“Oh my God.” He rolls over onto his side to face me, resting his head on his hand. “It’s so anticlimactic, you ready?”
“Born ready. Disappoint me.”
“So we’re having dinner, right—lasagna—”
“Nice.”
“And my mom and dad are talking about work or whatever, I don’t know, I wasn’t paying attention, and my mom turns to me and goes, ‘Miles, what’s new in your life?’ And before I could convince myself otherwise, I yelled, ‘I’M GAY!’”
I laugh again. “And what did they say?”
“Nothing at first. Then my dad puts down his fork and stares atme across the dinner table and goes, ‘Your mother asked what wasnew.’”
“So they’d already assumed.”
“Please. I asked Santa for an Elsa doll when I was five. They knew.”
I feel a blend of jealousy and happiness for Miles. “Did you get it?”
With a smirk, he rolls off the bed and goes over to his open closet and bends down to sift through piles of old clothes, boxes of photo paper, books, and toys. Then emerges with a wrinkled stuffed Elsa doll.
“And you kept her!” I say, taking it as he hands her over to me.
“Of course. I was fucking obsessedwithFrozen. I think my dad took me to see it three times in theaters. Shame the second one sucked.”
“You know I’ve never seen it?”
“What!”
“I’ve heard people singing the songs and everything, but I wasn’t allowed to watch Disney movies.”
“Stop talking.” Miles gets up and goes to his computer. “We’re watchingFrozen.” I grin and don’t even bother to tell him we don’t have to. Because I kind of want to. I came over here with the idea we’d be talking about Nate and the Beaumonts, and now... maybe all I want to do is watch an animated musical about ice magic.
The Disney logo appears on the monitor and Miles hops onto the bed next to me.
That’s when it hits me. I’m in a cute boy’s room, watching a movie on his bed. Histwinbed. So our arms are touching. Legs, too. Little connected parts of our bodies, buzzing with potential energy.
Miles turns to me. “Sorry. I hijacked the night, didn’t I? Did you want to keep talking about the coming out stuff? Because we can.”
“No!” I might have said it a little too fast, and my cheeks heat. “I mean, I like this. Not thinking about all the other stuff.”
He grins and my stomach flutters. “Good.”
Thirty-Six
Easton comes to pick me up from therapy on Tuesday since Gramma Sharon is still on pain meds. I’m hoping that when I see her tomorrow morning she’ll be able to talk. I want her to be able to respond to me when I tell her the truth. Whether she wants to tell me off, scream, cry, or—as my ideal fantasy goes—tell me she doesn’t give a shit and that she still loves me.
Yes, it’s a reach. But hearing her say that would be worth the wait. And Marcus has been avoiding me anyway.
Easton looks at me skeptically as I hop into the car, tilting his head. “Doesn’t look like it shrunk.”
“That only happens after several sessions,” I say. “How was your cleaning?” It was Easton’s turn to go to Valencia this afternoon, hence him having custody of her car.
He grins his perfect white teeth at me. “Still no cavities.”
“Does Mom dig violently around in your gums or is that only saved for her homeless children?”
“No, she lets Hillary do my cleanings. I think her doing yours herself was a Nate special.” He shifts into drive and pulls slowly into traffic. “Mom told me Dad’s picking her up from work and they won’t be home till later, so I said we’d go somewhere for dinner. Where you want to go?”
