Chapter One

chapter one

I KNOW I’M BLESSED. I’M NOT RELIGIOUS AT ALL, BUT THAT’S THEbest word for it. I’m good-looking by conventional standards, smart, and my dad has a lot of money. I don’t mean all that to sound awful, I’m just stating the facts. I’m very lucky to have been born with all this. The least I can do is try to give back.

So I do that, and do it well: I help out at the food bank on Wednesdays after school, I tutor for free, and I try to make sure I’m a nice person. Which, when combined with everything I’ve already stated, makes me pretty popular. But that’s a good thing, because when you’re popular, you have more opportunities to be nice. Like by telling people not to be mean to someone, or setting an example. Or even something small, such as letting people sit with you at lunch, like I’ve been doing with Georgia, even though, let’s be honest, she’s kind of a lot. But her best friend, John Feng, is doing the exchange student thing this semester, studying in France, and I guess she just gravitated to me as the most well-known gay guy, since she and John are copresidents of the Queer Alliance. So I let her sit with us at lunch, and talk and talk like she usually does, and I smile, because I’m blessed, and blessed people have to give back.

“John is having the best time in Paris,” she says, sighing. She emails with him almost every day and gives us a full report, as though any of us are really friends with John, which we aren’t. I know Georgia wants John and me to be a couple. We’re both out, happy, handsome, and we vie for top spot in our class rankings, along with Miles. But we’re not really great friends. I don’t mind him—he’s polite, maybe a little withdrawn, a talented pianist—but we’re just not close. And besides, I don’t do relationships.

“Has he gone to Notre-Dame yet?” asks Miles. “Did he send photos? I want to see how the restoration is coming.” Miles is into ruins, old buildings, stuff like that. It’s a weird thing to be into, I know. He printed out photos of all the old castles he saw when he went to Scotland, and postered them all over a wall in his room. He says it’s a reminder that nothing lasts, which is cynical, but when he says it out loud, he means it happier than that. Almost romantically. He loves a memento mori, he says because they remind him to enjoy the moment.

“Not yet, but look, he went to the Eiffel Tower!” she says, showing him the photo on her phone. “Look!”

But Miles isn’t really a romantic. He’s like me, never seriously dated, except he’s straight. I like to think he’s not dating because of me, for the same reasons as me. The ones I convinced him were right. When I was young, my mother, a doctor, told me that your brain keeps growing, and I remember looking it up after she died, when I was fourteen, and discovering she meant it literally: the prefrontal cortex doesn’t mature until you’re twenty-five. Since then, I’ve felt a relationship before your brain is developed is silly. You’re not in full possession of your impulses or understanding, so you can’t promise yourself to someone else. Why get involved with something that’s just going to end? Relationships ending are painful. Spare yourself. Simply don’t date until your brain might be able to establish something that won’t end.

And since Miles and I were closer back when I figured all this out, the way across-the-street-neighbor-kids-whose-moms-were-sorority-sisters are close, I told him that as soon as I decided it. And I think he realized I was right. That’s something else I do that’s nice—I educate people on why I do things. Even if Miles doesn’t appreciate it like he used to. But I’m sure that’s why he doesn’t date. He’s good-looking enough that he could date any girl he wanted. He’s gone on a date here and there, but it’s never turned into anything. I suppose he might be asexual, but with two moms and a very accepting school environment, I think he would have told someone by now. So I’m sure it’s just that he’s had the good sense to follow my lead and wait until twenty-five.

“And here he is walking along the River Seine!” Georgia says to Miles, showing us photo after photo of the river, which is definitely beautiful, even if John’s photos have diminishing returns on the “breathtaking” thing.

“Breathtaking,” I say, hoping it will make her put the phone away. Instead, she turns to her side of the table, where Taylor and West are sitting, gazing into each other’s eyes, holding hands and whispering into each other’s ears. They giggle sometimes. It’s cute. Just because I don’t think a relationship before twenty-five is fair to either you or the other person, doesn’t mean I’m horrified by other people having them. Taylor is, after all, my best friend. She’s wanted a boyfriend since before she told us she was a girl. And I pretty much set her up with West, so I’m happy they’re so happy. Even if it means she’s been a bit absentee in the friend department. I think that’s why Miles has been sitting with us lately. He hasn’t really done that in a while, he usually sits with his friends from the debate team, but since Taylor and West hooked up, Miles has been here most days. I think to keep me company because he feels sorry for me, which is sweet, but also a little condescending. A very Miles combination.

I sip my protein smoothie and let my eyes drift away as Georgia goes on about John in Paris: John at the Louvre, John at the Eiffel Tower, John eating a baguette. The lunchroom is packed, but it’s been done up in very soothing off-whites, with low electric light, and large French doors, which are open to the quad, where more tables are set up for those who want to eat outside—I prefer not to, the breeze from the ocean sometimes knocks over water bottles. The chairs all have cushions, and the tables have tablecloths—checked in the school colors: canary yellow and robin’s egg blue. Outside, by the doors, is a string quartet that the school brings in to play throughout the day when classes aren’t in progress. Music, they say, calms the spirit and encourages learning. I like it when they do covers of pop songs best, but right now they’re playing Einaudi’s “Fairytale,” which feels appropriate.

It all looks more like a country club than a high school, but that’s the point of Highbury Academy: for everything to be, as the brochures say, “comfortable and agreeable, so the students can focus on learning and improvement.” Even our uniforms are made of breathable cotton jersey, so we may look fancy, but we’re not uncomfortable. Taylor says all the yellow and blue makes us look like we should be working in a candy shop, and she’s not wrong. We’re lucky we have the confidence to pull off the colors.

“You know,” Taylor says, interrupting Georgia, “West’s brother, Andre, is coming home for the holiday break soon.” She says this looking very deliberately at me. I take a bite of my peach and don’t make eye contact.

“So what?” Miles asks. “Don’t all college kids come home for the holiday break?”

“Well, you know, his family moved here at the end of the summer, and then he went right back to college, so he doesn’t know anyone around here. I just think it would be nice if all of us could hang out, so he could make some friends,” Taylor says, still staring at me. Taylor’s disappearing into coupled bliss is a minor irritant, but her desire to set me up with West’s brother is somewhat more abrasive. She knows my opinion on relationships. Although she has shown me his photo and in fairness, he’s very attractive, in a film major sort of way, with the half smile and the dark eyes. I take another bite of my peach.

“I’m sure we’ll all hang out at some point,” I say.

Taylor claps her hands. “I’ll throw a party.”

Miles raises an eyebrow. “A party for your boyfriend’s brother?” His tone is skeptical.

“Oh, it’ll be fun,” I say so Taylor doesn’t have to defend herself, though she just looks amused at the question. “She just wants us all to be friends.” I don’t tell him he’s being condescending. That would be unkind.

“I’ll tell John!” Georgia says, already sending the email on her phone.

“Hey, Emmett.” I look up at Harrison, who’s walking over to us. His tie is a little loose. His tie is always a little loose, but it suits him well enough. “Think you could come over after school and tutor me in chem a little? I need some help.”

I nod and take out my phone, checking my calendar. I add tutor Harrison after school. “Sure thing,” I say. “Do you need a lift after school?”

“Nah,” he says. “I have the car today.”

“Then I’ll see you there,” I say.

Harrison nods and smiles, walking away.

“You tutor juniors?” Georgia asks, still typing into her phone. “You are so nice.”

“You are so good at that,” Harrison says, panting, as he falls back on his damp sheets.

I grin. “Thank you,” I say, staring at his ceiling, letting all the postcoital hormones run through me, easing tension, creating happiness. I may think romance before twenty-five is pointless, but the hormonal teenage body has needs, and Harrison is good at fulfilling them. He’s attractive, enthusiastic, and very good with his tongue. He leans over me and starts kissing down the front of my chest and I can feel my body start to respond again already. Above us, his ceiling fan whirs softly. I glance at my phone on the nightstand, wondering if we have time for another round.

He stops kissing and I can feel his eyes on me so I bend my neck to look at him hovering over my navel.

“You ever want a boyfriend?” he asks. Immediately, all the good effects of the postcoital hormones flee my body. I can feel my heart rate quicken, my body tense. All the excellent results of the effort of the past hour and a half evaporate in a flash.

“No,” I say, sitting up and looking around the room for my shirt.

“Relax,” he says, pushing me back onto the bed. “I know we’re no strings. I’m just asking.”

He rests his head on my chest and I take a deep breath. At this point he owes me another round just to cancel out what he’s done. I run my hand down his shoulder, down his spine.

“I guess I just mean I think I want one,” he says, squeezing his arm around my waist.

I stop moving my hand. I like Harrison, but I absolutely don’t want him as a boyfriend.

“You do?” I ask. The more I turn the idea in my head, the more surprising it is. Harrison seemed a safe choice in the no-romance way. He was the one who propositioned me last year, after all. And he’s hot: broad and a little soft, with a nice ass and dark curls that fall over his green eyes and pearly skin. He asked me one day after an English class if I’d like to spend some time with him. That was how he phrased it, which I liked. I told him I didn’t date, and he said he knew that. He was new last year, but we knew each other in passing—there are several out guys in school, and we’re not all friends, but we all know each other on sight, say hi to each other in the halls. But I said yes to spending time with him, and since then, we’ve established a quick code: tutoring. With my other two gentlemen, we usually just texted. But they both graduated last year, so now it was just Harrison. And he, apparently, is looking for a boyfriend. I frown at the fan. It spins away, amused by my situation.

“I mean, yeah,” Harrison says. “I think it would be nice, to hold hands in the hallway, go to prom with someone.”

“I guess,” I say, shrugging. I’ve never really thought much of it.

He laughs. “I know, I know, not for you. But just FYI, if I find a boyfriend, then our tutoring days are probably over.”

“Of course,” I say, wondering who’s left to replace him.

“I think Robert might ask me out. You know him?”

I pause, trying to conjure up a face for the name.

“He’s on student council with you, president of the environmental club?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” I say. “I didn’t think he was your type.”

“What?” Harrison asks, turning to narrow his eyes at me. “What’s my type?”

“Well,” I say, looking down the stretch of my body.

“Oh.” Harrison laughs. “Yeah, tall, blond, with broad shoulders and a jawline you could cut someone with? That’s everyone’s type.”

I laugh, blushing a little. “You didn’t mention my six-pack,” I say, tapping my stomach.

He leans down and kisses just above my navel again. I sigh softly, but he lies back on the bed and puts his arms under his head. “I mean, I don’t think I really have a type,” he says.

I think of him in the bed with Robert, instead of me. Robert is nice. Sort of thin, and his hair never seems to do what it’s supposed to, but he’s passionate about whales, I think, which is nice. Or maybe it’s rain forests? Super important, whichever one, of course. There’s no doubt he’s a nice person.

But I like sleeping with Harrison. He’s a sexual partner of quality, and that means if he must have a boyfriend, then that boyfriend should be of quality, too. And being a good person isn’t enough; there need to be shared interests, that spark of special-ness. I saw it between Taylor and West. I just can’t imagine it with Harrison and Robert.

“You could do better than Robert, I think,” I say, pulling on my briefs.

“Better than?”

“Sorry, that came out rude. I just mean you shouldn’t say yes to Robert just because you want a boyfriend. If he asks you out.”

“But I do want a boyfriend,” he says, turning onto his side to look at me.

“Do you want it to be him specifically, though?” I ask.

“I mean… maybe?”

“Maybe isn’t very convincing,” I say, smiling at him, an idea suddenly bubbling in my brain.

“But I do want a boyfriend,” he says. “And Robert is—”

“Then I’ll find you one.”

He laughs. “What? You will?”

“What?” I say, kneeling on the bed next to him. “I set up Taylor and West, you know. And I know how… extraordinary you are, physically,” I add, stroking his chin. “I won’t have you settle. I’ll find someone deserving of you.” I reach down and pull on my socks. They’re blue, covered in little stethoscopes. Our socks are the one thing we can go crazy with without violating uniform rules.

“Who would you find for me, then?” he asks as I stand and pull my pants on. “Or is this just some complicated scheme to keep me single for our hookups?”

“I assure you, it’s not,” I say. I smile at him, but he looks a little offended. “I enjoy our rendezvous, of course, but I don’t want to stand in the way of you being happy. We’re friends. I want you to be happy.”

“We’re friends?” He smiles.

“Aren’t we? You eat lunch with me sometimes. We talk, we spend time at each other’s houses.”

“That last one doesn’t count,” he says, laughing. “But sure, okay, we’re friends.”

“Then let me do what I do for my friends and find you a perfect match.”

“Who else have you done it for, besides Taylor?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Well,” I say, looking back up at the fan for a moment, “no one. Yet. But you’ll be next. I like it. I like making people happy.”

“Oh?” He pushes himself back up, his muscled shoulders supporting his torso as he brings his face close to mine. One dark curl falls over his eyes. “Well, until you make me happy that way, there are other ways you can make me happy.”

I glance at my phone again, then take my socks back off. I still have a little time before I need to be home.

“Emmett?” Dad calls the moment I come through the door. “Is that you? Where have you been?”

I sigh and close the door behind me. “Tutoring,” I call back. “I texted you.”

We have a lovely home. Dad’s a money manager who works from home and comes from wealth, and Mom was a surgeon, which is how we can afford to live in a very nice house in Highbury, one of the richest districts of California, just north of LA. Dad thinks it’s important that we’re here—there’s fairly low air pollution for California and the weather is usually sunny. The house is a sort of Frank Lloyd Wright–inspired ranch, with a pool and flower garden out back and lots of glass walls so the light comes through. Dad likes that. Sunlight is healthy, and Dad is always worried about healthy.

“I know, I know you texted,” Dad says, coming down the stairs. He’s holding a syringe. One of those days, then. Yes, it’s a lot. Dad can sometimes be a lot. He went to online nursing school after Mom died just in case I needed some extra medical attention—and he often feels I do. But he never takes blood without my permission. He just asks a lot. For him, it’s like asking how I’m doing. But I’m doing just fine today so I smile broadly and walk by him.

“I was just worried,” he says. “I should take some of your blood. We can send it in for a test.”

“Dad, the doctor did my blood work last month,” I say, walking past him. “I’m fine.” He’s been getting more anxious lately, I think because I’m going to Stanford next year. So I have to be firm with him about this sometimes.

I hear him sigh as I put my backpack down on the dining room table and start fishing out my books. I like doing my homework in the living room. It’s where Mom used to help me study. She also decorated the house. The foyer with the big staircase and the huge windows is wallpapered in this giant flower print, with white tile floors, but then you come back here, to the open living/dining/kitchen area, and its wood floors, glass doors out to the porch, and French-blue walls, and it looks out on the garden, which is always filled with flowers. Dad loves flowers, and so did Mom. It’s cozy back here. Sometimes I think it still smells like her perfume, too. Like lime and basil.

“You’re not having sex, right?” Dad says, coming up behind me. “Sex is so dangerous, Emmett.” This is the other main theme of his medical anxieties. Maybe I should have texted earlier instead of waiting until I was leaving Harrison’s. Normal parents, from what I understand, worry about their kids being in car crashes if they haven’t heard from them. But with Dad, if he wonders where I am, that worry somehow leads to my health, and then he spirals.

“Relax, Dad,” I say as calmly as I can. “I know to use condoms.” I pause. I hate the lie I’m about to tell. “But not until I’m ready to have sex.”

Dad knows I’m gay. He doesn’t care about that. It’s sex of any kind—gay, straight, bi, pan, orgiastic—that concerns him.

“Yes, yes, good. Be careful. Boys can catch HPV, too.” He squeezes my shoulder and I take his hand for a moment. Mom died of cervical cancer almost four years ago now.

“I know, Dad,” I say. “That’s why I got vaccinated. But I promise, I’ll be careful.”

“Okay,” he says. “Poor Taylor, getting all mixed up in dating. So dangerous, and we see so much less of her. She used to be here every day after school.…” He sighs. Dad loves Taylor. She always loves walking through the flower garden with him, and we usually came here after school to hang out and study, which he liked because then he knew where I was.

He sighs and looks at the syringe he’s holding. “I’ll go put this away.” He heads back toward the stairs. “Next month, though. Just in case.”

The doorbell rings and I glance up. It’s odd for someone to drop by. Dad heads for the door. Actually, no, there’s one person who drops by.

“Miles!” Dad says, excited.

“Hi, Henry,” Miles says. I can hear them hug. I think Dad likes Miles more than I do. I stand up and go into the foyer. No, I’m certain Dad likes Miles more than I do.

“Hi,” I say, smiling as brightly as I can. “What are you doing here?” I don’t want to be rude, of course, and Miles does this. He lives right across the street, it’s not a long walk, and our families are very close, so he’s always welcome, but I do have homework.

“Your dad texted my mom,” Miles said. “He wanted to know where you were. I didn’t see your car in the driveway, so she sent me over.…”

“Dad.” I sigh. “I was tutoring.” I turn back to Miles. “It’s supposed to rain tonight, so I parked in the garage.”

“You didn’t text me back,” Dad says, turning on me. “I was worried. You could have been in a car accident.”

I take out my phone. I have a missed text from Dad. He sent it while I was driving.

“I was driving home by then,” I say.

“Yes, well, you came home a few minutes later.”

“So how long did you wait to text Jasmine after I didn’t respond?” I try to keep my voice calm.

“I don’t know,” Dad says. “A while, though.”

“You texted me ten minutes ago,” I say, holding up my phone. “The walk from Miles’s door to ours is five minutes. You waited five minutes.”

“I was worried,” Dad says.

“Well, you’re home,” Miles says, “so I can go—”

“No, no,” Dad says. “Stay for dinner. Invite your mother over. We can all eat together.”

Miles looks at me, and I smile. Dad invited him to stay, after all. I’m not going to tell him to go just so I can get some work done without his superior sneer hovering over me—that wouldn’t be nice.

“I’m just doing some homework,” I say. Dad heads upstairs to put away the syringe, finally. I turn and walk back into the dining room. Miles comes and sits down next to me. He’s changed out of the school uniform and is in a mint-green V-neck and white skinny jeans. I suddenly feel a little awkward still in my school-issued pale gray slacks, white shirt, and yellow tie with the blue-and-yellow sweater vest over it. I pull the vest off, but it gets stuck partway and I flail for a moment, pulling.

Miles stands and pulls it off for me.

“I didn’t need your help,” I tell him, folding the vest and putting it on the table.

“You looked like you did,” he says, smiling in that condescending way he likes to smile.

“Well, I didn’t,” I say, and loosen my tie. I know I should say thank you, to be nice, but Miles is just so insufferable with his “I know better” attitude and stepping in when he’s not asked to. That’s why we went from best friends to… whatever we are now. Friends-ish? Family friends? It was just one too many little notes on how I could do something better, how the nice thing I did wasn’t nice enough.

“I was just trying to be nice,” he says. I look up at him, glaring. He said nice with extra honey in it, like he was making fun of me for all the times when I say I want to be nice. I used to tell him that was important to me, when we talked more. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. I turn back to my books.

Nothing is ever good enough for Miles, and this year, when he chose to start sitting with the debate team at lunch instead of with me, he made it clear that I, in particular, had failed to live up to his standards. I’m still not entirely sure what I did. It’s not like we had a falling-out. Last year seemed normal, and then over the summer he was volunteering at the hospital and we didn’t see each other as much, but on the first day back, though I clearly left a seat for him, he went and sat with the debate team. I didn’t make a thing of it, that would be rude, but I admit I was a bit stung. But I’ve gotten over it. Realized it was a relief, really. It’s not like we don’t see each other practically every day, being neighbors and all. Maybe he just needed a break from me the way I so often need a break from him these days. Though I am much more pleasant to be around.

“Must have been tutoring for a while,” he says, walking around the room, looking at the chairs.

“What?” I ask. “And it’s over there.” I point to the kitchen, where a fleece throw is. Miles grins and goes over to it and wraps it around his shoulders and comes back to sit down.

He pulls the blanket tight around him. He loves that blanket of ours, with its fleece lining. It’s a silly thing we got online, with some flowers I thought would match the color of the walls, but don’t, and so look off. But he loves it, so I don’t throw it out—it would make him too sad, and that wouldn’t be nice.

“You were tutoring Harrison Stein, right?” he asks, once the blanket is sufficiently cozy.

“Yes.” I open my AP Bio textbook and flip the pages.

“He gets straight As.”

“I’m an excellent tutor,” I say, not looking up.

“What subject do you tutor him in?”

“Bio,” I say, because the book is in front of me.

“He’s taking chem.”

“He wants to prepare,” I say, glancing up at Miles, a bit surprised he knows Harrison’s schedule—I didn’t think they were especially close. “Why are you asking? Do you need tutoring?”

“I’m getting straight As in bio already.”

“Well, I guess we’re all very clever, then.”

“Not as clever as some might think,” he says, reaching out and tugging on my collar.

I bat his hand away and look down. My shirt is buttoned up wrong; an extra buttonhole lies empty at the collar. My tie was covering it.

“Huh,” I say.

“Pretty sure you had those buttoned right before tutoring.”

I roll my eyes. “Are you going to let me do my homework, or are you just going to pester me with random sartorial commentary?”

He laughs. “You’re something else, Emmett. But yeah, let me text my mom and invite her over.”

I flip through the pages and try to focus on the work, but I can feel my face scowling. Damn know-it-all Miles. Why would he even mention it? Why rub it in my face that he’s made an assumption about me and it happens to be right—a lucky guess really. What does it give him, aside from some perverse satisfaction?

No. I will not dwell on this. Miles isn’t a gossip, so he won’t spread his theories—however correct they may be—around school. Which is good, because I don’t need that. The gossiping, people assuming that just because I have sex with a friend sometimes we must also be romantically involved. The fetishizing. The “You guys are so adorable” from girls I’ve barely spoken to, as though saying that is somehow allyship. Even Georgia, queer and cohead of the Queer Alliance, will jump on that boat, telling us we’re so cute, asking us to pose for photos, going on about the “inspiring joy of visible queer love.” She does it with the other queer boys in school when they couple up.

I’m still dwelling, I realize. Obsessing maybe. I turn back to my pages for the ninetieth time.

“Okay,” Miles says, putting down his phone. “Mom will be over in a sec.”

“Great,” I say, not looking up.

“Did you not want us to stay?”

“No,” I say, and it sounds fake. “No,” I repeat, getting it right this time. “I’m just worried about all the work I have.”

“You can do it after dinner,” Dad says, coming into the room. He’s put on a faded purple polo shirt and jeans. “Now we’re ordering pizza and having dinner with our dearest friends.”

He smiles at us and Miles smiles back and I smile, too, because otherwise I’m the mean one.

“Wait,” I say, realizing what he just said. “Pizza? From that new place? Dad, no.”

“It’s so healthy,” Dad says to Miles. “Cauliflower crusts!”

“They put tea in the tomato sauce.”

“Green tea,” Dad says. “It fights free radicals. And they have this one pie topped with blueberries!”

“Dad, I told you last time, I didn’t enjoy it. I will have a glass of iced green tea if it will make you feel better. But we’re ordering real pizza. From the organic place.”

Dad sighs.

I stand and go to the fridge and take out a pitcher of iced green tea, which I make every morning, and pour myself a glass. “Healthy,” I say, then sip from it. “See?”

Dad frowns. “The pizza wasn’t so awful.”

“I’ll try it,” Miles says.

I shoot him a death glare, then make myself stop. “That’s very kind of you to say, but there are times when politeness must be discarded in favor of self-preservation.”

“That bad?” Miles asks.

I nod.

“Hello?” calls Jasmine, Miles’s mom, from the foyer.

“We’re back here, Jas,” Dad calls out.

Jasmine rounds the corner, a big smile on her face. She’s blond with full high cheeks that look like Miles’s, though Miles has the coloring of his other mom, Priyanka. Jasmine carried him, but I’m not sure which egg was used, or where the sperm came from, but somehow he manages to look like both of them. Priyanka’s bronze skin and dark gold eyes, Jasmine’s face shape and bright smile.

I love Jasmine. It was Priyanka who was Mom’s best friend, the two of them having gone to college and med school together. They were always across the street, always coming over, but then Mom died, and Priyanka and Jasmine, I think, tried to make sure they were in my life to check that I was okay, and Dad too. So they never stopped coming over. Last year, Priyanka decided to do Doctors Without Borders and has been away helping out in South Africa since, so I think Jasmine likes the company, too.

“Please tell my father we can’t order from the pizza place that puts green tea in the sauce,” I tell her.

She grins, holding back a laugh. “It’s an interesting idea, but they go too far, and the tea is overbrewed, makes it bitter,” she says. “If I wanted to do that, I’d use white tea, and I’d just put it in the crust, with some citrus, too.”

“You’re not cooking,” I tell her, then look over at Dad. “I won’t have you invited over just to work.”

“I didn’t ask her to,” Dad says.

Jasmine has a cooking show, and like half a dozen bestselling cookbooks. And we love her food. But inviting someone over and then having them cook is the height of rudeness.

“Let’s just order regular pizza,” I say.

“That sounds great,” Jasmine says, putting her arm around Miles’s shoulder.

“Well, all right,” Dad says, looking meaningfully at the glass of iced tea I’m holding.

I take a long gulp. It’s cool and pleasantly grassy. Dad takes out his tablet and after picking out toppings and ordering, we sit down on the porch while we drink iced tea and wait for the pizza to show up.

Dad has a rocking chair out here, and he sits in it, facing Miles, Jasmine, and me on the large swing. We look out over the pool and the flower garden that Dad works on year-round. The sun is setting, turning the sky a beautiful pink.

“The jasmine is blooming, as it always does in your honor,” Dad says to Jasmine.

She laughs. “You always say that.”

“It’s always true!” Dad says, very serious. “And the roses always bloom for Pri. They’ve been looking so sad. When does she come home?”

“Soon,” Jasmine says, smiling. “A few weeks.”

“Right after midterms,” Miles says.

“In time for the winter carnival!” I say. “You can bring her.”

“Yeah,” Miles says. “That’ll be fun. You and Ma can stop by after my shift at the ticket booth.” Miles and I are both part of the student council committee for the winter carnival, along with Taylor, and Harrison, and a bunch of other people. We throw the carnival at school and proceeds are split between a school improvement project and a charity of the council’s choosing. Technically, I’m president of the committee, but I’m not a control freak about it or anything. We’re all doing it together, that’s what I tell everyone.

“It’s going to be excellent this year,” I say. “Fair But Frozen Maid, that new ice cream shop in LA with the trucks, is sending one to be there all day. They have the most exquisite flavors. One is green tea blueberry,” I add, turning to Dad. “And of course rides and games.”

“Emmett made it his quest to get the Fair But Frozen Maid truck,” Miles says.

“It was a team effort,” I say. “But I do think it’ll be a big draw.”

“I love the winter carnival,” Dad says. “Freshman year, you remember, Miles won you that rabbit toy?”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, Dad.” That was when we were best friends.

“Is that ride coming back?” he asks. “With the penguins?”

We all laugh. “Yes,” I say. “The little bouncing penguin ride for six-year-olds will be there.”

“There’s no age limit on it!” Dad says, laughing. “I love that ride.”

“We know,” Jasmine says, laughing.

“The penguins are very cute,” Dad adds, making us all laugh again.

“Well, I promise it will be there,” I say. “I triple-confirmed it with the rental place. Also the long drop, the teacups… I should write back to the fried dough place, though, they haven’t confirmed check-in time.”

“You’re so busy,” Jasmine says to me. “Both of you. I don’t think I was this busy when I was your age, with tests and fundraisers and triple-confirming with vendors.”

“And tutoring,” Miles says with a smirk. “Emmett tutors, too.”

“I like to give back,” I say, keeping my face calm. “I actually decided that, fresh off the success of setting up my friend Taylor with her new boyfriend, I’m going to try to set up my friend Harrison, too.”

“Harrison?” Miles says. The smirk is gone. “Is that a good idea?”

“Why not?” I say. “He wants a boyfriend, I want to find him one. I’m good at it. A natural intuition.”

“Just because you set up Taylor and West doesn’t mean you have a natural intuition,” Miles says, his voice going up a bit, “and considering you… tutor him, don’t you think that’s sort of a conflict of interest?”

“Not at all. I know him very well,” I say, smiling.

“Well, I think it’s a nice idea,” Jasmine says, her Southern accent creeping out like honey leaking from a jar. “Matchmakers can be wonderful, y’know? As long as it’s about compatibility and not, like, family esteem or breeding or anything. Just introducing people and seeing if they like each other. I think that’s nice.”

“And of course being in a monogamous relationship with only one sexual partner significantly reduces your risks of STDs,” Dad says.

“Condoms work, Dad,” I say. “And nonmonogamous relationships are just as valid as monogamous ones.”

“If no one wants the monogamy,” Miles says. “But I like monogamy, I’m just a romantic like that.” He raises an eyebrow, goading me.

I turn to him, glaring, about to say something less than nice, but thankfully the doorbell rings, interrupting me. “I’ll get it and set the table,” I say.

“I’ll help,” Miles says, also standing. He says it like he wants to talk to me.

“What nice kids you are,” Jasmine says.

I walk to the door quickly, hoping Miles will just set the table, but he follows me to the door, whispering.

“You’re going to set up Harrison with someone? You’re sleeping with him, Emmett.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. And what’s this about you being a romantic? That was a joke, I hope.”

“Don’t change the subject,” he says as I make it to the door and open it. “I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re screwing someone.”

The pizza delivery guy looks between us, holding out two boxes.

“Uh, Woodhouse?” he asks.

“Yes, thank you,” I say, taking the pizza and giving him a generous tip.

“Even if I were engaging in some mutual pleasure with him,” I whisper, “what does that matter?”

“So he’s just some guy you tutor and screw?”

“I don’t actually tutor him, Miles. He’s very bright.”

“I know, I mean… it’s separate? Really?”

“Sure. We’re friends. We do… friendly things together.”

“You and I don’t do those friendly things,” he says, taking the pizzas from me.

“You’re straight,” I say. “But if you weren’t, and we were sleeping together, I don’t think it would change much about our friendship.”

He turns and walks back into the dining room. “I think it would,” he says. “And I think if you were really his friend, you’d want more for him.”

“So you weren’t kidding, you have gone romantic all of a sudden?” I say, unable to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “I’ve told you, before twenty-five—”

“The brain isn’t done developing, you don’t know who you are, yeah yeah.” He puts the pizzas down and I take out plates and napkins. “But if you’re already having sex with him, and you like him, I don’t understand why you wouldn’t want to be his boyfriend.”

“We’re friends, it’s not…” I put the plates down on the table. “I’m queer. My closest friends, the people who really get me, they’re also going to be the people I sleep with, and when I’m ready for it, my dating pool. Sex, friendship, romance, all in one spot. So sometimes the sex is part of friendship instead of part of romance. That’s fine. What’s important is keeping everything neat. Making sure everyone knows what the relationship is and where they stand. Nothing messy.”

“And you don’t want a boyfriend at all?”

“One day,” I say.

“You’re sure you’re not aro?” He raises an eyebrow.

“I’m sure. I’ve had crushes, romantic fantasies…”

“Yeah?” He smiles, all mischief. “On whom?”

I glare. He will not be getting that out of me, he’ll just use it to mock me. Everyone has a crush on the boy next door at some point, right? Mine was for a few months freshman year, and thankfully now is very over.

“But then,” I continue, ignoring his question, “I think about the inevitable breakups, the tedious dividing of friends, the conflict after. The… anguish,” I add, my eyes inadvertently darting toward the porch. “A romantic relationship is a risk, and before twenty-five, it’s almost guaranteed failure. I don’t need that pain now. I’ll do that later, when we’re all adults, with fully grown brains, and there’s a chance the relationship works and we never break up and I never have to… For now… friendship, sex. It’s less messy.”

“I don’t know about that,” Miles says. “Seems like it would be more messy. And you know, it sounds a little sad. Not all breakups are—”

“Thank you so much for your opinion,” I say, then turn away and poke my head outside to where Dad and Jasmine are still sitting. “Dinner!”