My phone rang, distracting me from my reading. I stuck my thumb in the middle of the pages to hold my place and picked up the phone. I stared at the unfamiliar number, furrowing my brows. The only people who called me were my grandparents and my dad. And my mom when she was angry. Everyone else I knew texted. I pressed the button to cease the vibrations, assuming it was a scam or a telemarketer.

If it was important, they would call back or leave a voicemail.

A moment later, a text popped up. I picked up the phone again to read it.

Guess u don't like talking on the phone either but I thought it was rude to just text out of the blue.

Who is this?

Clay.

I sucked in a breath at reading that singular word. Why would he want to talk to me? Sure, we had fun beating the pants off Carrie and Jackson, but I never expected to see him again, unless I happened to be at one of Jackson's parties that Carrie was always trying to drag me to.

From bowling.

Jackson's friend.

The asshole.

I watched the dancing ellipsis as Clay typed something else. Apparently, he was one of those people who sent every thought as a separate text.

I shoulda probly said tht to start. Sry.

Need more advice?

After it sent, I worried how that might come off. What if Clay misconstrued the joke as annoyance?

Before I could freak out too much, my phone dinged.

🤔

Maybe some other time.

I was just kinda bored.

Thought mayb you'd wanna hang out or smth.

I read the message again to make sure I had comprehended it correctly. My pulse quickened a bit as I typed my answer.

Sure.

Clay sent an address, along with a message.

Can u meet me here?

I clicked on the address, which opened in the Maps app. I saw nothing of much interest in the area, but I had nothing else to do. Too bad it was all the way across town. It was too far to ride my bike, and I didn't have my own car. Hell, my mother barely let me drive hers, despite me being almost eighteen.

I let out a disappointed sigh, relaying the bad news to Clay.

Send me ur address I'll pick u up.

I sent my details.

Holy shit!

That's just down the street from me.

B then n 5.

I assumed "then" was a typo, meant to be "there." Maybe he didn't notice. Maybe he didn't care. If I'd done that, I would have to send an immediate reply to clarify. He didn't seem to share that concern.

I looked down at my shirt that had a salsa stain from my breakfast burrito. I jumped up and stripped the shirt off, digging through my dresser for a clean t-shirt. I ignored my concert tees and some of my more colorful shirts—basically anything that even sort of implied my gayness. After finding something suitable, it occurred to me I should probably also find some pants.

The doorbell rang as I was tying my shoe. My mom had already gone to work, so I stuck my head out my bedroom door and shouted, "It's open," down the stairs.

The front door cracked open. Clay stuck his head inside. A backwards baseball cap concealed the shaggy hair on top of his head. Only the shorn sides were visible. I forgot how cute he was.

Clay looked around apprehensively. "Hello? Emmett?"

"I'm up here," I called out, getting his attention. "You can come up. I just need a second."

I returned to my room, shoving all the dirty clothes off the floor under my bed. Then I yanked the covers up to make it look halfway presentable, as if I actually made my bed everyday. I grabbed my other shoe and raced to the bed to sit down as Clay appeared at the door.

"Hey," Clay said.

He wore a black v-neck Under Armour shirt that hugged his body tantalizingly well, red basketball shorts (also quite clingy), and his Nikes from the other night. A very straight boy outfit. Though the same could be said of much of my clothing. I'd only recently started adding more spice to my wardrobe. For years, I'd been too afraid to stand out around town. Too many assholes and conservatives. But I was about to start my final year of high school, and I didn't want to put my life on hold any longer to please people I never planned to see again come June.

"That was quick," I said, trying not to think about how Clay threw his arms around me in celebration last night after we destroyed Carrie and Jackson. Or that mouth-watering icy sweet cologne he wore. Or how we sat in one side of the tiny booth at Waffle House afterwards—paid for by Carrie and Jackson since they lost. Or the way our arms kept brushing together giving me goosebumps.

I mentally chastised myself for going there. As far as I knew, this boy was straight. I would not fantasize about those large hands and those big brown soulful eyes and that adorable, carefree grin. Not unless I got some evidence that he might return those feelings.

"We practically live in the same neighborhood," Clay marveled. "It's crazy how close we are and we've never met. We've probably gone past each other's houses a hundred times without even realizing."

"It's not that weird when you consider we go to different schools."

Clay pointed at me, his eyes going wide. "That's right! You and Carrie go to that swanky ass prep school, don't you? How is that?"

"It's probably a lot like your school, just with uniforms and more homework."

Clay chuckled lightly. "I'd never survive that. I barely get my homework done on time as it is."

As Clay's eyes scanned the room, I suddenly felt exposed. Like I'd opened my brain for him to examine what made me tick. Would he judge my taste in music and books? I was suddenly self-conscious of everything in the room, especially all the Taylor Swift vinyls I had on prominent display on top of the bookshelf that filled the entire back wall. Straight guys had a tendency to look down on her, discrediting her abilities, claiming she only wrote songs about her relationships and her exes, as if that wasn't the subject of 90% of music, anyway.

Clay picked up the small Pride flag stuck in the typewriter-shaped pen holder on my desk. He waved it at me, grinning, before replacing it.

Was he giving me a clue? Or was I seriously reaching? I suspected the latter.

My chest tightened when Clay moved closer to the framed collage made up of miniature posters for my all-time favorite movies, organized into a rainbow. I was suddenly aware of how gay my room would look to a straight person. Was he even straight? Just because he had a girlfriend didn't mean he couldn't be into me. Ay, there's the rub. Because I couldn't be the person who knowingly got involved with someone else's person. Not after being jilted myself.

"This is so cool," Clay said, leaning closer to examine the tiny pictures. "Is that Kiki's Delivery Service?"

"Yeah."

"I love that movie! I watched it like a thousand times with my little sister when we were kids." Clay looked at me with unbridled glee. "Where'd you get this?"

I walked closer, hooking my fingers in the belt loops of my jeans. "Carrie made that for my last birthday."

"I'd love to have something like this. I'm obsessed with movies, but I've never gotten into buying posters because I can't commit to which ones I like the best. My favorites change all the time, depending on my mood." He waved his hands at the poster. "But this way you can have so many without wallpapering your whole room."

"Carrie loves doing stuff like this. I'm sure she'd make you one if you asked. She can probably also put them in like alphabetical order or by release date if the rainbow is too... flowery for you."

"Nah. The rainbow is what makes it so cool and interesting. It's like a totally different image from far away."

Clay turned away from the poster to look around. "Your room is awesome. Everything is so fun and colorful. It has personality. Mine is so basic and boring. Kinda like me, I guess." He reached up to rub the back of his neck, flexing his bicep distractingly. The vein in his arm bulged, and I really wanted to reach out and run my finger across the length of it, following it under his shirt as far as I could.

God, I bet he looked great without a shirt. All muscly and tan. Or maybe he had a farmer's tan, which I could get on board with. He was hot enough to offset that.

Stop it!

Moving to the bookshelf, Clay traced the edge of the shelf with his index finger, examining the spines.

I wondered what he would think of all the gay books. My collection ranged from literary classics, like Maurice and The Picture of Dorian Gray, to contemporary queer novels, like Autoboyography and At the Edge of the Universe, and even some graphic novels, like Heartstopper. I had a decent amount of books that featured straight people too, but they were mostly classics—Jane Austen, Shakespeare, the Brontës, Dickens, and the like.

Clay pulled out a book and examined the cover. He flipped it around to show me my copy of They Both Die at the End. "So, do they actually both die at the end?"

"If you want to know, read the book. You can borrow it, if you want. If you have a heart at all, it will probably make you cry."

Clay shrugged and returned the book to its slot. "Speaking of heartless. I talked to Summer."

"Who?"

He looked at me like I should know the name. "My girlfriend that I told you about."

"Oh." I didn't recall him ever mentioning a name. "What happened?"

"I told her how I felt." When Clay stuffed his hands in his pockets, I reminded myself not to look down at his very clingy shorts. "I said what you told me about how it's unfair of me to string her along when I don't feel the same way she does."

"How did she take it?"

"She thanked me for being honest," Clay said, a bit hesitantly. There was more that he wasn't telling.

"What else did she say?"

"She got kind of upset and said she wished I had told her all of this sooner."

"Hmm." I nodded. "Just imagine how bad it could've been if you had continued to ignore it."

"I know. Y-You were right about that, too."

"I'm assuming y'all broke up."

"Oh, yeah, totally. She bailed before I could even finish talking." He laughed. He didn't seem terribly broken up about it. Or maybe he was masking it. "That was right around the time I said I wanted us to stay friends."

I glared at him, incredulous. "Why the hell would you say that to her?"

"It's true!" Clay looked perplexed. He pulled his hands from his pockets—I was still not looking—and raised them at his sides. "I really liked her. Just not in a romantic kinda way."

"Okay, but that's not something you should say when you're trying to break up with someone. It's a terrible cliche, and no one ever means it."

Clay karate chopped the air, pointing all his fingers at me. "You told me to be honest with her, dude. That's honestly how I felt."

I clasped my hands on top of my head. "You have a lot to learn about women."

"How would you know?" Clay asked with a light chuckle. "You're gay."

I didn't take offense; I could tell Clay was being facetious. I had to learn a long time ago the difference between a friendly jab and a hateful comment masked in a joke. Clay meant no harm with his remark.

"I am gay. Which is why it's easier for me to know. I don't care about getting girls into bed, so I actually pay attention when they talk."

Clay made a strained face I didn't understand. He mumbled, "I pay attention when they talk."

My chest ached to see him in distress, so I switched topics: "So, where is this place you're taking me?"

Clay spun around, an easy smile stretching his lips. "It's a surprise."