Jasmine waves at me from my doorway. “Jackson?”
“Yeah?” I mark my place in the lighting design book Bowie got me for Friendsmas, which is what we call it when we give each other gifts in December for completely secular reasons.
“Can you help me for a second?” Jasmine fidgets with the hem of her blue Royals hoodie. I’m not sure why she even owns it; neither of us likes baseball. But she got it from Blake, her four-times-removed ex, and even though Blake was a total bust, she really liked the hoodie.
His breakup list is more wrinkled than most since she took a really long time to get over him. He still holds the record for longest relationship—three months, though once January rolls around, Liam will tie it.
RACIST HAIR?
TRIED TO PULL OFF WHITE GUY LOCS
SMELLED LIKE BURNT HAIR (NOT HIS OWN?)
NO NECK, HEAD SHAPED LIKE LEGO MINIFIGURE
REVERSE-HITLER MUSTACHE
WEIRD FACIAL HAIR
ONCE ASKED JASMINE IF SHE SHAVED HER ARMPITS
ENCOURAGED JASMINE TO SHAVE HER ARMPITS
MEN’S RIGHTS ACTIVIST
TOLD GROSS JOKES
I never told Jasmine half of the stuff he said to me when she wasn’t around, including a lengthy soliloquy on the merits of tongue piercings when it came to blow jobs.
As much as Jasmine mourned the breakup, I was grateful for it.
“Jackson?”
“Huh?”
“I said, can you help me pick what to wear tonight?”
I follow her to her room, where she’s got three different outfits laid on her bed.
“You know being gay doesn’t make me good at fashion, right?” I sweep my hands up and down my faded Into the Woods shirt from the last Broadway revival. I didn’t actually see it, but Mom found the shirt online for my last birthday.
“I know. But I need your help. Liam’s going to be there.”
I figured.
“Do the sweater and jeans, then.”
“You think?” Jasmine runs a hand over the red dress with the heart neckline that I ignored. “It’s not . . . I don’t know, plain?”
“It’s cute.”
Jasmine’s nostrils flare. “Cute is for first dates. This is a party. I’m trying to, you know. Move things forward.”
“Gross!”
“Aw, don’t be weird.”
“I’m not being weird. Your body is your business.” But my face is catching fire. I don’t want to think about Liam and my sister having sex.
“Don’t be a jealous virgin,” she teases, and that just makes the flames burn hotter.
Cam and I never got past kissing, though one time I did squeeze his butt while we were making out, and that felt pretty excellent. Cam had (still has, honestly) an excellent butt, probably from all the dancing.
“I’m not jealous!” I say, probably louder than I mean to, but my ears feel full, not from my hearing aids but from the churning in my gut. I don’t want to have this conversation.
“Aw, don’t worry. You’ll find a boyfriend someday.”
I don’t want a boyfriend.
I want the one boy I can never have.
Dad and Amy are at a work party, and Mom’s visiting her old college friends, but Bowie invited me over to hang out. Their parents are gone too—not that I mentioned it to Dad—so we make some boxed shells and cheese (the kind with the pouch of liquid cheese, not the weird powder) and play Smash Bros.
Halfway through dinner, Bowie drops their fork and runs a hand over their hair. They cut it after State, and it’s in short waves now, with the sides faded. It looks crisp and cool, but I kind of miss their twists. I’m not used to Bowie with short hair.
“Are we going to talk about it?”
“About what?”
Bowie sighs—a heavy, dramatic one, and with their swimmer’s lungs they can really put a lot of oomph into it. “Come on, Jacks. True biz.”
I sigh back. “Liam and Jasmine are at a party tonight.”
“He mentioned it.”
“They’re going to have sex.”
Bowie makes a face.
“I know. But the thing is, she’s happy. So happy. And I should be happy for her, right? But all I can think is I wish it was me.” My stomach swoops. “Not the sex part. Just . . . being with him.”
The sex part would be fine too, though.
I stop signing, rub my hands over my face. My eyes are burning and I don’t want to cry into my shells and cheese.
I’m a horrible, selfish brother. And worse, I’m a terrible friend to Liam.
Because I don’t want him to be happy. Not with her.
“I wish I’d said something. Before it was too late.”
Bowie purses their lips. They’re wearing the gold lipstick I got them for Friendsmas, and it looks stunning.
“That really sucks.”
“It’s whatever. He probably doesn’t even like guys. You think he’d have mentioned before if he did, right?”
“Maybe,” Bowie says. “Everyone comes out at their own pace.”
“Yeah, but he’s friends with you and me. We wouldn’t judge.”
“That doesn’t necessarily make it any easier.”
“I guess.” I pick my fork back up and shovel more shells into my mouth.
At least there’s always carbs and cheese.
“Enough about me,” I say. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You hear any more from those recruiters?”
“Yeah, the one from Texas.” They don’t quite meet my eyes. “We’ve been emailing back and forth some. I think I’m going to apply early decision. He thinks I can get pretty close to a full ride.”
“Oh.”
It feels like a cold stage weight dropped into my stomach.
I knew Bowie was thinking about Texas, but I always thought it was the same way I thought about UCLA: great program, but too far away from home.
Too far away from my best friend.
I thought they were picking Ohio. I thought they’d be closer to me.
But instead they’re picking Texas. With Liam.
“That’s cool,” I manage, though my fingers feel like hot dogs as I form the signs.
It never really felt real before. That we’d be splitting up.
It still doesn’t.
“Nothing’s sure yet,” they say.
It’s definitely sure. There’s nothing Bowie can’t do once they set their mind to it.
“Even if I do go, I’ll be home on breaks. And I’ll come visit you. We’ll still be best friends. College won’t change us.”
How could it not? They probably won’t even think about me, except when they come home—assuming our breaks even line up—and then we’ll have an awkward hangout where neither of us will want to admit we’ve grown apart and changed too much to really be best friends anymore.
My shells have congealed into a sticky mess, but I keep eating them anyway.
What else is there to say?