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The next night Mom and Dad are hosting a small little holiday gathering, like they do every year. The house is all decorated, candles are lit, appetizers are out on the side tables, and Dad has set up a makeshift bar in the kitchen.
I was planning on staying up in my room, but Mom knocks on my door. “You dressed?” she asks, barging in. When she notices I’m still in sweats and a T-shirt, she says, “Josh, people will be here any minute!”
“Why do I have to come down? They’re your friends.”
“You know Nick and his parents are coming over.”
I knew that, they’ve been invited for years. But I was hoping Nick wouldn’t come this time. That he’d make some excuse to stay away.
Mom leaves and I jump in the shower. I start to feel nervous, which is stupid, because why should Nick make me feel nervous?
Once I’m dressed and presentable, I go downstairs, where I can already hear voices. It’s a kind of torture, walking in the living room and having to say hi to everyone, answer their small-talk questions. A few of dad’s colleagues and their spouses. Mr. Spencer, the head of Mom’s firm, and his wife. And the Lanzanos. Nick’s parents make a big production about seeing me, asking me about exams, that sort of thing, and I see Nick standing back. He got a haircut, finally, but it’s almost weird seeing him without his dark brown bangs falling in his face. He has on these dark gray dress pants and a button-down, and he looks kind of dorky, but then I realize I probably do, too.
I’m careful that he doesn’t catch me watching him. At one point, amid all the chatter, I spot Nick by himself, eating almonds from a bowl. I know he can sense me staring, and he’s careful not to acknowledge me. He even seems kind of nervous. I feel a kind of power then. I avoided him at school, but I feel bolder here, safer in my own house. I want to point out the front window, up in the trees, where stray strands of toilet paper still hang and blow in the breeze. “You did that,” I want to yell.
But I go over and just say, “Hey.”
He lifts his head, “Hey.” He shoves a few more almonds in his mouth.
“Nice haircut,” I say.
His resolve slips, and maybe my words cut through his nerves, because he smirks at me and says, “Ugh. Mom made me. She says I looked like a hippie.”
“You kind of did,” I say, enjoying the jab.
A few of the adults start laughing, really loud, and then I see our moms looking over at us fondly, like they plotted getting us together and they’re celebrating the achievement. Mom waves at us.
“Can we go to your room? I’m over this,” Nick says.
“Sure,” I say. I mean, I’m not thrilled to be alone with Nick, but at the same time I feel annoyed at our moms, watching us like we’re two cute puppies.
When we get to the stairs Nick says, “Hold up.” He goes to the kitchen, and he comes back walking fast, carrying two bottles of beer. “Go, go,” he says, and we both rush up the stairs.
When we get to my room I shut the door. He hands one of the bottles to me and I hesitate before taking it. It just reminds me of what happened with Sam. But I don’t want to be lame, so we clink the bottles together, and I pretend to take a sip from mine.
“Not fair they’re the only ones who get to have a good time, right?” Nick says, pulling out the chair at my desk and sitting.
“Right,” I say, sitting on the edge of my bed.
After a moment, it’s like we both realize we’re stuck in my room together because we just sit there in awkward silence. It’s funny how quickly we went from being best friends to being—well, what?
“Do you wanna watch something on Netflix?” I finally ask. I’d rather do that than talk, even if a ball of anger is starting to bounce around inside me.
Nick doesn’t respond. He chugs a few sips of his beer. “Not really,” he finally says.
I start tearing at the paper of the beer label, which is mushy and comes off easily. “Why did you guys do it?” I ask. I feel kind of bad, throwing that accusation out there, because what if I’m wrong? But I’m not wrong. I can see it in his face, the brief flash of panic, realizing he’s caught.
“I don’t know, we were drunk,” he admits. But he won’t face me.
“It’s still up in our trees,” I say. “Like, who does that to his best friend?”
He rolls his eyes. “You don’t even want to hang out with me. You’re always with him. With Sam. Ever since he got back.”
I flash to a vision of Sam, in this very room, without a shirt on. I stare down at the floor, hoping my face doesn’t redden.
“Like, what’s your fascination with him?” Nick says.
“What do you care?”
“It’s like . . . I mean, you always told me you hated him, and now he’s back and you just drop everything to hang out with him.”
“He needed . . . a friend,” I say. “He needs someone to talk to. After what happened.”
“Gross,” Nick says. “I don’t even want to think about all that.”
“You don’t understand,” I say, which is the truth, but I’m not sure I can explain it to Nick. “That day he disappeared, I was with him.”
“I know, you told me that a million times.”
“It’s my fault,” I say.
“What?”
“It’s my fault he got . . . It’s my fault. I left him.”
“That’s stupid. It’s not your fault.” He looks over at me, and I can see that he thinks I’m being ridiculous. “It’s his own fault,” he says. “He’s a guy. Guys don’t—that stuff doesn’t happen to guys.”
“You’re stupid,” I say. “It does happen. It did.” My mind flashes to that moment Sam told me about, by that pond when it might have all ended for him. But it didn’t. He fought. He lived. “He’s not some freak, or someone you can just make fun of. He’s strong. Stronger than us. He’s a survivor.” I stop, anger burning out of me.
“Okay, okay.”
We’re both quiet for a few minutes, the noise of the party downstairs creeping through my bedroom door.
“And so what if I spend time with Sam,” I say finally, feeling calmer now. “You’re always with Sarah.”
Nick sips the last of his beer, then leans forward. “You’re mad at me for having a girlfriend? You can have one.”
I can hear some laughter downstairs, the clinking of plates.
“I can’t have a girlfriend,” I say quietly. “I don’t want one. I’m . . . I’m gay.” The words slip out so easily, and somehow I don’t feel my face redden.
I’m not ashamed to tell him—I’m relieved.
His face softens with surprise. “You are?”
I nod.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m telling you now,” I say. I take a breath. “You’re the first person I’ve told,” I say, which is true, even if Sam knows, and Madison, too. Still, I’m amazed at how good it feels.
“When did you figure this out?” he asks.
“I guess I’ve known for a while. But I was . . . I don’t know. Confused.”
He nods. “My uncle’s gay,” he says.
I let out a little laugh, and he does, too.