“Time?” He scoffs. “I can think of a whole bunch of times you could have told me this stuff.”
I can’t argue with that. So I don’t. “You’re right. I could have said something, but I chickened out.”
“You, chicken?” Is it my imagination, or do his fingers loosen their hold on the strap of his duffel bag? And his eyes seem a little softer, and his voice like it has less bite, too. “If memory serves, I was the guy living with one foot in the closet and one out, not you. You’ve always been so—I don’t know. Comfortable being yourself. You’re like the bravest person I know.”
“Not when it comes to you,” I admit quickly.
My panic is fading, but the desperation remains. I can’t let him walk away angry. I have to make this right.
“I’m afraid you’re going to wake up and realize you can do way better than an ex-Mormon whose own parents can’t even stand the sight of him.” Once I start, the words spill out like a dam broke inside of me. “I mean, you’re into guys and girls. It shouldn’t be too hard to find someone without so much baggage.”
“Stop.” He closes the gap between us and puts a finger to my lips. I fight the urge to suck it into my mouth. “Everyone has baggage. The key is finding someone who can help you carry it.”
He lowers his hand, dragging his finger over my lips and chin and down my throat, where I’m sure he can feel my pulse pounding.
“You want to help carry my baggage?” I ask, my voice raspy with emotion.
“What do you think?” He lowers his head and brushes my mouth with his. “Go deal with your sister. We can talk tomorrow.”
“So we’re okay?”
There it is. That only-for-me smile, the one that lifts the corners of his lips and lights his eyes. “You gave me a second chance when I screwed up. It would be kind of a dick move if I didn’t do the same.”
He leans in to kiss me again, but another crash from inside my room pulls us apart.
“Go.” Adam nudges me toward my door. “Before your sister destroys your dorm room.”
19
Kolby
The high from knowing I haven’t completely messed things up with Adam disappears the second I set foot in my room. My sister is on her hands and knees in front of the mini fridge, picking up what looks like the shards of my favorite coffee mug with her bare hands, the one that says—or said—Being Straight Was My Phase, and dropping them one by one into the garbage.
“Stop.” I drop my bag just inside the door, step over her, carefully avoiding the tiny ceramic pieces, and pull a dustpan and brush out from between the fridge and the wall. “Use these.”
She takes them from me and starts to sweep the remains into a neat pile. “You’ve turned into a regular Martha Stewart. Mom would be so proud.”
I roll my eyes. “I doubt that.”
“I’m sorry about your mug. I just wanted a drink of water, and I couldn’t find any glasses.” She sweeps the shards into the dustpan and dumps them in the garbage. Then she sits back on her heels, looking around for any pieces she might have missed. “I think I got most of it.”
“I’m sure it’s fine.” I hold my hand out, and she gives me the dustpan and brush. I wave them in the general direction of the couch. “Sit down. I’ll get the water. Or something stronger, if you want.”
She’s not legal age. And the LDS church prohibits drinking alcohol of any kind, even beer. But she’s here when she should be on her mission, so who knows what else she’s up for. Besides, it’s only one drink, and it’s not like we’re going anywhere tonight.
“What’s wrong with you?” She plops down on the sofa, kicks off her Converse sneakers, and tucks her legs underneath her. Her jacket is already thrown across my bed, and her backpack is on the floor next to my desk. It hasn’t taken her long to make herself at home. “Have you developed selective amnesia or something? You know Mormons don’t drink.”
“They also don’t run off from their missions.”
She shrugs. “You’ve got me there. But I’m sticking with water.”
“Water it is, then.” I take a plastic cup from the bathroom—there’s no way I’m losing another mug to her slippery fingers—fill it with water from the filtered pitcher in my mini fridge, and give it to Hannah. Then I grab myself a Shipley cider from the fridge before taking a seat next to her. “Are you going to tell me why you’re here and not in Baltimore, or do I have to pry it out of you?”
She bites her lip. “You’re not going to like it.”
“Try me.”
“I had to run away,” she insists, her voice rising with each word. “They want me to marry Layton.”
