anything more than conversation.

  I’d like to, but what about your

  dad? He’s probably expecting

  me back any minute now.

  “He can’t know how long it

  took for the ambulance, or

  getting Niagara home. Besides,

  he and Zelda are probably . . . tied up.”

  Both of them? He grins at

  my puzzled look. That was

  a little bondage humor and,

  yes, I realize it’s not a pretty

  picture, so try to unsee it.

  But if you think we can get

  away with it, I’d like to keep

  you company for a while.

  He follows me to the door, so close

  behind I feel his breath, warm

  through my hair to the skin of my neck,

  sparking delicious little shivers.

  What’s going on? Is this me?

  Dad turned down the heat

  before we left, and the air inside

  is almost as cold as outside.

  I dial up the thermostat, kick off

  my shoes, ask Gabe to do the same.

  “My dad insists. Says it’s the only

  way to keep the floor clean enough

  not to vacuum. Just so you know,

  I vacuum anyway.” I gesture toward

  the living room. “Go sit and try to stay

  warm. Want something to drink?”

  He shrugs. Sure. Whatever

  you’re having is fine, except

  I don’t drink soda. It’s poison.

  Rules Out

  Jack Daniel’s and Coke, I guess, not

  that I should be drinking with Gabe.

  So why is that exactly what I want

  to do? I go check out Dad’s alcohol

  stash. He’s got a big bottle of some

  generic rum, maybe two-thirds full.

  I think I can get away with swiping

  a little. Hot drinks, that’s what we’ll

  have. I microwave two mugs of water,

  add single shots (okay, big single

  shots) of cheap liquor, taste. Yech!

  Add sugar. Taste. Much better, if still

  not great. Dash of cinnamon, dab

  of butter. Hot buttered rums, and

  I’m sticking to that. I carry them into

  the other room, where Gabe has

  planted himself on the sofa. Luckily

  he chose the not-sagging end.

  I offer a mug. “You can only have one,

  since you have to drive eventually.

  You’re not into prohibition, are you?”

  I don’t imbibe very often, but we’ve

  got something to celebrate today,

  don’t we? Plus, it’s still cold in here.

  I’m Thinking

  His reference to a celebration

  was about Hillary, though we still

  have no clue what’s up with her.

  “I wish I knew how she’s doing.

  You probably have a better idea

  about that than I do, though.”

  Not really. He sips his drink.

  Mmm. Not bad. You do this often?

  “Do what? Make drinks?”

  Not just make them, but invite

  guys in to share them with you

  when you’re sure your dad’s away.

  I almost snort out the liquid

  in my mouth. “Dude, you are, in

  fact, the very first guy I’ve invited

  into this house, or any place

  we’ve lived. Are you kidding me?”

  I must sound as hurt as I feel,

  because he apologizes ASAP.

  Oh God. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean

  to offend you. Holy crap. Twice

  in one day! It was supposed to be

  a joke. Obviously I’m not as funny

  as I think I am. Forgive me?

  He’s so sincere, what can I do but

  say, “Of course I do, and I’m sorry,

  too. Apparently I never developed

  a viable sense of humor. My dad

  thinks he’s funny, but only

  when he’s drunk. So maybe

  I should just drink more.”

  I do, and the hot crawl down

  my throat feels pretty damn

  great. In fact, it opens my mouth.

  “Listen, Gabe, and if this is TMI,

  just tell me to shut up, okay?

  Between moving so much and

  Dad overprotecting me, until

  we came to Sonora I’ve never

  had friends, so I was also denied

  any kind of deeper connection.

  Inviting a guy—or a girl, for

  that matter—to share drinks,

  or weed, or a kiss, or more, has

  never even been a consideration

  until now, and it’s all so new I

  have no clue how to deal with it.

  I have zero experience. Truth is,

  I’m operating totally on instinct.”

  And Now I Need More to Drink

  I think I just bombed it. You don’t say

  stuff like that to a guy, especially one

  you’re sort of semi trying to impress.

  But as I start to offer another apology,

  he smiles. For someone claiming to be

  a relationship virgin, you’re amazingly

  self-possessed. Don’t get me wrong, that’s

  a good thing, and relying on your instinct

  is the best possible thing you can do.

  I probably don’t want to know this,

  but I’ve got nothing, really, to lose: “What

  about you? Are you a player or a stayer?”

  Player or stayer. I see what you did there.

  I got around a little in high school. Then,

  in my senior year, I became pretty serious

  with this girl named Meredith. She was

  a horsewoman, by the way, which is how

  I know anything about them. My dad worked

  construction, and my mom’s a receptionist.

  Pony rides were the closest I ever came

  to horses before I met Merry, who was

  an equestrian through and through.

  She might’ve loved me, but not nearly

  as much as . . . wait. Does this bother you?

  “What? Hearing about your girlfriend?

  Not even. I don’t read romance,

  but I don’t mind a good romantic story.”

  Even one that ends without a happily

  ever after? At my nod, he continues,

  It wasn’t her fault we broke up. Not really.

  When Dad died, it was such a shock.

  I mean he left for work like every other

  day. Except that day he didn’t come home.

  He fell from the roof of a three-story house,

  and hit his head completely wrong. It was

  quick, they said, not enough time to feel pain.

  I’m glad Dad didn’t feel pain, but Mom and

  I did. I couldn’t process what happened at

  first, and when I finally did, I melted down.

  Merry tried to help, but all that did was make

  me push her away. I got so sick of hearing shit

  like “things happen for a reason” and “it was

  God’s will,” and she repeated them too many

  times until finally I told her to get the fuck

  out of my life. I probably didn’t mean it,

  but that’s exactly what she did, and to tell

  you the truth I was so engaged in my Pityville

  vacation I didn’t even notice she’d gone.

  By the Time

  He did notice, and tried to make

  amends, she’d decided trying to

  work things out would be too

  labor-intensive
. Besides, she was

  tired of seeing him miserable.

  I don’t blame her. She’s intrinsically

  happy, and right then all that good

  cheer totally pissed me off.

  When someone you love dies,

  it’s easy fold up into yourself.

  “I’ve never lost anyone, not like

  that, anyway, but I understand

  climbing into your own head

  and hanging out there for a while.

  It’s a great defense mechanism.

  I’m really sorry about your dad.

  I was thinking earlier that if

  something happened to mine

  I’d have no idea what to do or

  where I could go. I’d be an orphan.”

  Gabe inches a little closer. I’d let

  you move in with me, although

  at the moment that would mean

  moving in with Aunt Zelda, not

  that it’s such a bad place to live.

  Rapid-Fire Q & A Begins

  Q: How long will you be at Zelda’s?

  A: I’m not exactly sure, but at least

  until my mom gets out of the hospital.

  Q: Hospital?

  A: Yeah. Mom had kind of a breakdown.

  I wanted to stay and take care of her,

  or at least watch the house, but she said

  she’d be uncomfortable with me all alone.

  Q: When will she be released?

  A: I don’t know. She’s been there almost

  a month. I guess until she feels strong

  again, or until the insurance runs out.

  Q: Then what? Are you going home?

  A: That’s my plan. I’d always thought

  I’d get to college, but I’m afraid Mom will

  need me. Dad left her okay financially,

  but she’ll require emotional support.

  Q: How far from Sonora is Stockton?

  A: Not so far. A little over an hour if you

  don’t speed. Why? Will you miss me?

  I Admit I Would

  Though the funny thing

  is, knowing he’ll probably

  not stay around actually

  relieves some pressure.

  Whatever our connection,

  I can play this game my way,

  and not have to pretend

  I’m anyone except who I am.

  Which turns out to be

  a good thing, because now

  it’s Gabe’s turn to ask questions,

  including one I’ve never

  had to answer out loud.

  Something you said interested

  me. When you were talking

  about inviting people to share

  a drink or a kiss, you included

  girls in the comment. Are you

  into women or did my dirty

  little mind make that up?

  I try to form the proper

  sentences, but swallow

  the first words that surface.

  Forming cohesive thoughts

  around my frequent musings

  isn’t something I’m practiced

  at. Honesty. Let’s start there.

  “I wish I was one hundred

  percent sure about who

  or what I’m ‘into,’ as you put

  it. As I mentioned, I’ve never

  actually tried either boys or

  girls, but truthfully, I seem

  to be attracted to both.

  I’ve got an excellent friend

  who happens to be a lesbian,

  and our relationship is very

  close to love at this point,

  but whether or not that will

  become sexual, I don’t know.”

  I see. So then, what about

  guys? Or, I suppose more

  accurately, what about me?

  “Jeez, are you always

  so blunt? Okay, well,

  to return the favor,

  you’re the first guy

  of my approximate age

  who I’ve ever had fun

  just being around. I don’t

  think I’m allowed to confess

  anything more because

  the game isn’t played

  that way, is it?”

  Those Exceptional Eyes

  Lock mine. I couldn’t look

  away if I wanted to, but

  right this moment I don’t.

  I don’t like games.

  He puts his drink on the table,

  removes mine from my grasp,

  and places it just touching his.

  And I don’t require confessions.

  He reaches for my hand.

  His skin is warm and rough

  in the way of someone who

  labors for a living. It’s not

  unpleasant. Now he lifts

  my fingers to his lips, kisses

  the tips individually. One. By.

  One. The intimate gesture

  makes my heart tremble and lifts

  goose bumps. I never thought

  my first real kiss would be

  with a boy, but this boy says,

  And I don’t care if you love someone

  else. I really want to kiss you. Okay?

  My Head

  Doesn’t ask

  for permission

  to nod. It bobs

  all on its own.

  Gabe turns his hands

  heel-to-heel, palms

  facing upward, cups

  my jaws and lifts,

  tilting my mouth

  toward his. Unlike

  his hands, his lips

  are soft when they

  cover mine, and if

  I had any doubt

  about my ability

  to kiss, he erases

  it immediately.

  It’s instinctive.

  It’s gentle at first.

  Its intensity grows.

  The flutter in my chest

  swells into a quake,

  one I don’t want to quell.

  But now he pulls away.

  Wow. Not bad for an amateur.

  I Kissed a Boy

  And I liked it. A lot. Wonder

  if I’ll like kissing a girl as much.

  “I thought it would be trickier.

  Maybe you’re just a good teacher.”

  Maybe you’ve got a high kissing IQ?

  Anyway, I wouldn’t mind doing it

  again. But I think I’d better go before

  your father comes looking for me

  with a shotgun or something. Hey.

  Wait. Does your dad own a gun?

  I laugh, happy he has no plans

  to pressure me for anything beyond

  kissing. I know I’m not ready for more.

  “Not that I’m aware of, and I think

  I’d know about it if he did.” Thank

  God. Dad isn’t a very good drunk.

  I’d hate to see him go off half-cocked

  with a deadly weapon in hand.

  Well, I’m leaving anyway, so I guess

  we’re probably safe. A kiss good-bye?

  My Second Kiss

  Is a subtle echo of the first—quiet,

  caring, and a promise of something

  more to come, if I extend the invitation.

  But I won’t do that right now.

  After Gabe leaves, I sit for a while

  in contemplation, seeking the meaning

  of what just happened between us,

  its relevance to my quest for identity.

  Is it really possible to lean both ways?

  If it is, and I do, that must make me bi,

  but is multi-gendered attraction

  an actual, viable thing?

  I’ve heard people say that’s bull,

  that those who claim to be bisexual

  are nothing more than nymphos

  indulging un
encumbered greed.

  Maybe I’m greedy, borderline

  gluttonous. Or maybe I’m just

  curious to know if I have a preference.

  One thing’s certain: I’m confused.

  The Worst Thing

  Is I can’t talk to Monica about this.

  Any other subject, she’d be my go-

  to confessor. But she wouldn’t

  understand and the last thing I

  want is to make her crumble.

  Funny, but I’ve always thought

  she was the tough one, and she is

  on the surface. But just beneath

  the crust is a layer of liquid goo,

  one that’s hard to tap into.

  It’s where she buries her pride

  when she must, which is usually

  around her family. At school

  she’s fine claiming her unique

  personal vision, and I covet

  the bold self-acceptance

  she presents to our classmates.

  I just wish she were strong enough

  to shed her hetero mask at home.

  Sometimes when I consider stuff

  like that, I wonder if I’m thinking

  about my best friend. Or myself.

  Either Way

  I know I’ve got to call Monica,

  who I haven’t talked to since

  yesterday. I need to hear the rasp

  of her voice—rich and warm

  and fringed with accent.

  But when she picks up, she’s

  anything but her usual soft-

  spoken self. Oh, hey, where

  have you been? Did you hear

  about Hillary? She fell off

  her horse and cracked her

  head on a rock or something.

  “Wait. What? Slow down,

  hermana. How do you know

  what happened to Hillary?”

  Seriously? It’s on the news.

  They said if some local kids

  hadn’t found her, she probably

  would have “succumbed to

  the elements.” That means died.

  “Holy shit. I didn’t realize

  she was hurt that bad. Good

  thing Gabe knew some basic

  first aid from his lifeguard days.”

  She pauses long enough

  for my words to sink in. Gabe?

  Zelda’s nephew? What does he

  have to do with this? Hey . . .

  You mean you and Gabe were

  the ones who found Hillary?

  “Yeah. He was bringing me

  home from Zelda’s ’cause Dad

  wanted to stay for an after-dinner

  boink. This horse came trotting

  up the street so we stopped her