A word to the wise: Don’t try to be the little spoon while sleeping on a couch. You’ll fall off, for one, and wake up with a cramp in your neck, for two. And most likely, when you wake up alone on the floor with your father staring down at your shirtless body sprinkled with the detritus from an overturned bowl of popcorn, you’ll be grounded.

“Sebastian slept over?”

“Um . . .” I sit up when Dad asks this, looking around. Without even looking in a mirror, I can tell my hair is standing straight up. I pull a sharp kernel of popcorn away from where it is dangerously close to my nipple. “I don’t actually know. I think he’s gone.”

“Kind of like your shirt?”

“Dad—”

“Tanner.”

It’s hard to take his gruff tone seriously when he’s wearing the Cookie Monster pajama pants Hailey got him for Chrismukkah two years ago.

“You’re running late,” he says, and turns. I catch a glimpse of a grin. “Get dressed and eat something.”

I grab a bowl of cereal and sprint straight to my bedroom. I have a lot to write down.

Sebastian doesn’t answer the chicken/popcorn/beach landscape emoji text I send him just before school starts, and he isn’t in the Seminar this afternoon. I send his private e-mail a short note when I get home.

Hey, it’s me. Just checking in. Everything okay? I’m around tonight if you want to stop by. —Tann

He doesn’t answer.

I try to ignore the familiar sinking ache that takes residence in my stomach, but at dinner, I’m not hungry. Mom and Dad exchange worried looks when they ask if I’ve talked to Sebastian today and I answer in a grunt. Hailey even offers to do the dishes.

I send our old standby—the mountain emoji—the next day, and get nothing in return.

At lunch, I call him. It goes straight to voice mail.

From there, my texts to him pop up in a green bubble, as though his iMessage has been turned off.

Nothing today.

Nothing today.

It’s been four days since he was here, and I heard from him, an e-mail.

Tanner,

I’m so sorry if I miscommunicated anything to you about my feelings, or my identity. I hope my lack of clarity hasn’t brought you too much pain.

I wish you nothing but the best in your upcoming adventures at UCLA.

Kindest regards,

Sebastian Brother

I don’t even know what to say or think after I finish reading it. Obviously, I read it about ten times, because the first nine times, I can’t believe that I’m reading it right.

I go to my folder, the one with the letters from him. I read different phrases, totally blown away by the distance and formality in the e-mail.

Is it weird that I want to spend every second together?

Sometimes it’s hard to not stare at you in class. I think if people saw me looking at you for even a second, they would know.

I can still feel your kiss on my neck.

But no, he miscommunicated his feelings.

I send my official acceptance letter to UCLA, but my hand shakes when I sign the acknowledgment that my acceptance is dependent on my grades this term. The plan is for me to move August 7. Orientation is August 24. I text Sebastian and tell him, but he doesn’t answer.

I counted today: In the past six days, I’ve sent him twenty emoji texts. Is that crazy? It feels like nothing compared to how many real ones, with words, I’ve started and deleted. I have Auddy and Mom and Dad ready to listen anytime I need them. Manny and I had lunch, and it was quiet, but actually pretty easy just to hang in silence. Even Hailey is being sweet.

But I just want to talk to him.

My book is due tomorrow, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. Sebastian shows up in chapter two. Fujita told me I need to turn in at least a hundred pages to get a grade, but he knows I have more. If I gave him even the first hundred, he would get right to the part where Sebastian told me he’s attracted to guys. He would get to where we kiss.

The funny thing is, if you’ve watched me for more than two minutes in that class, it wouldn’t matter what changes I make. I could move it to an alternate universe on a planet called SkyTron-1, rename him Steve and myself Bucky, and give us both superpowers, and it would still be obvious what this book is about. I can’t hide anything when he’s in the room, and my heart is on every page, regardless of the details.

If I get a D in this class—what I’d get if I didn’t turn in the final book or only gave Fujita twenty pages—I would still graduate, but would lose my honors ranking. I think UCLA would still take me. I think.

I realize the end of this book sucks, and I’m barely trying to make it anything worthwhile, but this is the end I have. What kind of idiot was I to start a book about writing a book and just assume the ending would be happy? That’s my framework—happy endings, easy life. But I guess it’s better that I learn this lesson now instead of later, down the road, when I’m not living at home and the world isn’t so kind.

I have been a lucky asshole, one with no idea how the world really works.

I stand outside Fujita’s office. He’s in with a student—Julie, I think—who is crying and probably stressed about turning in her book, but I feel oddly numb. No, that’s not entirely true. I feel relieved, like both of my looming fears—the fear of Sebastian ending things again, the fear of having to deal with the book—have come to pass and at least I don’t have to worry about either of them anymore.

When it’s my turn, I walk inside. Fujita looks at the laptop in my hands.

“You didn’t print me a copy?”

“No.”

He stares at me, puzzling this out.

“I don’t have anything I can turn in.”

There’s something almost electric about hearing a teacher say “Bullshit.”

“I don’t.” I shift on my feet, uncomfortable with the intensity of his attention. “I wrote something, but I can’t turn it in. I can’t even give you a hundred pages.”

“Why?”

Even that I can’t explain. I look past him, at his messy desk.

“What do you expect me to do?” he asks quietly.

“Fail me.”

“Sit down,” he says. “Take five minutes and think this through. Have you lost your mind?”

Yes, I have. What other explanation could there be?

So my laptop is open on my lap, and I’m typing words

words

words

words

SEBASTIAN

At night, when Sebastian lies awake, he stares up at his blank white ceiling and feels like there is a hole slowly burning through his torso. It always starts right beneath his breastbone and then expands downward, black and curling, like a match held to cellophane.

The first night he thought it was indigestion.

The second night he knew it wasn’t.

He dreaded it the third night, but by the fourth he went to bed early, anticipating the way it started with a tiny poke and then grew into a piercing burn that spread, roiling and salty, into his gut. Oddly, it happens just after that first moment of contact between his head and his pillow, which used to trigger a swarm of images of Tanner: his smile and his laugh, the curve of his ear, and the lean set of his shoulders, the way his eyes would narrow just before his humor turned biting, chased by the immediate remorseful dilation of his pupils. Now, instead, the moment Sebastian lays his head on his pillow, he remembers that Tanner isn’t his anymore, and then after that he feels nothing but the ache.

He doesn’t like to be melodramatic, but the ache is better than guilt; it is better than fear, it is better than regret, and it is better than loneliness.

When he wakes, the ache is gone, but the smell of breakfast is there, and that triggers its own routine: Get up. Pray. Eat. Read. Pray. Run. Shower. Write. Pray. Eat. Write. Pray. Eat. Read. Pray. Ache. Sleep.

Final grades are due in two days, and in a fit of desperation, Fujita gave Sebastian three of the books to read and grade. Apparently, it was a prolific term: Every student turned in more than sixty thousand words. Turns out, nearly a million words is too much for one person to get through in five days.

But he wasn’t given Tanner’s book, and although it occurred to Sebastian a thousand times to request it, in the end, he put it out of his head. He read Asher’s indecipherable manifesto, Burrito Dave’s ham-fisted mystery, and Clive’s exceptionally well-plotted CIA thriller. He wrote summaries of the strengths and weaknesses of each work. He suggested grades.

He turns it all in two days early, giving Fujita time to go through them himself if he needs to before turning in final grades. And he returns home, ready to catch his routine at the next meal, only to find Autumn standing on his doorstep.

She’s wearing a Ravenclaw sweatshirt, jeans, and flip-flops.

She’s also wearing an uncertain smile and holds something in her cupped hands.

“Autumn. Hey.”

Her smile grows more uncertain. “I’m sorry to just . . . show up.”

He can’t help but grin back at her. Has she so quickly forgotten that people just show up all the time?

But seeing her is also a little painful because she gets to see him whenever she feels like it.

“Should we go inside?”

He shakes his head. “It’s probably better to talk out here.” The house feels like the inside of a giant, fuzzy microphone. It’s too hot in there, too tense and silent. In his rare flashes of free time, Sebastian goes online and searches for spacious, unfurnished apartments in Atlanta, New York, Seattle, Los Angeles.

“Okay, well, first,” Autumn begins quietly, “I want to apologize. I know Tanner told you what happened between us. I hope you know what a mess he was. I took advantage, and I’m sorry.”

A muscle clenches in Sebastian’s jaw. The reminder of what happened between Tanner and Autumn isn’t great, but at least it answers one question he had: Are they together now? “I appreciate that, but it’s not necessary. Nobody owes me an explanation.”

She studies him for a few breaths. He doesn’t even have to wonder what he looks like from the outside. Of course, Autumn has seen grief before, and now Sebastian knows too, how it can take up residence in the tiny spaces on a face where muscles can’t force a smile. Beneath Sebastian’s eyes there are blue smudges. His skin isn’t pale exactly, but it has a sallow tint, like he’s not getting much sunlight.

“Okay, well, I wanted to say it anyway.” Autumn opens her hand, exposing a small pink USB drive. The flush of betrayal climbs up her neck. “And I wanted to give you the book.”

“Didn’t you turn it in to Fujita?” The due date was days ago; Autumn knows this.

She looks at him, confused. “This isn’t my book.”

Sebastian has never felt the ache in daylight before, but there it is. Out in the sun, it spreads faster, fed like wildfire whipped to a frenzy in the wind. It takes him a moment to remember how to speak. “Where did you get that?”

“From his laptop.”

His heart does a weird fist-clench in his chest, and then begins pounding against his breastbone. “I’m guessing he doesn’t know you took it.”

“You would be correct.”

“Autumn, you have to take it back. This is a violation of his privacy.”

“Tanner told Mr. Fujita he didn’t have anything to turn in. You and I both know that’s not true. Fujita knows it’s not true.”

Heat drains from Sebastian’s face and his words come out as a whisper. “You want me to turn it in for him?”

“No. I would never ask you do to that. I want you to read it. Maybe you can talk to Fujita, ask if you can grade it. I heard you’re grading a few others. He knows Tanner didn’t feel comfortable turning it in but will probably be happy to hear that you’ve read it. I don’t have the clout to do that. But you do.”

Sebastian nods, staring at the drive in his hand. His desire to read what’s there is nearly blinding. “It’s a bit of a conflict for me. . . .”

Autumn laughs at this. “Uh, yeah. But I don’t know what else to do—if he turns it in, you’re outed to a teacher without your consent. If he doesn’t turn it in, he fails the assignment that makes up most of his grade and jeopardizes his standing at UCLA. You and I both know there’s no easy way to just swap names here.”

“Right.”

“Personally, I don’t know what he was thinking.” Autumn looks up at him. “He knew he’d have to turn something in eventually. But that’s Tanner for you. He feels before he thinks.”

Sebastian sits on the front step, his eyes on the sidewalk. “He said he was writing something new.”

“Did you honestly believe that, or did it make it easier? He couldn’t think about anything else.”

Sebastian is filled with this clawing sense of irritation; he wants her to leave. Autumn’s presence is like a thumb pressed to a bruise.

Autumn sits next to him on the step. “You don’t have to answer because it’s probably none of my business. . . .” She laughs and then hesitates. Sebastian focuses on trying to find the ache again. “Do they know about Tanner?”

His gaze darts to her face and quickly away.

Do they know about him?

It’s such an enormous question, and the answer is an obvious no. If they knew about him—truly knew about his capacity for tenderness, for humor, for quiet and for conversation—he would be with Tanner right now. He genuinely believes that.

“They know that I was interested in someone and that it was him. I didn’t tell them everything, but it didn’t matter. They lost it anyway. . . . That’s why . . .”

Why he sent the note.

“We used to have all these inspirational quotes and photos around my house,” she says. “I remember one that said ‘Family is a gift that lasts forever.’?”

“I’m sure we have that one somewhere.”

“There was no asterisk though, saying, ‘But only under these specific conditions.’?” She picks a piece of invisible lint from her jeans and looks up him. “My mom got rid of most of it. I think she kept the one of them on their wedding day in front of the Temple, but I’m not sure. She was pretty angry; it could have gone in the trash with everything else.”

Sebastian looks at her. “Tanner told me a little about your dad. I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t understand Mom’s reaction at the time, but it makes sense now. I know those sayings are supposed to be inspirational, but they mostly feel like someone standing over your shoulder, passive aggressively reminding you where you fall short or why your tragedy is for the greater good, all in God’s plan. Mom had no use for any of it.”

He blinks, eyes trained on his feet. “Understandable.”

She bumps his shoulder with hers. “I’m gonna wager a guess that things aren’t great right now.”

He leans forward, wanting to get away a little, and rests his elbows on his knees. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to be touched; it’s that he wants it so intensely it nearly burns. “They’re barely speaking to me.”

Autumn growls. “Sixty years ago they would have been just as unhappy if you’d brought home a black girl. She’d have had the right things inside but the wrong skin color. Do you see how ridiculous that is? That’s not independent thinking; that’s deciding how to love your child based on some outdated teaching.” She pauses. “Don’t stop fighting.”

Sebastian stands and brushes the dirt from his pants. “Marriage is eternal, is between a man and a woman, and leads to an exalted, eternal family. Homosexuality denies that plan.” He sounds completely detached, like he’s reading from a script.

Autumn stands slowly, giving him an unreadable smile. “What a great bishop you’ll make.”

“I should. I’ve heard it enough.”

“They’re upset, but at some point they’ll figure out you can be right, or you can be loved. Only a handful get both at the same time.”

He runs a finger along the thumb drive. “So it’s on here?”

“I haven’t read it all, but what I have . . .”

He waits, one, two, three beats of silence between them, before he finally breathes.

“Okay.”

Sebastian’s not used to avoiding his family. He’s the son who helps his mother clean so she has time to relax before dinner, who goes to church early for some extra time with his dad. But lately he’s treated more like a tolerated houseguest. As Autumn’s car backs out of the driveway and disappears down the street, he wishes he didn’t have to go back inside at all.

Things have been strained since he asked his parents—hypothetically—what they would do if one of their children were gay. Apparently, his lack of blatant heterosexuality had been noticed already, and discussed. He dropped a match straight into a pool of gasoline.

That was a couple weeks ago. His mom is talking to him again, but just barely. His dad is never home because it seems he always needs to be somewhere else, helping some other family in crisis. His grandparents haven’t stopped by in weeks. Aaron is mostly oblivious; Faith knows something is wrong but not what. Only Lizzy understands the specifics and—to his desperate heartbreak—is giving him a wide berth as if he’s Patient Zero, infectious.

What’s terrible is that Sebastian isn’t even sure he deserves to be heartbroken. Heartbroken implies that he’s innocent in this, the victim in some tragic romance and not largely responsible for his own pain. He’s the one who went behind his parents’ backs in the first place. He’s the one who fell in love with and then broke up with Tanner.

Seeing Autumn shook something loose in him, and he can’t go inside and pretend that everything’s fine, that hearing what Tanner did to protect him didn’t just turn his world upside down.

He’s always been good at pretending, but he doesn’t know if he can do it anymore.

When the curtains have opened and closed for the third time, Sebastian finally goes back in. His mom doesn’t waste any time, and as soon as the door shuts behind him, she’s on his heels.

“Autumn left?”

He wanted to go straight back to his room, but she’s blocking the staircase. He walks into the kitchen instead, grabbing a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water. The USB drive burns a hole in his pocket. Sebastian’s hands are practically shaking.

He drains the glass in a few seconds and places it in the sink. “Yes,” he says. “She left.”

His mom circles the kitchen island to turn on the mixer, and the scents of butter and chocolate fill the air. She’s making cupcakes. Yesterday it was cookies. The day before it was biscotti. Her routine hasn’t shifted at all. Their family isn’t falling apart. Nothing is different.

“I wasn’t aware you two were friends.”

He doesn’t want to answer questions about Autumn, but knows it will only bring more if he doesn’t. “I was only a mentor to her in class.”

There’s a heavy silence. In theory he was only a mentor to Tanner, too, so that answer doesn’t hold much reassurance. But his mom doesn’t press; he and his parents don’t converse anymore—they exchange pleasantries like please pass the potatoes, or I need you to mow the lawn—and Sebastian feels like they’re losing that muscle. He always expected his relationship with them to shift over time as he had more experiences, was able to relate to them as adults in ways he never understood before. But he didn’t expect to see his parents’ sharp edges and limitations so soon, and so quickly. Like discovering the world really is flat; suddenly there is no other side of wonder and adventure to explore. Instead, you disappear over the edge.

With the mixer off, she watches him from across the counter. “I’ve never heard you mention her before.”

Does she not realize he’s never really talked about any girl before, not even Manda? “She dropped off something for Fujita.”

Sebastian watches as she connects the dots. Her suspicion rises like a dark sun across her face. “Autumn knows him, doesn’t she?”

Him.

“They’re friends.”

“So she wasn’t coming by about this?”

There’s only one reviled “him,” just as there is only one unmentionable “this.”

Irritation flares in his chest that they won’t even use his name. “His name is Tanner.” Saying it makes his heart itch in his chest, and he wants to reach in, claw at it roughly.

“You think I don’t know his name? Is that a joke?”

Suddenly her face is red from her hairline to her collar; her eyes are glassy and bright. Sebastian has never seen his mom so angry. “I don’t even know how we got here, Sebastian. This? What you’re going through?” She stabs the air with savagely curled finger quotes around the words “going through.” “This is your own doing. Heavenly Father is not responsible for your decisions. It is your free will alone that deprives you of happiness.” She picks up the wooden spoon, shoving it into the batter. “And if you think I’m being harsh, talk to your dad about it. You have no idea how much you’ve wounded him.”

But he can’t talk to his dad, because Dan Brother is never home. Since that fated dinner, he stays at the church after work, or makes house call after house call, coming home only after everyone is in bed. Dinners used to be full of chatter. Now it’s the scraping of silverware and the occasional homework discussion, with an empty chair at the end of the table.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her, ever the repentant son. Without question, he knows her anger comes from the intensity of her love. Imagine, he thinks, worrying that your family would be separated from you for eternity. Imagine truly believing that God loves all of His Children, except when they love each other the wrong way.

To think God loves the trees, his brain paraphrases from a book he read once, but condemns that blossoming thing they do in spring.

Sebastian circles the center island, moving closer. “She really was bringing something for the class.”

“I thought you were done with that.”

“I need to critique one of the manuscripts Mr. Fujita hasn’t read yet.” None of this is an outright lie.

“But you’re not seeing him again? Or talking to him?”

“I haven’t talked to him in weeks.” This part is also true. Sebastian has stayed away from the school, away from any place they went together. He hasn’t hiked. He wants to tutor but knows the temptation would be too strong; it’d be too easy to stop by his house again, wait for him outside of class.

He doesn’t even have any old voice messages left. He deleted them only minutes before his father confiscated his phone.

“Good,” she says, visibly calmer. She unplugs the mixer and begins to scrape the side of the bowl, scooping batter into waiting baking cups. “You owe Mr. Fujita for everything he’s done, so you can read those books for him, if you have time. You have your meeting with Brother Young and the last of your interview requests to complete.” His mom is happiest when she has a list of things she can check off, delegate, and organize, and Sebastian lets her, even if it’s the only way she’ll talk to him. “Finish your obligations, and then, please, let’s move on.”

Together, Brother Young and Sebastian kneel on the floor and pray that Sebastian can be strong, that he can become an example again as he goes out into the world, that he can still make some good out of all of this.

He can tell Brother Young feels better when they stand, because he has that look of a man who has done something meaningful with his day. He embraces Sebastian, offers his ear anytime, tells him he’s proud of him. He says it with the wizened clarity of a much older man, but he’s only twenty-two.

If anything, once the elder leaves, Sebastian feels worse. Praying is a reflex, a ritual, a part of him—but it doesn’t hold the same promise of relief it used to. Dinner is called, but Sebastian isn’t hungry. Lately, he eats because depriving his body seems like one more sin, and the cart is nearly toppling with them as it is.

In his room, the laptop hums quietly on his bed. He powered it up as soon as he was alone—nearly an hour ago—and has slowly watched the battery die down. The pattern is becoming a calming ritual: The screen dims with sleep, and Sebastian smooths a finger across the trackpad to wake it up again.

There’s a new folder on the desktop labeled AUTOBOYOGRAPHY, and it contains the only file he’s interested in reading, but he can’t manage to do it. In part, it’s the anticipatory ache he knows will only get sharper as soon as he starts reading. But also, there’s something fascinating about how organized and clean Tanner’s Seminar notes are. The folder holds a number of versions of the document, all clearly labeled, with dates. He had photos of Sebastian too, labeled

SEBASTIAN SOCCER 2014

SEBASTIAN SOCCER 2014.A

SEBASTIAN SALT LAKE TRIB

SEBASTIAN PUB WEEKLY 2016

SEBASTIAN DESERET NEWS 2017

So there’s the catch. This book is the key to get inside Tanner’s head. The vain side of Sebastian wants to get into that space more than he’s ever wanted anything, to see every overanalytical detail. The rational side of Sebastian realizes it’s no closer to the real Tanner than he is now, or ever will be again. Is the torture worth it? Wouldn’t it be better to delete the folder, thank Autumn, and have her pass along a verbal message to Tanner? Something genuine and final, that can’t be printed and passed to him silently across the dinner table—like his father did with all of his texts and e-mails?

Without his noticing, the room has grown dark again. Sebastian slides his fingers across the trackpad and squints into the brightness. His hands shake as he clicks on the icon, and the screen fills with words.

It opens with a boy and a girl, a dare, and crumbs on a bed.

But where it really begins is with a double take and the words “His smile ruins me.”

Sebastian reads through most of the night. His cheeks, at some points, are wet with tears. Other times, he laughs—honestly, he’s never had so much fun as he did falling in love with Tanner. He follows them up the mountain, remembers that first kiss. He sees the way Tanner’s parents worry—Jenna’s early warnings now seem nearly prophetic.

He watches Tanner evade the truth, keep Autumn in the dark. His pulse pounds in his ears as he reads about the noises they make, of fingers and lips and hands that skim lower.

He falls in love under a sky full of stars.

The sun starts to break, and Sebastian stares at the screen, eyes blurry. Other than standing to plug in the laptop, he hasn’t moved in hours.

He sucks in a breath, feeling hollow but jittery, unmistakably elated. Terrified. His family will be up soon, so if he’s going to do something, he needs to go before anyone sees him leave. He could simply call Fujita, explain the personal nature, suggest a grade.

His muscles protest as he gets to his feet and disconnects the cord, reaches for the laptop, and slips out the door.

TANNER

Tanner stares at the computer screen. Blinks.

His mom leans forward, squinting. “What are you looking at?”

“My grades.”

She lets out an excited “Ooooh, they’re up fast!” and then grabs him around the shoulders, squeezing when her eyes make it down the entire list.

Not that it matters. He’s already packing up his room, preparing to take the battered Camry and drive to LA. But the grades, they aren’t terrible. The A in Modern Lit wasn’t a surprise—he skated through that one. Calc, too. The rest are pleasant discoveries, but not altogether shocking. But an A in the Seminar, and he never even turned in the book.

On autopilot, he reaches for the phone, dialing the school office.

“Mr. Fujita, please?”

The head secretary Ms. Hill’s voice comes clear through the line: “One second.”

“What are you doing?” His mom leans around, trying to catch his eyes.

He points to the A, right in the middle of his screen. “This doesn’t make sense.” In fact, it feels almost wrong, like he’s getting away with the kind of mild crime Autumn always seems to accuse him of. It’s one thing to charm; it’s another to receive a stellar mark without even completing the one assignment worth a majority of his total grade.

A new line rings once, and again. “Hello?”

“Mr. Fujita?” Tanner fidgets with the sleek, black stapler on his parents’ desk.

“Yeah?”

“It’s Tanner Scott.” There’s a pause, and it’s weird how meaningful it feels. It makes anxiety bubble up in him. “I just checked my grades.”

Mr. Fujita’s gravelly voice seems even coarser over the phone. “All right?”

“I don’t understand how I got an A in your class.”

“I loved your book, kid.”

Tanner pauses. “I never turned in the book.”

The other end of the line goes quiet, almost as if it’s been cut off. But then Fujita clears his throat. “He didn’t tell you? Ah, crap. This isn’t great.”

“Tell me what?”

“Sebastian turned it in.”

Tanner squeezes his eyes closed, trying to figure out what he’s missing. “You mean the first twenty pages?”

“No.” A pause. “The whole thing.”

He opens his mouth to respond and can’t think of a single word.

“It’s great, Tann. I mean, I have thoughts on edits, because I can’t help myself, and your ending sucks, but at the time, how could it not? Overall, I sincerely enjoyed it.” He pauses, and in that time, Tanner is unable to figure out what to say.

In the past, when he’s read the words “my thoughts are reeling,” the idea of that just felt overblown. But right now images are on a loop, a flickering filmstrip: his laptop in his drawer; the words “I’m totally gay” on a page; Sebastian’s face just before he fell asleep on the couch beside him, satisfied, cocky, also, a little shy; the deteriorating, half-assed ending to his document.

“Maybe ‘enjoy’ isn’t the right word,” Fujita is saying. “I hurt for you. And him. I’ve watched this story unfold so many times, I can’t even tell you. I’m glad the two of you have worked things out.”

Fujita pauses again, and it seems like this would be a good time for Tanner to say something, but he doesn’t. Now he’s stuck on I’m glad the two of you have worked things out. Bewilderment is the predominant emotion. He hasn’t spoken to Sebastian in weeks.

“What?”

“But I think you did something here,” Fujita says, ignoring this, “showing him your heart. I think you truly did. And your voice is alive. I knew you were writing, but I didn’t realize you were writing.”

This conversation has officially gone too many steps past where Tanner last understood what the hell was going on. His laptop, as far as he knows, has been safely planted in his dresser along with socks, some shin guards, and a couple of magazines his parents can’t track on their magic software.

Tanner stands, jogging upstairs to his room. On the phone, Fujita has gone quiet.

“You okay over there?”

Tanner rummages in his drawer. His laptop is there. “Yeah. Just . . . processing this.”

“Well, if you want to come down sometime this summer and talk through my notes, I’d be happy to. I’ll be here finishing things up for the next two weeks or so.”

Tanner looks out his window at the street, at his Camry parked at the curb. How crazy would it be to just show up at Sebastian’s house? To ask him how he got a copy of his book, how he managed to get it into Fujita’s hands?

Reality sets in and panic starts to climb up the back of his neck. Sebastian read it. The whole thing.

“Tanner? You still there?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice cracking. “Thanks.”

“You headed to the signing later?”

Tanner blinks out of his daze. His upper lip is damp now; his whole body is on the verge of a frantic, feverish shiver. “The what?”

“The signing, down at—” Fujita pauses. “What am I thinking? Of course you aren’t. Or, are you?”

“I honestly have no idea what we’re talking about.”

Tanner can hear the creak of Fujita’s desk chair as he shifts. Maybe he’s sitting up, paying attention now. “Sebastian’s book came out yesterday.”

Time seems to slow.

“He’s signing at Deseret Book over at University Place, at seven tonight. But I don’t know whether to expect you there.” An awkward laugh and then, “I hope you come. I hope this goes the way it does in my head. I need an end to that story.”

Autumn climbs into the car. “You’re being oddly broody and cryptic. Where are we going?”

“I need best friend powers, activated.” He leaves the car in park at the curb and turns to face her. “I don’t know how it happened, but Sebastian turned in my book to—”

One look at her complexion—splotchy pink, awareness dawning—and he knows.

He isn’t even sure why it didn’t immediately occur to him. Maybe he liked the image that a heroic Sebastian would climb in through his window, dig around in his drawers for the laptop, copy the file over, and ride on his loyal steed (his bike) to school to turn in the manuscript and save Tanner’s ass. But of course the more banal explanation is at play: Autumn. She read it. Gave it to Sebastian as a bit of a Look at this broken soul. You did this, you monster, and boom. Sebastian’s guilt overtook him, and he couldn’t let Tanner fail.

He did it out of pity.

Tanner deflates. “Oh.”

“You’re telling me he turned it in?”

“You’re telling me you didn’t know?”

She leans in, her expression urgent. “I didn’t know he gave it to Fujita. I swear. I just thought he should read it. I thought maybe he could grade it. He had my drive for about a day, and then he gave it back.”

“That’s a pretty big decision to make for me.”

“I was emotional,” she says, only mildly remorseful. “And your book was awesome. It was a crazy time, okay?” She grins. “I’d just lost my virginity.”

Tanner laughs, playfully pinching her leg. At least that much has returned to normal in the past few weeks. And in truth, Autumn gets as many free passes as she wants these days. Despite the return of easiness between them, he still isn’t entirely comfortable holding her feet to the fire.

“Well, I got an A,” he tells her. “And the world didn’t end. Still, I can’t imagine what it took for him to do that. Fujita knows now, obviously.” It’s been a couple of weeks since school ended. Maybe everyone knows. Or maybe Sebastian took three steps backward, right back into the closet. “Sebastian’s book came out yesterday, and he’s signing at the Deseret down on University.”

Autumn’s eyes widen with thrill as she understands what they’re doing in the car. “We aren’t.”

“We are.”

The line begins in front of the store and snakes around, outside the strip mall and down University almost half a block. It reminds Tanner of the airport when there are mobs of people waiting at the baggage claim for their missionaries coming home. When the Mormons come out, they come out en masse.

Tanner and Autumn tack themselves onto the end of the line. It’s early June, and the wind is dry and hot. Other than the mountains, which jut straight up from the earth, the city feels unendingly flat. It isn’t, not really, but it has that same low-expectations vibe, the bland urban design to an unambitious town.

A tiny thrill builds in Tanner’s stomach, spreading warmth outward. He’s going to miss Autumn, but he’ll be near the ocean again.

A man in a short-sleeved plaid shirt approaches. His left arm holds a stack of at least ten books. “Are you here for the signing?”

Tanner nods. “Yeah.”

“Did you bring a book, or are you purchasing here?”

Autumn and Tanner exchange an unsure look. “Buying here?” Autumn wagers.

The man hands them each a book from the dwindling stack in his arms and peels two Post-it notes from the top of a pad. Tanner nearly laughs. They’re blue, just like the ones holding all his angst and love and melodrama.

“Put your names on these,” the man says. “It will make it easier for Sebastian to personalize it when you get up front.”

A rope tightens around Tanner’s chest, and Autumn lets out a tiny groan of sympathy.

“After it’s signed, you can pay at the register.” It would never occur to the staff that someone might be handed a book and take off without ever going inside.

The man leaves, and Autumn turns to him, clutching her copy. “This is weird in so many ways.”

“Yeah.” Tanner stares at the novel in his hands. On the cover is a fiery landscape—a burnt valley, mountains still alive with green, looming over the encroaching flames. It’s beautiful. The colors are rich, nearly three-dimensional. A cloaked boy stands at the foot of a mountain, holding a torch. At his feet, the title rises from the paper in thick foil.

FIRESTORM

Sebastian Brother

The title doesn’t have any meaning yet to Tanner. Maybe it never will. The idea of spending—he flips to the back—four hundred pages with Sebastian’s creative brain seems nearly unbearable. Maybe someday, when he’s moved on and this all just seems like a tender bruise in his history, he’ll open it up, look at his name scrawled generically there, and actually be able to appreciate the story between the covers.

“No, I mean, this is weird for me,” Autumn says, breaking into his thoughts. “I can’t even imagine what it’s like for you.”

“I’m starting to wonder what the hell we’re doing here. This could be a disaster.”

“You don’t think he half expects you?”

Tanner gives it some more thought. He hasn’t tried to contact Sebastian, not since the brush-off e-mail. No doubt he thinks Tanner will just disappear. He probably should just disappear. “No.”

She points ahead of them, down the block. “Well, we are conveniently close to the Emergency Essentials store if you need anything.”

“That is such an LDS thing to have in a town,” Tanner mumbles.

Autumn doesn’t argue. They stare at the strip mall sign, with the three largest businesses advertised in bold letters: Deseret Book. Emergency Essentials. Avenia Bridal.

“This is all very LDS,” she agrees.

“Do you miss the church?”

She leans into him. Her head barely reaches the top of his shoulder, so when he puts an arm around her, she tucks neatly beneath his chin.

“Sometimes.” She looks up at him. Anyone watching would think they were a couple. “I miss the activities and that certainty that if everyone is happy with you, you’re doing everything right.”

Tanner wrinkles his nose at her. “Gross.”

“Exactly,” she says, patting his chest. “That’s exactly my point. Sebastian wasn’t doing anything wrong with you.”

He looks around meaningfully and lowers his voice, “So we say.”

This time Autumn whispers. “You aren’t wrong to be here.”

The line starts to move, and Tanner’s stomach drops. Aren’t they wrong to be here, at least a little? If this isn’t the definition of blindsiding, it’s awfully close. Yeah, Sebastian and Autumn went behind his back to turn in the book, but this is public. Sebastian will have to keep it together. Tanner will have to keep it together.

He takes the pen from Autumn’s hand when she finishes writing down her name and writes his own. He doesn’t do it to be cheeky; he does it out of practicality: It’s entirely possible that Sebastian will be too flustered to remember how to spell T-a-n-n-e-r.

The line moves slowly. Tanner imagines Sebastian behind a counter or a table, charming everyone who comes through.

His stomach growls, and the sun hangs low in the sky before giving up and diving below the mountains. With the sun gone, the air cools down for the first time all day.

Autumn swats a mosquito on his arm. “Okay, let’s go through this.”

“Go through what?”

She gives him a concerned look. “What you’re doing here.”

He takes a deep, sharp breath. “I’m just going to thank him for what he did—he’ll know what I mean—and wish him good luck on his tour, and his mission.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

She stretches, kissing his jaw. “You’re sweet.”

“You’re a menace.”

“At least I’m not a virgin menace anymore.”

The people in front of them turn around, eyes wide in scandal.

Autumn lets out a faux-mortified “Oops.”

Tanner ducks, trying not to laugh. “One of these days, that joke is going to land very, very badly.”

“That was pretty close.”

They’re almost to the door now, and can see inside that the line goes only about fifteen more people before it reaches the end. Sebastian.

Tanner can’t see him, but he has a front-row view of the odd, jovial vibe. The roomful of men in suits, women in dresses, celebratory cups of punch. There’s a table with cupcakes and veggies with dip off to the side. Someone made a cake. Not only is this a signing; it’s a launch party.

Sebastian’s parents are there, talking in a small half circle to a woman with a name tag and another person—a man in a suit and tie. Autumn steps inside, and Tanner follows, holding the door for the person in line behind him. The door knocks into a display table, and at the sound, Dan Brother looks up, smiling on instinct, before his expression turns stony.

It hadn’t occurred to Tanner that he would see Sebastian’s parents, that they would recognize him, that they would associate him with the cancer infecting their son. But of course they do.

“And there’s the dad,” Autumn says, nodding to Dan across the room.

“Yeah.”

Sebastian’s mother looks up at Dan Brother to gauge his reaction, as if seeking guidance. After a pause, they both manage to shift their expressions back to neutral.

Autumn tucks her arm through Tanner’s. “You okay?”

“I want to leave. But it’s too late.”

It is too late. They’re two people back now, and Tanner can see Sebastian. He gets an eyeful of him too, wearing a neatly pressed blue dress shirt and dark tie. His hair is shorter. He’s wearing his mask of a smile. But even in this LDS bookstore, behind a wall of LDS people, he still looks like the guy on the hike, the guy eating Chinese food, the guy on the hood of the car.

Then Sebastian looks up and sees who is next in line, and the mask crumbles, for just a second. No—longer. It’s a double take, and it’s so achingly familiar.

Tanner steps up, holding his book out. “Hi. Congratulations.”

Sebastian’s jaw tics, and he clears his throat, brow furrowed. “Hi.” He looks down, pulling Autumn’s book closer, slowly peeling the Post-it from the front. “Um . . .” He exhales, and it trembles its way out of him. He clears his throat again, flipping the book open to the title page, lifting his pen with a shaking hand.

Autumn looks frantically back and forth between them. “Hey, Sebastian.”

He looks up at her, seeming to blink into focus. “Autumn. Hi. How are you?”

“I’m good. Leaving for Connecticut in a couple weeks. Where’s your first tour stop?”

“After this? I head to Denver.” He ticks off the cities robotically: “Portland, San Francisco, Phoenix, Austin, Dallas, Atlanta, Charleston, Chicago, Minneapolis . . . um . . . Philadelphia, New York, and then home.”

“Wow,” she says. “That’s insane.”

Sebastian lets out a dry laugh as he signs her book first, writing a simple Good luck at Yale. Best wishes, and thank you, Sebastian Brother.

He hands Autumn her book and then pulls Tanner’s copy closer. After a brief scowl at the Post-it note, he balls it up in his fist and drops it into the trash can at his feet.

Tanner has been quiet for a few seconds, and Autumn gently elbows him in the side. Say something, she mouths.

“I came to say thank you,” he says quietly, hoping he’s out of earshot from the people around them—specifically, Sebastian’s parents. Sebastian stiffens, and focuses on whatever it is he’s writing. “For what you did. I’m not sure I understand why you did it, but I’m grateful.”

“Thank you so much for coming tonight, Tanner,” Sebastian says magnanimously. Having recovered his composure somewhat, his voice projects out beyond the protected space of the table.

The tone is so sickeningly false that Tanner nearly laughs. Finally, he meets Sebastian’s eyes again, and it’s devastating. His voice may have recovered, but his eyes haven’t. They’re tight and shiny with tears.

“Oh my God, I’m sorry,” Tanner says quietly. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“Are you a fan of the fantasy genre?” Sebastian’s voice is still forcibly bright. He widens his eyes, working to pull the tears back inside.

This hurts them both, and now Tanner feels like a monster. “I hope your book tour is amazing,” he says, not bothering to carry on the other side of a fake conversation. “I hope your mission is too. I leave for LA in August, but call me anytime.” He gives one final glance up. “Anytime.”

He takes the book from Sebastian’s hand without even looking at it and turns, leaving Autumn to pay inside. Tanner pushes through the crowd and back out onto the street, where there is oxygen, and space, and a complete lack of dancing, lake-in-the-sun eyes staring up at him.

SEBASTIAN

Being on book tour is like being able to breathe again. There are no chaperones or parents. There is no church.

Not that his mom didn’t try to tag along. He’s not sure if it was seeing Tanner that instigated it or just last-minute mom jitters, but she’d e-mailed his publicist two days before he was scheduled to leave. Thankfully, his publicist had explained that flights had been purchased and accommodations booked, and unless his mom was prepared to book cross-country flights and hotels for a thirteen-city tour, there just wasn’t time.

Sebastian has traveled outside of Utah for school trips and family vacations, but never like this. His publishing house arranges a car and driver to pick him up from the airport and drop him off at his hotel, he has a handler to get him to and from events, but the rest of the time is his.

His next signing is in Denver, and though it’s obviously not as big as the one back home, it’s still pretty crowded. There are only a handful of empty chairs during his talk. What a surreal awareness to catch, like a whiff of something delicious, that the strangers in this room even know who he is.

The line is mostly girls, but there are a few guys scattered in. Sebastian knows Tanner isn’t coming, but it never stops the way his pen runs off the page at the sound of a deep voice near the back of the line, or his eyes snap up in the hopes of a head of dark hair above the crowd.

Sometimes he can’t believe Tanner was actually there. His parents certainly didn’t want to acknowledge it. There was no one he could turn to after Tanner and Autumn left to ask, “That was Tanner, right?”

He’d wanted to tell him how much he loved the book, how reading it had changed something inside him, and how he’d printed it out the very next morning, knowing he’d take it on tour with him. But he couldn’t, not there. He hadn’t wanted Tanner to leave, but he had nothing articulate to say because the words “I miss you” were shoving their way to the front, boisterous and shrill.

It’s the missing that keeps him up at night—in Denver, in Austin, in Cleveland—and that’s always when he reaches for it, searching through his bag to pull out Tanner’s book. He can open it anywhere—page twenty, page eighty—because on every page he’ll find a love story that shines a light into the dark, dusty corners of his self-loathing, that remind him something did happen, that it was real. And it was right.

Sometimes he thinks about what he wrote in Tanner’s copy of Firestorm, and wonders whether Tanner even opened the book to see it.

Yours always,

Sebastian Brother

Sebastian is hit with a wall of heat as he steps out of the Salt Lake City International Airport, and wishes he had changed out of his shirt and tie before leaving JFK.

“I can’t believe you got to go to New York,” Lizzy says, clutching a small glittery Statue of Liberty to her chest. She’s back to her old self, and it makes him wonder whether it’s because everyone expects he’s back to his, too. “Was it as cool as it looks on TV?”

“Cooler.” He wraps an arm around her shoulder and pulls her in, pressing a kiss to her hair. It was nice to get away, but he can’t believe how much he’s missed her. “Maybe we can go there sometime,” he says. “When the next book is out.”

Lizzy pirouettes her way along the crosswalk. “Yes!”

“If Lizzy gets to go to New York, then I think we should go to San Francisco and visit Alcatraz. Did you go there?” Faith asks, looking up at him.

“I didn’t, but I saw it from the pier. My handler took me to dinner at this seafood place, and we walked along the water. I didn’t know you wanted to go or I’d have sent you a picture. I think I have one in my phone.”

Faith forgets any possible insult when Sebastian scoops her up to carry her over his shoulder. Her delighted squeal is deafening in the cement parking structure.

Mrs. Brother unlocks the doors, and the question sits like a stone in Sebastian’s chest. “Dad and Aaron couldn’t come?”

“Your father took Aaron along to a couple of house calls today, but he said he’ll see you at dinner.”

Sebastian spoke with his dad a handful of times over the last two weeks, but there’s a knee-jerk reaction to him not being here. His father’s absence from this return is a heartbeat in the tip of a cut finger. He feels it so acutely, so constantly, because it’s wrong.

Fortunately, he doesn’t get to dwell on it because as soon as Lizzy sings that dinner is a surprise, Faith—unable to keep the secret any longer—shouts, “It’s pizza!”

Lizzy clamps a hand over Faith’s mouth and delivers a loud smooch to her cheek. “Way to blow the surprise, dweeb.”

Sebastian leans forward, helping Faith with her seat belt. “Pizza for me?”

She nods, her giggles still muffled behind the weight of Lizzy’s hand.

Sebastian loads his bag into the back.

“And before this one blows it,” his mom says, buckling her seat belt as he climbs into the passenger seat. “There’s something else.” She grins over at him. “I sent your papers off.”

He nods, giving her a pleased smile, but words don’t immediately come because the wind has been quietly knocked out of him. Time away was good. He misses church, and the kinship of being surrounded by like-minded people. He misses Tanner, too, but knows the mission is still the best path for him.

It’s just that he thought he would send off his mission papers himself when he got home. He’d hoped sending them off himself might solidify the decision, make it real and set his path in motion.

Her grin slips, and he realizes she’s been anxious about telling him. She was worried she would get this exact reaction—uncertainty.

He does everything he can to wipe it from his face, replacing it with the smile that seems to move across his mouth with the reflex of an inhale. “Thanks, Mom. That . . . makes things so much easier for me now. One less thing to worry about.”

It seems to have done the trick. She softens, turning back to the wheel. They drive down the ramp, navigating the maze of construction cones as they go. Pulling up to the kiosk, she slips her parking stub into the machine and turns to him. “I was wondering how you’d feel about doing it with everyone together.”

“Do what together?”

“Opening your letter.” She turns back to the kiosk to pay, and in that ten-second reprieve, Sebastian struggles to bury the panic that follows the reality of those three words. She means his mission call.

A voice in the back of his head screams no.

It’s like living with a split personality, and he closes his eyes, inhaling slowly. It was so much easier to be away. The impending mission was palatable from a distance. The constant imposition of his mother, the weight of expectation—coming back home is overwhelming even ten minutes in.

He can feel the engine rumble and realizes she’s done paying and they’re moving forward. When he looks over at her, her jaw is tight, eyes hardened.

Sebastian feigns a yawn. “Oh my gosh, I am so wiped. Yeah, Mom, that sounds amazing. I assume Grandma and Grandpa would come too?”

Her shoulders relax, smile returns. “Are you kidding? They wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

An hourglass has been tipped over in his stomach, pouring lead. He takes a shallow breath.

“But I don’t want Sebastian to leave again,” Faith calls from the backseat. “He just got home.”

“He wouldn’t leave yet, honey,” his mom says, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror. “Not for a couple months.”

Sebastian turns and gives his baby sister an encouraging smile, and he can’t even explain it, but he has the urge to reach for her, pull her to him. Two years. She’ll be almost thirteen when he gets back. Aaron will be learning to drive, and Lizzy will be ready to start college. He’s homesick and he hasn’t even left yet.

“So you’d be okay with that?” she asks. “It wouldn’t be too nerve-racking to have everyone there?”

Sebastian leans his head against the back of the seat and closes his eyes.

Heavenly Father, please give me strength. Give me the wisdom I need, the surety of decision. I’ll follow wherever you lead me.

“I think it’s a great idea,” Sebastian whispers. “It sounds perfect.”

The plus side to being gone was that his problems seemed a lot smaller from far away. The feeling isn’t real, and he realizes it as soon as he walks into his house—surrounded by familiar sights and sounds and smells. Reality comes crashing back.

He’s just put his suitcase on his bed when there’s a knock.

“Can I come in?” His dad peeks his head around the partially closed door. “I see our world traveler is back.”

“Yeah. And exhausted.”

There was a tentative cease-fire when the book came out and his parents were able to see the pride of the entire community focused on Sebastian. But he hasn’t had much time alone with his dad in months, and Dan Brother’s presence in Sebastian’s room makes the space feel claustrophobic.

“You have plenty of time to rest up before dinner,” he says. “I just wanted to bring you this.” He hands him a stack of mail. “And I wanted to welcome you home. We’re very proud of you, son. I know you had a rough patch, and it’s made me prouder than you can realize to have witnessed you rise above it all, and be stronger for it. ‘Adversity is like a strong wind: It tears away from us all but the things that cannot be torn, so that we see ourselves as we really are.’?”

Sebastian frowns, trying to recognize the Scripture. “I don’t know that one.”

Bishop Brother laughs, and looks at Sebastian with fondness. “Arthur Golden, Memoirs of a Geisha.”

“Okay, yeah, I would never have gotten there.”

The laugh deepens, and his father’s eyes shine. “I guess I’ll leave that one out of Sacrament next week.” He turns to leave before stopping near the door. “Oh, and your mom said there was something in there from Mr. Fujita.” He nods to the stack of mail in Sebastian’s hand. “Might be your last paycheck, so don’t wait too long to open it.”

“I’ll go through it after I unpack.”

When his father leaves, the air slowly drains from his lungs. He closes his door completely and crosses the room to unpack. Toiletries, sweaters, suit, jeans. Underneath is the copy of Tanner’s book he’d printed and taken with him.

The pages are worn, there’s a grease stain on the front from a restaurant in Denver, and the edges are curled in the upper right corner where he would flip through with his fingers as he read. Although he’s probably read the entire thing at least ten times, after the first read, he never started at the beginning. He would flip through and stop, reading from whatever point forward he chose. Sometimes he would start while Tanner was clothes shopping with his mom and Autumn. Other times he would open to the section at the lake, and faggot, and Tanner’s mortifying exchange with Manny.

But being far away from home made him feel removed from this, too. His problems at home might not be real, but if they weren’t, that meant Tanner wasn’t real either. He didn’t have any photographs of him, but he had this book.

Sebastian takes the manuscript and slides it behind his headboard before opening the envelope from Fujita.

Dearest Sebastian,

I hope this letter finds you many books lighter, and many adventures richer. I wanted to update you on our mutual friend’s manuscript. I’m not sure if you’ve spoken to Tanner, but he knows how I came into possession of his novel. He called when grades were posted, certain I’d made some kind of mistake. I was happy to inform him that I had not.

I’ve been working with him on revisions, and encouraged him to make significant changes. Not changes to the subject per se, but seeing as how I think he could really have something here, I suggested changing the names and characteristics of the two lead protagonists, along with any other identifiable details. I’ve been in contact with a handful of editors, and there’s a possibility the Seminar could be two for two. We would, of course, consult you first.

My deepest gratitude, Sebastian, for your bravery. I wish you well. You are an exceptional human, with depth and heart. Don’t let anyone—or anything—dim that light inside you.

Sincerely,

Tim Fujita

Indeed, behind the letter he finds his final check, and Sebastian sends up a silent word of gratitude; when his parents ask about it later, he won’t have to lie.

Staring down at the paper, Sebastian understands his mom’s urgency in sending his application off. Fifteen minutes and he’s right back where he started, missing Tanner with an intensity that has every muscle poised and ready to propel him straight out the door.

It’s too much to imagine Tanner’s book being published, and so he pushes it away, suddenly grateful he’ll be gone again soon, maybe out of the country. Far enough that he can outrun the ache and the temptation to see him again, just once, and tell him everything.

The next weeks move in a time warp. House calls with his father, mowing lawns for everyone and their grandmother, helping families move. Sebastian barely has time to dig behind his bed every night and read a few pages of Tanner’s book before his eyes are pulled closed by total exhaustion.

The letter, his mission call, arrives on a Tuesday, and the envelope sits on the kitchen counter, untouched, for four days. His mother’s family is flying in from Phoenix. His great-grandmother is due to arrive from St. George by five. A dozen friends and family are driving down from Salt Lake, and countless others are coming from just down the road.

By three his mother has tiny armies of appetizers laid out on baking sheets. Pot stickers, quiches, mini Frito pies, and—to the side—a huge vegetable platter. Faith and Lizzy are in matching yellow dresses. He and Aaron wear identical navy suits.

His hands shake. His jaw is tight from clenching it. They all pace, make small talk, wait.

Tanner’s voice is a soft, teasing loop in his head. If you hate this so much, why are you doing it?

The answer is easy. When he thinks of being gone, he relaxes. When he speaks to God lately, he feels better. It isn’t the mission or the faith he’s unsure of. It’s the weight of his parents’ shame and the pressure of their expectation.

He walks, heart on fire, to the kitchen. “Dad. Can I take the car for a few?”

Bishop Brother looks up, eyes concerned. “You okay?”

“Nervous,” he says honestly. “I’m fine. I just . . . I need to go down to church for ten minutes.”

His father likes this answer, cupping his shoulder in a palm and squeezing with a gesture of solidarity before handing over the keys.

Sebastian means to go to church, he does. But instead, he turns left, not right, drives straight when he should turn, and eventually finds his way down the NO ACCESS dirt road. He parks there, dragging a blanket from the trunk and staring up at blue skies, trying to remember the stars.

It isn’t the same out here now. For one, it’s sweltering; the air swarms with mosquitoes. The second difference—the absence of a long body beside him—is even more notable. He gives himself ten minutes, and then twenty. He tries to say good-bye to Tanner, but even when he closes his eyes and asks God for the right words, for the spell that will unlock his heart, they don’t come.

Sebastian learned on tour that one of the responsibilities of being a published author is having social media. He has accounts, but they remain largely inactive, in part because the temptation is so great.

He’s resisted so far, but lying on the hood of his car, he finally caves and opens Instagram, searching for Manny’s name. Scrolling down his list of followers, he finds what he’s looking for: tannbannthankyouman.

A laugh tears out of him.

Tanner’s account is unlocked, and Sebastian presses his thumb to the profile image, expanding it. It’s a terrible idea. He knows it. But when Tanner’s face pops into view, his heart seems to fill with warm water, pressing everything else aside. It’s a picture of Tanner holding an enormous pink flower. It obstructs half of his face, but his eyelashes seem three-dimensional. His eyes are luminous, hair shaggier than the last time he saw him, mouth curled into that singular, joyful smirk.

Tanner’s Instagram feed is even more addicting than Sebastian expected: a picture of him in the backseat of his car, pretending to strangle his father from behind. A picture of Hailey, fast asleep beside him, with the caption, I NEED AN ALIBI #NOREGRETS. A picture of a hamburger, some terribly fake aliens, Tanner’s Camry parked at a curb in front of a building called Dykstra Hall, and then—Sebastian nearly sobs audibly—a photo of a smiling Tanner standing in an empty dorm room, wearing a UCLA shirt.

Sebastian’s thumb hovers over the “like” icon. If he touched it, Tanner would see. Would that be so terrible? Tanner would know he was thinking of him. Maybe in time they could even follow each other, keep in touch, talk.

But this is where Sebastian gets into trouble. In his head it never stops at talking. It goes to phone calls, and meeting up, and kisses, and more. Because even now, as people are probably arriving at his house—all of them here for him—he’s still thinking of Tanner.

In a few weeks, he’ll receive the Melchizedek Priesthood, and after that he’ll go through the Temple, receive his endowments—and he’s thinking of Tanner. He tries to imagine wearing his garments—something he’s looked forward to his whole life—

And he can’t breathe.

He’s gay. He’ll never be anything else. Tonight they’ll all be waiting for Sebastian to give his testimony and speak on how full of joy he is that he’s been called to spread God’s word wherever He’s chosen to send him, and he doesn’t even know where he fits into God’s word anymore.

What is he doing?

As he goes inside his house, his mouth waters—it smells like food. His mom comes up, gives him a squeeze and a cookie.

She looks so happy, and Sebastian is about to ruin everything.

He clears his throat. “Hey, guys.” Not everyone is here yet, but the important ones are. Five smiling faces turn in his direction. Faith tugs at her dress, straightening proudly when he looks at her. He remembers what it feels like, to be little like that and watch someone as they’re about to open their letter. It’s like sharing a room with a celebrity.

His heart splinters. “You all look so nice tonight.”

His mom moves to stand near the dining room table. Her apron says KEEP CALM AND SERVE ON, and all he can think about is Tanner’s mom and her rainbow apron that embarrassed her son, and what Sebastian would give to have a parent who accepted him for what he was, no matter what.

“Sebastian?” his mom says, taking a step closer. “Honey, are you okay?”

He nods but feels a sob rise in his throat. “I’m sorry. I’m so . . . so sorry. But I think I need to talk to Mom and Dad for a few minutes alone.”

EPILOGUE

I made a joke the other day on the phone to Autumn: I don’t know which is worse, Provo or Los Angeles. She didn’t get it, and of course she didn’t because she’s living in an idyllic Connecticut wonderland, wearing elbow-patch sweaters and knee-high socks. (She is; don’t kill the fantasy.) LA is great, don’t get me wrong. It’s just massive. I grew up near San Francisco, so I know big cities, but LA is a different thing entirely, and UCLA is a city within a city. From above, Westwood Village is this dense network of arteries and arterioles within the huge LA vascular system, sandwiched between Wilshire and Sunset. It took about three weeks here before I stopped feeling like I was drowning in an urban ocean.

Mom, Dad, and Hailey drove out here with me in August in what I think we would all describe as the worst road trip in the history of time. At various points, I’m sure we each prayed for the zombie apocalypse to wipe out our loved ones. Bottom line: Hailey does not do well in confined spaces, Dad drives like a blind grandparent, and none of us agrees on music.

Moving on: Orientation was a blur. There was a lot of training on how not to be a rapist or die of alcohol poisoning, both of which I think we can agree are good things to cover. We heard about the honor code—a quaint, well-intended suggestion compared to the iron-clad monstrosity imposed at BYU. Three weeks later and I’m not sure I remember what’s even in it, because clearly no one listened.

I was assigned to live in Dykstra Hall, which apparently isn’t bad because it was renovated a few years ago. But given my lack of any previous experience in the matter, I can only say: It’s a dorm. Twin beds, separate bathrooms for males and females, with a long row of showers on one wall and a long row of toilets on the other. Laundry rooms. Wi-Fi. My roommate, Ryker, is easily the wildest person I’ve ever met. It’s like the universe said, Oh, you want to leave Provo for something a bit more lively? Here you go. Bad news: He parties pretty much constantly and reeks of beer. Good news: He’s hardly ever here.

We don’t need to declare a major until sophomore year, but I’m pretty sure I’m going premed. Who knew, right? The science programs here are great, and if I minor in English, it’s a great balance course-load-wise. Look at me, being proactive.

Science was an obvious choice, but I think we all know I can’t move too far away from English, either. One, because Autumn has trained me so well, it would almost be a waste to leave that behind. But two, writing tapped something in me I didn’t know was there. Maybe something will actually happen with this book. Maybe it won’t and I’ll become inspired again and write another. Whatever. Writing is a tie—however tenuous—to him. I can admit now that I need that.

He’s still there in nearly every step I take. At the first party I went to, I played the social game and met a couple of people, had some beers, flirted here and there, but went home alone. I wonder when I’ll be past this constant ache and actually want someone else. There have been situations where I think, If it weren’t for Sebastian, I probably would have hooked up tonight. But I want him. As crazy as it sounds to think this book is only for me—especially after everything—it feels safe to say it here: I haven’t given up hope. His reaction to seeing me in the bookstore has stuck with me. And he drew a mountain emoji in my book. He loves me. I know he does.

Or, he did.

And being here is different more than just on the scale of the city; no matter what’s happening in the rest of the country, LA is a gay-friendly town. People are out. People are proud. Couples of every combination walk down the street holding hands and no one even blinks. I can’t imagine that happening on the average street in most small towns, definitely not in Provo. Mormons are generally too nice to say anything to your face, but there would be a gentle gust of discomfort and judgment carried on the wind.

I don’t even know where Sebastian ended up going on his mission, but I’m worried about him. Is he having fun? Is he miserable? Is he stuffing a part of his heart into a lockbox just to keep the people in his life happy? I know he can’t be contacted, so I’m not texting or e-mailing, but just to release the pressure valve in my chest, sometimes I’ll type something up and send it to myself so at least the words can get out of me, stop stealing my air.

Autumn told me that his mom was going to host some public Fac party for the letter opening, but I couldn’t stomach it. I assumed Autumn lurked on there, following the action, but she swears she has no idea where he ended up. Even if she was lying, though, I made her promise not to tell me. What if he’s in Phoenix? What if he’s in San Diego? I wouldn’t be able to keep from driving there and trolling the neighborhoods for Elder Brother, the hottest guy alive, with his floppy skater hair and white shirtsleeves, riding a bike.

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep and can’t stop thinking about everything we did together, I imagine giving in and asking Autumn where I can find him. I imagine showing up wherever he is, seeing him in his missionary uniform, and his surprise at seeing me there. I think I’d make the trade: I’ll convert, if you’ll be with me, even in secret, forever.

The first weekend in October, I call Auddy like I always do: at eleven on Sunday. There’s always the pain at first, the stab wound inflicted by the familiar pitch of her voice. Oddly, even as hard as it was saying good-bye to my folks at my dorm, saying bye to Autumn was harder. In some ways I hate that I didn’t tell her everything sooner. We’ll have other safe places, but we were each other’s first safe space. No matter what we say or what promises we make, it changes from here on out.

“Tanner, oh my God, hang on, let me read you this letter.”

This is honestly how she answers. I can’t even reply before she’s already put the phone down, off—I presume—to retrieve Bratalie’s latest manifesto.

Her roommate is a total drama queen, actually named Natalie, who leaves passive-aggressive notes on Autumn’s desk about noise, tidiness, the lack of toothpaste sharing that should occur, and the number of dresser drawers Autumn is allowed to occupy. Fun fact: We are also pretty sure she masturbates when she thinks Autumn is asleep. This isn’t related to anything, really, but I found it genuinely fascinating and required a lot of detail before I would agree with the theory.

Her phone scrapes across a surface before she returns with a bright, “Ohmygod.”

“A good one?”

“Maybe the best so far.” Auddy takes a breath, laughing on the exhale. “Remember how I told you she was sick earlier in the week?”

I vaguely remember the text. Our box gets pretty busy. “Yeah.”

“So, it’s related to that. Okay. ‘Dear Autumn,’?” she reads, “?‘Thank you again for bringing me breakfast the other morning. I felt so sick! I feel like such a jerk for saying this—’?”

I laugh incredulously, anticipating where this is headed. “Oh my God.”

“?‘—but I can’t stop thinking about it, so I just need to get it out. The fork and the plate were both dirty, with crusty stuff. And then I thought, Did Autumn do this on purpose? I hope not. I know I can be fussy sometimes, but I want us to be as close forever as we are now—’?”

“Wow, she’s delusional.”

“?‘—so I thought I would simply ask. Or maybe I just wanted to let you know that I knew, and if it was intentional, that was sort of nasty of you. Of course, if it was an accident, just ignore this. You’re so sweet. Xoxo, Nat.’?”

I scrub a hand over my face. “Seriously, Auddy, find a new roommate. She makes Ryker seem mellow.”

“I can’t! From what I’ve seen of others changing roommates, it’s so much drama!”

“This isn’t drama?”

“It is,” she agrees, “but there’s an element of the absurd to it too. It’s objectively fascinating.”

“I mean, I get her letter about cracker crumbs. I’ve been warning you about this for years now. But a dirty fork and plate when you’re bringing food to her sickbed?”

She laughs. “It’s as if she doesn’t eat at the dining hall. The dishes are all pretty sketchy.”

“How dare they! Don’t they know they’re Yale?”

“Shut up. How’s LA?”

I look out my window. “Sunny.”

Auddy groans. “Good weekend? Anything interesting?”

“We played Washington State yesterday, so a bunch of us went to the game.”

“Who would have pegged you as a football fan?”

“I wouldn’t say fan so much as aware of the unspoken rules.” I lean back in my desk chair, scratching my jaw. “A few guys over in Hedrick were having a party last night. I went with Breckin.” My first and closest friend so far, Breckin escaped a small town in Texas, and by some strange coincidence is (1) gay and (2) Mormon. I couldn’t make this up if I tried. He’s also smart as hell and reads almost as voraciously as Autumn. I’d have a crush if my heart wasn’t already taken. “Pretty fun day. I don’t know. What’d you do?”

“Deacon had a race yesterday, so we did that.”

Deacon. Her new boyfriend, and a deity on the rowing team, apparently.

There is a small curl of jealous heat there. I can’t deny it. But mostly, he sounds like a pretty cool guy. He’s Irish, and totally infatuated with Autumn, so I already like him. He even texted me last week to ask me what I thought he should get her for her birthday. Recruiting the best friend: smart move.

“I miss you,” I tell her.

“I miss you too.”

We exchange Thanksgiving travel details, promise to talk next week, and ring off, with love.

For about fifteen minutes after we hang up, I feel blue.

But then I see Breckin in my doorway with a Frisbee.

“Which one this time?” he asks.

Thanks to a pitcher of vodka tonics and a Breaking Bad marathon one night in my room, he knows everything.

“Both of them.”

He waves his Frisbee. “Let’s go. It’s nice outside.”

There have been a few moments in my life when I think I’ve felt a higher power at work. The first was when I was six and Hailey was three. It’s my earliest clear memory; I have fuzzy ones from before it, of throwing pasta or staring up at my ceiling at night while my parents read me a book, but this was the first where every detail seems to have been tattooed in my mind. Mom, Hailey, and I were in a T.J. Maxx. The racks were rammed so close together and stuffed with clothes, it was nearly impossible to pass between without rubbing against something woolen or silken or denim.

Hailey was being playful and silly, and hid a couple of times in a rack Mom was sorting through. But then she disappeared. Completely. For ten minutes we ran around yelling her name with increasing hysteria, digging through every rod, shelf, and rack in the store. We couldn’t find her. We alerted the saleswomen, who called security. Mom was hysterical. I was hysterical. I’d never done anything like it before, but I closed my eyes and begged—not a person, not a power, maybe just the future—that she was okay. Only a few weeks before, I’d learned the word “kidnap,” and it seemed to rewire my brain so that I viewed everything through the lens of a possible abduction scenario.

I felt better when I said it over and over—please let her be okay, please let her be okay, please let her be okay—and maybe that’s why it always made sense to me later, when Sebastian said he felt better when he prayed. I knew I was helpless, but it still felt like my good intentions had power, that they could change the trajectory of whatever had happened to my sister.

I’ll forever remember the calm that washed over me. I kept chanting it to myself, and went and hugged Mom while the saleswomen ran around hysterically, and my calm transferred to her, and we just stood there, breathing in and out and silently believing that she was nearby somewhere while security barked orders through their walkie-talkies and the saleswomen checked every back room. We stood there until Hailey popped out of a dusty clearance rack in the very back of the store, wearing an enormous, proud grin and yelling, “HAILEY WON!”

There have been other times too. The feeling that there is someone warning me away from the ocean on a day the beach is eventually closed for dangerous riptides. The soothing relief of being so upset about something and, in an instant, being able to stop looping through the catastrophic scenarios and breathe in and out—wondering what it was that put the spiraling panic on hold and reminded me to unwind. Sometimes they’re small moments, sometimes they’re big, but I’ve always felt they were just part of being human, of being raised by thoughtful humans.

Still, being raised by thoughtful humans doesn’t explain what happened that Sunday afternoon. Breckin and I went outside, Frisbee in hand. It was amazing out—seventy-four with no wind, no clouds. The weird marine layer that hovers until lunchtime had evaporated, and the sky was this unreal blue, the kind every tourist notices and mentions. Breckin’s bright green Frisbee cut through it, back and forth between us. We dodged people on the lawn, apologizing when the Frisbee landed at someone’s feet or—once—hit their shin. We started with the sun to our left, but as we threw, and chased, and caught, I ended up with the sun directly in my eyes.

I’m probably romanticizing it now—in fact, in my more atheist moments, I know I’m romanticizing it, though in other times, I’m less sure—but in hindsight, I see the pattern of our game as this looping, meticulous Spirograph. With each of Breckin’s throws I caught, I shifted in a matter of precise degrees: ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty, until I had rotated exactly ninety degrees from where I began.

Everyone has a gait, as unique and recognizable as a fingerprint. Sebastian’s gait was always upright, unhurried, and careful: each step as even as the one before. I knew his shoulders—wide, muscular—and the way his head sat on his neck—chin up in a sort of graceful bearing. I knew that he walked with his right thumb tucked loosely into his palm, so that it always looked a little like he was making a fist with his right hand while his left hand hung at his side, relaxed.

And there he was, but backlit. None of his features were visible, just his walk, coming toward me.

Breckin threw the Frisbee, and my wide, searching eyes caught the heart of the sun, and the disk sailed straight past me.

When the bright spot finally dissolved from my vision, I looked past Breckin again. The figure was closer now, but it wasn’t Sebastian after all. It was someone else with great posture, chin up, a loose right-handed fist.

A close match, but not him.

I remember learning in biology in eleventh grade that the neurons that signal pain, called C fibers, actually have some of the slowest-conducting axons. The sensation of pain takes longer to get to the brain than nearly any other type of information—including the conscious awareness that pain is coming. The teacher asked us why we thought this might be evolutionarily advantageous, and it seemed so simple at the time: We need to be able to escape the source of pain before we’re debilitated by it.

I like to think this is how I was somehow already braced against the pain of realization. In this case, the blinding sunshine reached me first, warning me of the painful signal ahead—hope. Reminding me that of course it couldn’t be Sebastian. I was in LA. He was somewhere else, gathering souls. Of course he wasn’t there.

He is never going to be here, I thought. He is never coming back.

Was I okay with it? No. But missing him every day for the rest of my life was still easier than the fight Sebastian had: to stuff himself inside a box every morning and tuck that box inside his heart and pray that his heart kept beating around the obstacle. Every day I could go to class as exactly the person I am, and meet new people, and come outside later for some fresh air and Frisbee. Every day I would be grateful that no one who matters to me questions whether I am too masculine, too feminine, too open, too closed.

Every day I would be grateful for what I have, and that I can be who I am without judgment.

So every day I would fight for Sebastian, and people in the same boat, who don’t have what I do, who struggle to find themselves in a world that tells them white and straight and narrow gets first pick in the schoolyard game of life.

My chest was congested with regret, and relief, and resolve. Give me more of those, I thought to whoever was listening—whether it was God, or Oz, or the three sisters of Fate. Give me those moments where I think he’s coming back. I can take the hurt. The reminder that he’s not coming back—and why—will keep me fighting.

I picked up the Frisbee, tossed it to Breckin. He caught it one-handed, and I hopped side to side, elbows out, reenergized. “Make me run for it.”

He lifted his chin, laughing. “Dude, watch out.”

“I’m good. Throw it.”

Breckin jerked his chin again, more urgently. “You’re going to hit him.”

Startled, I tucked in my elbows, wheeling around to apologize to whoever was there.

And he was there, maybe two feet from me, leaning back like I might in fact elbow him in the face.

Losing control of my legs in an instant, I sat ass-down on the grass. He wasn’t backlit anymore. There was no halo of sun behind him. Just sky.

He crouched, resting his forearms on his thighs. Concern pulled his brows down, drew his lips into a gentle frown. “Are you okay?”

Breckin jogged over. “Dude, are you okay?”

“W-w-w—” I started, and then let out a long, shaking exhale. “Sebastian?”

Breckin slowly backed away. I don’t know where he went, but looking back, the rest of it was just me, and Sebastian, and an enormous stretch of green grass and blue sky.

“Yeah?”

“Sebastian?”

Oh God. The sweetly cocky grin, the joke everyone can be in on. “Yeah?”

“I swear I just imagined you walking from clear across the quad and thought God was giving me some life lesson, and not twenty seconds later you’re standing right there.”

He reached out, took my hand. “Hey.”

“You’re supposed to be in Cambodia.”

“Cleveland, in fact.”

“I didn’t actually know. I just made that up.”

“I could tell.” He grinned again, and the sight of it set about building a scaffold around my heart. “I didn’t go.”

“Shouldn’t you be in Mormon jail?”

He laughed, sitting down and facing me. Sebastian. Here. He took my hands in his. “We’re working out the details of my parole.”

The banter fell away in my head. “Seriously. I’m . . .” I blinked, light-headed. It felt like the world was too slowly coming into focus. “I don’t even know what’s going on.”

“I flew to LA this morning.” He studied my reaction, before adding, “To find you.”

I remembered the day I found him outside my house, flayed by his parents’ silence. Panic crawled up my neck. It was my turn to ask, “Are you okay?”

“I mean, LAX is sort of a nightmare.”

I bit my lip, fighting a grin, fighting a sob. “I’m serious.”

He did a little side-to-side nod. “I’m getting there. I’m worlds better seeing you, though.” A pause. “I missed you.” He looked skyward, and then back at me. On their return trip, his eyes were glassy and tight. “I missed you a lot. I have a lot of forgiveness to earn. If you’ll let me.”

Words were a jumbled mess in my head. “What happened?”

“Seeing you at the signing really threw me. It was like being shaken awake.” He squinted from the sun. “I went on my book tour. I read your book almost every day.”

“What?”

“It started to feel like a new holy book.” His laugh was sweetly self-deprecating. “That sounds crazy, but it did. It was a love letter. It reminded me every day who I am and how much I was loved.”

“Are loved.”

He inhaled sharply at this, and then added, voice quieter, “A few weeks after I came home from New York, my letter came—my mission call. Mom planned this huge party. There were probably fifty people coming to our house, more waiting to watch on Fac.”

“Autumn told me. I think she watched it, but I wouldn’t let her tell me anything.”

He swallowed, shaking his head. “We didn’t do it in the end. I told my parents that night that I didn’t think I could go. I mean,” he amended, “I knew I could talk to people about the church, and my testimony, and what Heavenly Father wants for us.” He bent, pressing his mouth to my knuckles, eyes closed. It felt like worship. “But I didn’t think I could do it the way they wanted: tied off from you, and them, and trying to be someone I’m not.”

“So you’re not going?”

He shook his head, his lips brushing back and forth over the back of my hand. “I withdrew from BYU too. I’ll probably transfer somewhere else.”

This time, hope beat every other reaction to the punch: “Here?”

“We’ll see. The advance on my book is giving me some breathing room. I have some time to think.”

“What about your family?”

“It’s a mess right now. We’re working our way back to each other, but I don’t know what it will look like.” He tilted his face up, wincing. “I don’t know yet.”

I want this burden, I thought. And maybe that’s what just happened. Maybe I earned it. I want to be at least partly responsible for showing him that what he might lose is outweighed by owning his life, completely.

“I’m not afraid of having some work ahead of us.”

“I’m not either.” He smiled up at me, bared his teeth against my hand, and with his playful growl, blood rushed hot to the surface of my skin.

I took ten seconds, eyes closed, to calm down. Breathe in and out, and in and out, and in and out, and in and out.

And then I leaned forward, pouncing, tackling him. He fell backward in surprise, and I landed on top, staring down at his wide, sparkling lake-eyes. My heart pounded against my breastbone, pounded against his, banging on the door to be let in.

“You’re here,” I said.

“I’m here.” He looked around where we stretched out on the grass, instinctively hyperaware. Not a single person was paying any attention.

So he let me kiss him, just once. I made it a good one, though, offering up my bottom lip.

“You’re here,” he said. I felt his arms slide around my waist, hands linking at my lower back.

“I’m here.”