Mom smiles. “They’re great. Jackson, when are you and Bowie going to stop this weird dance of yours and actually start dating?”
I close my eyes and breathe. “Mom. We’re never going to date.”
“You never know—”
“I do know, Mom. Bowie’s my best friend. My very platonic best friend. They’re aroace. Not all queer people are dating each other.”
“Okay, sorry,” Mom says. “I just want you to be happy.”
“I am happy. Okay?”
Mom raises her hands in surrender, and I slump back into my chair. Liam’s staring at me, mouth hanging open.
“What?” I sign.
“Nothing.”
The table gets quiet again, which is fine by me, because everything got super weird. I turn back to my food, scooping up a carrot that’s had the strong atomic force boiled out of it, while Dad decides tonight is a fine time topesterask Jasmine about college choices once again. Which is my cue to pull out my phone and mute my hearing aids.
As I’m doing it, a text pops up from Liam.
None of them sign?
Like at all?
Nope
Sorry
It’s fine
Welcome to Christmas Eve: Divorce Edition
See what you have to look foward to?
Forward*
Hah
It's nice though
I miss hanging out now
that the play is over
I miss him too, miss him so much it hurts. But being around him hurts more.
We should do something soon
We absolutely should not. Not unless Bowie’s around. Because without the play as a buffer—without to-do lists, and Dr. L needing things, and a theatre to maintain—there’s just me and Liam and the fact that every second I’m with him I ache. I ache and I want to cry, and I hate myself, because I want him to be happy, and I want Jasmine to be happy, and I wish the two of them had never met.
I’m a terrible brother and a worse friend.
But I can’t tell him any of that. So I just answer:
Sure
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