” I say, searching the cabinets underneath the sink, my heart pounding. “Crap, they don’t have any toothbrushes.”

“I think there’s an extra in my backpack,” he calls out. I look at my reflection, my eyes pink from exhaustion, my hair unacceptably flat and awkward. I wet my hands and tried to adjust it, without much luck. Everything was going perfect, it was, but something wasn’t feeling right, inside of me. I took a shaky breath and came out of the bathroom and bent over to search his backpack. My face grew hot as I dug through James’ extra shirts, some sweatpants, boxers, and deodorant before finding a two-pack of toothbrushes at the bottom.

“I can always count on you to come so prepared,” I told him, hoping he wouldn’t hear the shakiness in my voice, but fortunately he just gave me a curt thumbs up, his eyes on the roof. I also found a small tube of toothpaste, and I headed to the bathroom, ripping the pack open.

I was squeezing paste onto my brush when James walked in the bathroom with the other toothbrush in his hand, and my heart quickened with both euphoria and dread. I passed him the toothpaste and looked at him through the mirror, the light shining brightly on our skin, enough to see that James was blushing. Of course, he looked as impeccable as ever. “You…you didn’t see it, did you?” he asked.

“See what?” I was confused.

“Uh. Nothing,” he said, shaking his head, looking down. “Never mind.” I watched him pour a little water and then start brushing his teeth. I kept still.

“What did you mean?” I insisted, but he just shook his head and kept brushing, looking at me through the mirror. So I did too, and we looked kinda funny, the two of us. We looked good. It was enough to make me forget about my anxiety and just smile. James, looking so tall and cute with his bedhead hair and toothpaste dripping off his chin; me, up to his shoulder, smiling at the two of us. I could see it. I could see us as a couple, and it was amazing, even if only for a second. So I pulled out my phone, to keep it forever. “Smile,” I ordered, and disobediently James made this silly face with his eyes all wide, his cheeks blown up, and that looked even more adorable. I ended up laughing in the picture. I really liked it, and later, it became my wallpaper.

He finished brushing his teeth first, and as he waited for me, he stared at our reflection, hesitated, then wrapped his arms around my waist, leaning his head on my shoulder. I looked up at the mirror and looked at him, grinning sheepishly. “I can’t believe you kissed me,” he whispered. “How very un-Elliot-like.” I rinsed my mouth and spit into the sink.

“I’m not even sure what’s Elliot-like of myself anymore,” I responded, feeling a little empty, as if some part of me had just died.

“That was my first kiss with a boy, you know,” he announced quietly.

“Mine too.”

“Are you gonna let it be our last?”

He kissed my neck, then, and moved up to my chin, then let me turn to kiss my mouth, and that’s when it felt like something new within me was born. He held onto me as we stumbled out of the bathroom, still kissing, both our breaths minty and fresh. And then we let go long enough to sit on edge of the bed, kissing over and over again, sometimes opening our mouths suddenly because we were forgetting to breathe. James kept his arms around my waist, and I had mine around his neck, and occasionally he’d slide his hands over my sides, his fingers extended, touching most of my upper body because his fingers are so long. And the whole time, I was quite aware of what was going on, panicking about what would happen next. My fingers feeling the warmth of his neck, my mind hearing a voice saying, This isn’t right, but another saying, So why does it feel right? I couldn’t keep my eyes closed, because I needed to make sure it was real. I pulled back. “James, I’ve…I haven’t done anything like this before, and…”

“It’s fine,” he whispered. “Me neither. But it’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. I just don’t know if I’m doing it right,” I said, scratching the back of my head and looking down.

“You’re perfect.”

We kissed again, falling onto our sides, kicking our shoes off, and split because James wanted to unbutton my shirt. I started laughing awkwardly, but internally I was screaming, because I really didn’t want James to see me shirtless. “Uh, James, I—”

“You’re perfect, Elliot.”

His eyes didn’t lie, so I helped him, because his fingers were trembling too, but I had just as much trouble. Soon my shirt was on the floor, and to keep things fair, James’ shirt followed, and can I just say—James’ body is stunning. It’s pale but strong, and pecked with cute little moles here and there, on his chest, his neck, and back. I never noticed how muscular he was, because with a shirt on, he just looks pretty skinny. But his torso was smooth and toned, decorated with curiously light hair, chest all curves and edges, rising and descending, alive and here. “James.”

“Elliot.”

“You’re a work of art,” I whispered. He leaned his forehead on mine and closed his eyes. “I could just stop to draw you right now.” I had sketched him in my book before, unconsciously, driven by instinct and the fact that I was crushing on him hard. But never like this. My imagination paled in comparison to the live, almost-illusory, shirtless James.

“Titanic-style?” He smiled softly. I laughed. “Well, Elliot, if you insist.”

I looked down, admiring the white fabric that covered the bed. “Don’t go turning so many pages on me, James,” I said softly, wondering if we were moving too fast, even if it didn’t feel like we were.

“You just let me know when to stop,” he said, “and I will.”

I couldn’t feel more self-conscious, but James didn’t seem to mind, and was kissing me all over, as I was him. We were both too afraid to take off our jeans, for obvious reasons, and after what felt like the thousandth kiss, we calmed down and found ourselves tangled in each other’s arms, my head on his bare chest, his arm around my shoulders. I couldn’t stop feeling his skin, my fingers hovering above it, touching his freckles and connecting them like constellations. Though soon the both of us felt uncomfortable, shifted too much, and separated to change into more comfortable sleepwear.

“I, uh, usually just sleep in my underwear, but I don’t think that’d be wise,” James said, looking away sheepishly. “Could you pass me the sweatpants in my backpack?”

I hadn’t packed anything, and James insisted that it was treason to sleep in skinny jeans, so I ended up wearing one of his spare shirts, which was almost long enough to cover me like a nightgown. Almost. Both of us self-conscious and afraid of our bodies betraying us, we kept our bottom halves separated, but our heads together, his arm around me. I kinda wished I wasn’t wearing a shirt either, just to feel his skin on mine, but I wasn’t ready to make such brave sacrifices yet. It was a bit amusing that we both wore the opposite ends of clothing, like positive and negative sides of magnets. James kept his arm around me sturdy, and I turned and wrapped my own over his stomach and buried my head in his side. “Don’t do that,” he pouted. “I smell.”

“You do not,” I said. Then I adjusted so my head was on his chest again. It was bit too quiet, and we couldn’t fall asleep, so we went Pedestrian and turned on the T.V.

It was mostly late-night news coverage, but we panicked when we came across the adult channels, changing through them as fast as we could, and laughed it off when we had finally come across the Charlie Brown Christmas Special. “God, I love Peanuts,” James smiled. “I haven’t seen this in ages.” We watched it, our tiredness suddenly gone, almost amusing considering we both could barely keep our eyelids open during the drive. James pointed out the small wonders of traditional animation and the cute individual dances of each character in that one, iconic scene, and I would feel myself crumble a little inside, falling for him, because those were the details I had always loved myself. Eventually, the movie finished, and paid programming began. James fiddled with the channels again, finding a crime documentary, and he ended up dozing off quickly, with his fingers in my hair. But I still couldn’t sleep. I hated it, but I couldn’t help but feel so buzzed about what had just happened, and my mind kept wandering off, thinking too much, and then snapping back, focusing on the television. I kept thinking of the special. Charlie Brown is a bit too nostalgic, and it reminds me too much of home. Especially when Charlie goes around asking what the true meaning of Christmas is, and finally asks Schroeder what he believes, who rehearses the verse from the Bible, the coming of Jesus Christ. Jesus, whom I once believed in for many years, and then suddenly—I didn’t.

I don’t like to think about it, and I hated myself for thinking about it then, in the arms of James, the breathing envision of my hopes and dreams, a fantasy come alive. It made his warm skin feel too hot, his presence wrong. It made me want to jump away from him as if he were something poisonous. A bad influence, my mother would say. If she only knew where I was then. She would attempt to call a priest and perform and exorcism on me. Before I left, that was how bad their options were becoming. I was unfixable.

I began to remember the first time I was presented to the local pastor at our church. I was seventeen. It was a strange, small place, with only about twenty people. They were all above 30, and had small children, but hardly any teenagers would really show up. It was only me. My parents had gone to that church for a few years before a brief but enjoyable phase of religious detachment, and when they found about me liking a boy, well, their instinct was to jump back in. I remember their reaction, the day they first found out, in the small space of my parent’s room. They had no chairs. They sat on their mattress, and I stood in front of them, a few feet apart from each other. Too close. The first words: “Do you have anything you want to tell us?” First you lie. It’s an attempt, but you know they know, and there’s nothing you can do then. All those years, your whole plan to never tell them, to move away and live a private life with no questions, no discrimination, completely destroyed. Gone in a flash. At that moment, my entire life changed. There was no going back from then.

So they blew a little into the cinders. A brief moment, a small spark. Then when I began to talk, the inferno began. I spilled words that were unintelligible, cried and wiped snot from my nose as I tried to convince them, make them understand. They didn’t. They said that what I was doing was unacceptable. They said it was my choice, and that it was because of my exposure to the internet, to the corruption of the world and its people. They said I was merely being possessed by a demon, and I needed to let God into my heart. He would cure me.

For a while, I believed in them. I wanted to. I needed to. To be like every other guy, to fall for girls and want to kiss them and touch them. To talk and relate to the dominant side of boys, to laugh and look at them without a second glance, a longing look. It was mere instinct to me, like I was wired this way, a miscalculation in my brain. All I needed was a look at two naked human beings, a female and a male. And I knew which I wanted. It just wouldn’t work the other way. But if I could change, if this really was some sort of mental disorder that would separate me from my loved ones and society, well for God’s sake. Cure me.

I prayed and I talked with God. I told those who knew about my sexuality at school that it was gone and I was just like them. I tried to flirt with girls and stop staring at that one guy in my English class, who I had written poems about and ended up misplacing my notebook, causing the whole mess in the first place. My parents took my phone and cut off the Internet, so that prevented me from more investigation. It was me versus my brain. It was gone. It was gone. Everything was going to be okay.

And it was for a while. Until I realized it wasn’t gone. I prayed and prayed but I was just repressing it. And it was exhausting me. Hurting me from within. I unconsciously found myself thinking of the boy from English class again, wondering what it’d be like to kiss him. No! Don’t think that. Think about that girl who you talked to the other day, she was nice. Maybe she’ll come to Homecoming with you. Alright. Okay.

The boy from English. He didn’t talk to me, he never even glanced at me, but he was there and he was the symbol of what I really wanted. I just couldn’t play this game. It was pointless. And I couldn’t stop longing for him. So I let go. But nobody else did.

My parents, especially my dad, were traumatized by what had happened, and no matter how many times I tried to make them believe that everything was okay, that I was fine now, they just wouldn’t stop nagging or lecturing me about it. We began to go to church more than once a week, prayed together during meal times and before bed. I was done with that. So I counted down silently from numbers like twenty-five or thirty and said Amen. I went to bed without muttering a word to the sky. I only clapped at the Ministry when the choir came, though I never prayed or cried or begged for forgiveness. I had tried that before, and yet, nothing was changing. I felt nothing. My parents were noticing my disinterest in salvation, leading to constant arguing, silence, and frustration within our home. The escalation of events soon led for the three of us to be sitting in a small, damp-aired room, with the plump, middle aged man who pastored the church seated before us. My mom had called earlier that afternoon, so the pastor went straight to the point. “Elliot, homosexuality is not acceptable in the eyes of God. Are you aware of this?”

I kept my legs from trembling, wiped my palms on the couch without success. “Yes.” I could feel the cold silence of my mother on the left, the desperateness of my father on the left. Tell him something. I could almost hear him. Convince him. Please.

You could try, I countered in my mind. I already have.

“It’s not normal in the eyes of anyone sane. The way human biology was constructed was specifically for a man and a woman to be together. Two humans of the same sex cannot bring anything to life together. It won’t work. It just doesn’t happen.”

Nod.

“In the Bible, the Lord tells us of the creation of the human race. You know this,” he said with a sad smile. “Adam and Eve. If God had created, let’s say, two males, or two females, well. We wouldn’t be here, right?”

“Yes.”

“Exactly. It’s not only here in which this is discussed, Elliot. There’s the city of Sodom, for instance. The people there had stopped walking in the path of the Lord, and began to engage in such unholy activities. They had even tried to rape one of God’s visiting angels. And, as we know, the city of Sodom was destroyed.” I had to keep myself from saying, Maybe He didn’t do this because they were gay. If someone would’ve tried to rape one of my angels, I’d have been pretty mad too. Though it was vital to just nod and pretend that every word the pastor was saying made the most perfect sense in the world. “In Leviticus,” he continued, “it states that a man shall not sleep with another man as he were a woman, for it is a crime punishable by death. An abomination. Have you heard of that?”

“Yes,” I repeated. I had heard this over a million times, even before my parents knew about me. They mentioned it every time a pride parade came out in T.V., or saw a same-sex couple somewhere public, like the mall or the movie theaters. They shook their heads, and someplace more private, reminded me that those people would one day be punished for the rest of eternity. I, like with the pastor, could only nod and agree.

“To make this short and clear, Elliot, you’re still young and very intelligent. Your mother has told me a lot about your talents and aspirations. It would be terrible to see such an amazing mind like yours go to waste. God does not make mistakes. He wants you to be strong and grow past this. If you had not been able to overcome this challenge, he would have not given you it. Do you understand?”

“Okay.” I let myself breathe. But… “Okay, but what if I had been born somewhere else?” I broke my silence. I just couldn’t take it.

“I’m sorry?”

“Like, what if I had been born somewhere like Asia? Or Africa? A place that would have never taught me about the Bible or God or anything. I’d have been raised with a whole different mindset. I would’ve heard of Jesus Christ and thought, ‘That’s ridiculous. People believe in that?’ But I was born here, in this family, so that’s the sort of rules and ideas I was taught to believe. But you won’t even consider that maybe the world isn’t exactly how you think it is. Because you’re indoctrinated too. Everyone here is.”

I could feel the tension radiating off of my parents, and I was feeling a bit sick myself. Why did I just say that? Oh no.

The pastor just looked puzzled for a second and then gave a weak smile. “Well, you see, Christianity is not the only religion that doesn’t accept homosexuality, son,” he said. “In countless of other countries, it’s considered a taboo and shameful to families. It’s simply not normal, Elliot. Take Russia, for example. A nation known for its atheism, and yet, they’ve made homosexuality illegal. The world is not a welcoming place for that kind of people. They face violence and discrimination every day. No matter where you go, you would never be fully accepted.”

There was a strange silence as these words creeped into my skull like bugs.

“Stop trying to convince your parents that what you want to do is right, because it’s not. It is never going to be okay.”

I nodded. Suddenly, the pastor turned to my parents. “Could I speak to Elliot? Alone?”

“Of course,” my mom answered. It pissed me off how she’d suck up to him like that. She always adored that pastor’s preaching, followed his words and ideas as if they were law. My parents stood up and exited the room, closing the door behind them, making the small space feel even more claustrophobic. I stared at the pastor, waiting for him to begin.

“Elliot,” he said carefully, thinking his words through. “Have you…have you ever been in any sexual relations with a man before?”

“No.” I could feel some pressure lift from both of our shoulders.

“Are you seeing another boy right now?”

“No.” I remember thinking, God, I wish.

“Have you ever been in a sexual relationship with a girl?”

“No.” I would’ve been embarrassed, or felt lame, but at that moment, I could care less. I didn’t like where this was going, or the point he was trying to make. I just wanted to leave. Leave everything.

“Elliot…” he began. “Have you…have you ever been molested?”

“No,” I frowned. That one was unexpected. Still, I’d heard that theory before.

“Okay. Good. So why do you believe you have homosexual tendencies?” I had to stifle an internal laugh. Oh, I don’t know. I’ve sort of been guessing this whole time!

“It’s hard to explain,” I said, shifting uncomfortably on the old couch I was sitting on. “I, uh. Well, I just notice them more than I notice girls. It’s like…” I searched for a word, a way to explain this to someone like him. “It’s just an attraction,” I said lamely. Attraction was a major understatement. “It’s like an instinct.”

He nodded, processing my words. “Yes, your mother told me how you said it was something you cannot control. But you can control it, Elliot. Everything is in here,” he stated, tapping on his skull. “You might not be strong enough by yourself. But if you pray to the Lord and beg for his mercy and help, then I know you can do it. You’re a good kid.” He smiled reassuringly. “Okay?”

I returned the smile, though it didn’t reach my eyes. “Alright.”

Satisfied with my answers, he called my parents back in and reported that I was still in time to save myself, and that, with the help of them and the help of God, I could be saved. “He’s still early.” My parents looked at me expectantly, and I smiled weakly, hoping they would believe it. Then they thanked the pastor, and before we left, we prayed in unison. I counted down.

I closed my eyes when the credits began to role, listening to James’ chest, counting. It would lift and drop with every breath. We hadn’t even bothered to take the bed sheets off, and I could tell he was already beginning to get cold. The air conditioning was on blast. Once in a while he’d shiver and spread goosebumps all over his pale skin. His grip began to loosen, and I took the chance to escape his arms, sliding off the bed in one swift motion. He didn’t stir. My breathing was beginning to go all shaky, and I felt like I was going to come undone any second now. What was I doing? What was I thinking?

Louder than the commercials, I could hear my parents’ voices, the booming words of the pastor at church, whisperings of people who were disgusted of people like me. He’s still early. Was I still early? Was it too late to change my mind about myself, about James, about everything? Suddenly everything I was doing felt unholy, sinful. Wrong. In a hotel, of all places. Who knew how many people had lied on this bed before us. I felt sick. I hated how lovely the whole place looked, the warm lighting, the deep blue shades on the walls, a painting of Venice above the bed. It was designed to be comfortable and safe, but those were the last things I was feeling right then. And James…

I couldn’t look at James anymore, because I don’t think I could’ve handled it. I jumped over our clothes and his backpack, not running but taking long, rapid strides, my feet sinking into the soft carpet. I made it to the bathroom and shut the door behind me. I fumbled for the switch, frustratedly, not familiar with the bathroom yet, and regretted it once I saw my reflection. I was crying. Tears running down my cheeks and dripping from my jaw. I looked deep into my eyes, red and weary, searching for some kind of confirmation, maybe some sort of answer. Is this really me? Elliot, sleeping with another boy, falling in love with one? Was this who I was meant to be?

He’s still early. Those words kept coming back to haunt me. What if I don’t change my mind in time? How could I ever be convinced of what’s really the truth? Commit my entire life to the one side of the spectrum? It wasn’t really life that terrified me. It was the afterlife. The possibility of some massive, supernatural being out there, and me directly disobeying it. Why couldn’t He just tell me? Why was I supposed to believe it coming from the mouth of someone else? Without any proof whatsoever? And more importantly, why would He do this to me at all?

I collapsed on my elbows and held my head tightly, tugging on my hair and whimpering, “I don’t wanna go to hell. God, oh God, I don’t wanna go to hell. Please.”

The only sounds in response were the ventilation and more sniffling. I looked at myself in the mirror again, my eyes tired, my breathing slowing. “Please.”

And then I remembered about James. James, who was really here. James, who I had been crushing on for months. James, the only boy who ever loved me back. This whole time, all I ever wanted was for just a little more from him. For him to hold me, kiss me, do anything more. And now that it was finally happening, I couldn’t take it. It was too risky. I tried questioning myself how much I enjoyed every moment of that night, but the outcome came the same each time—I loved it, and I couldn’t lie. He was perfect, he was everything. But I was so, so scared. He’s still early.

“He means no harm,” I whispered, out loud, directed toward my reflection. “You know this.” James couldn’t do anything to hurt me. Not yet. Not intentionally. Not him. “Can’t we just enjoy this a little longer?”

He was waiting for me just outside the door. And he was cold. And no matter how much I told myself I couldn’t, I shouldn’t do it, I wanted to go back with him. “This night was supposed to be ours,” I reminded myself. I wiped my face, blinking away the incoming tears. I pulled James’ shirt down failingly and forced myself to calm down. Everything was okay before, and everything is going to be okay after. I don’t have to be afraid, I thought. Go to him.

I opened the door as quietly and I could, and tiptoed across the room toward the bed. James was half awake. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I said, my voice stale.

“You okay?” He stretched a little, extending his arms over his head and grinning sleepily. Then he crossed his arms and shivered.

“Yeah,” I lied. Every part of me was begging me to tell him. Just earlier that day was proof on how beneficial simple communication could be, what we could achieve by trusting each other with our fears and thoughts. But James was not very religious, and I don’t think he would’ve understood. And we were both so, so tired. One night. God, let me enjoy one night.

“The air conditioning is murderous,” he grumbled. “I tried messing with it but it doesn’t work.”

I pulled out a corner of the bed sheets and lifted it up for him to see. “Lucky these magic things called blankets exist.”

James gasped dramatically and jumped off the bed to help me fix the bed, and then climbed inside of the comforter so quickly I missed it. “Come,” he said, his eyes already closing. “I kinda always wanted to sleep with someone else.”

“Me too,” I admitted. I slipped underneath the sheets and shut the lamp off beside me. I could barely see in the dark, but somehow we found ourselves in a surprisingly comfortable position. Both of slept facing down, one arm supporting our heads underneath our pillows, the other holding each other’s hands. We didn’t bother to keep our bottom halves parted this time around. It didn’t matter anymore. I fell asleep with him humming a song I couldn’t recognize, the words He’s still early pounding in my skull.

Sometime that night, I let go, and let myself turn away from him.

In the morning, the dull blue light seeping in through our window, I woke up to find him sitting on the desk in front of the bed, watching me. In one hand, he was holding a small notebook. In the other, what looked like a pack of cigarettes.

He waved it at me with a smile. “Good morning, Elliot. Look at this.”