"Liam."
I turned at the door.
Remy hadn't looked up from his laptop. His pencil was moving across the notebook, marking something.
"Whatever's in your head.. leave it on the dock Thursday morning. You and Harrington have something. Don't waste it because you're scared."
The wordscaredlanded in my chest and stayed there.
I walked out. Down the stairs, past the bay with its racked shells and its smell of wax and its heavy quiet. Out the side door into the cold.
The gravel path crunched under my shoes. The river sat wide and flat to my left. Across it, barely visible through the trees, the stone and glass of the Kingswell boathouse caught the sun.
Alex was over there somewhere. Probably in class. Probably performing his way through another day of being Thomas Harrington's son. Carrying the weight of what his father had said about me—the charity case—and not telling anyone.
And I was over here. Walking back to my dorm with a word I'd never applied to myself sitting in my chest like something swallowed whole.
Bisexual.
Not a phase. Not confusion.
A normal variation of human experience.
Back in the dorm. Noah was gone—Tuesday seminar. The room was quiet. His side neat, bed made, index cards stacked on his desk. My side the usual disaster—sheets twisted, crew bagspilling gear onto the floor, three empty water bottles lined up on the windowsill.
I sat on the bed. Pulled out my phone.
One notification.
Emily
Still good for dinner Wednesday? I'm craving Thai food.
Wednesday evening across a table from Emily, eating Thai food while I smiled and performed.
Thursday.
5:30 AM on the water with Alex. Two thousand meters. Everything on the line.
Two versions of who I was supposed to be, scheduled twelve hours apart.
I stared at the text.
Don't waste it because you're scared.
Remy. I set the phone on the mattress. Screen up. Unanswered.
And sat there in the quiet with the weight of something I was only just beginning to name.
Chapter 14: Alex
The Bluebird Diner looked exactly the same.
Same red vinyl booths with the tape patches on the seats. Same checkered floor, black and white squares scuffed grey from decades of foot traffic. Same blue neon sign in the window with half the letters dead so it just read "Blu ird." The R had been out since before freshman year and nobody had fixed it. Nobody was going to.
I stood outside for a moment. Hands in my jacket pockets. Staring through the glass at the booth in the back corner.
Our booth. Where Ethan and I had spent dozens of afternoons freshman year—him editing footage on his laptop
