The walk home begins to feel like an eternity. A cold eternity, at that; all the warmth I felt before on our way over to the animal shelter is completely gone now.

Ben is cute, though. He keeps going on and on about the kittens, and how they loved him, and how he loved them back, and how he wants them all, but is fine with just a few.

There's practically no one outside. I know that pretty much everyone is probably at work or chilling at home. So, I'm all the more surprised when I see a dingy white Ford truck plowing through the snow slowly, cautiously.

With David Marquez in the front seat.

I mom-arm Ben for a second, because we're still on the road, and I don't trust high school drivers with my life. (Myself included.) The truck comes to a stop slowly, a little snow spraying from the tires towards us.

The passenger window is rolled down. "Why, hello," he says. "You guys look cheery."

"Just left the animal shelter," I tell him, moving my arm from in front of Ben to resting on his shoulders. I'm just glad to see that he's not in Cupid gear – I would freaking die. And I don't really feel like dying right now.

He nods in his David-y way. "Cool. Is that your brother?"

I'm surprised to see Ben take a step forward and smile. He's usually really slow to warm up to people – social anxiety. But he walks up to the truck and tries to pop his head up so he can see. "Yeah, I am," he says as I begrudgingly pick him up. (I too like to be carried. I have to let him live enjoyably now, before middle school gets to him.)

There's this warmth wafting from the truck; I think David might have seat warmers. The cold suddenly seems to bite at my fingers, and I release Ben with a sore groan. This encounter is only really enforcing my urge to go home. Hot chocolate. Blankets. Maybe even Secret Guy.

"Nice to meet you," David says. He has a kind of odd smile, like some kind of Dr. Seuss character or some weird cartoon kitten face. It's weird how his face scrunches up when he smiles – like it is now. But, I like it. He's cute in an unconventional way. "I'm David."

"I know," Ben says from his street-vantage. "You came to our school to volunteer with my class, right?"

"You're in Mr. Alanis's class?" The wrinkles intensify. This guy is some kind of human puppy, I swear.

Ben nods.

"Nice, man!" David unbuckles and slides along the seats, then sticks his arm out the window for a high five. His eyes meet mine, wide and warm. "I can give you guys a ride wherever you're headed, if you want."

It's the last thing I want. But, my cold fingers are starting to complain, and Ben's obviously feeling tired. "I don't want to inconvenience you—" I start.

"Nick," David says, his tone dropping more than usual. (Jesus, I love his voice. I want a David Marquez's Voice smoothie.) "You're never an inconvenience."

I'm hoping that he just thinks my flush is because of the cold. "Well, thanks," I say, opening the back door and helping Ben climb in. Is it stupid I'm nervous to sit next to David Marquez? Because I totally am.

I almost slip on my way into the truck, and David's hand grabs my wrist with some sort of athlete's instinct that makes my stomach flip. "Thanks," I mutter, brushing some of the snow off my definitely-going-to-bruise knee.

"Don't mention it," he says. I act preoccupied with rubbing my numb cheeks – his eyes are focused on the road anyway, so it's not like it matters.

When he pulls up to our driveway, Ben unbuckles before the truck even stops. "What's this?" he asks. I turn to look at him, but I don't see anything.

"Ben," I warn, "don't be nosy."

"It's fine," David says, turning back as well and smiling. "They're for my sister. She's lending me some clothes for school."

Ben grins. "Cool. Are we having hot chocolate, Nick?"

"Um, yes."

"Can David have some?"

Um, no, is my first thought. Still, at this point, I kind of owe the guy. This isn't the first time he's been there to help me out – it's always the little things: copying a sheet of homework for math; helping me study last minute for a test in bio when we used to be lab partners; ripping down a few mean notes from my locker when I came out and telling me that he'd "mess anyone up that effed with such a nice guy".

"Sure," I say. "If he wants."

"Oh, I want," David assures me. "Very much."

When we get inside, I finally check my phone. I have a few missed texts from Secret Guy that I respond to and a note from my parents saying they left for work, then set off to the kitchen to boil some milk (milk is the only way to make hot chocolate, and no one can tell me otherwise. I'd take milk over freaking holy water) while Ben gives David a tour of our house.

"This is my room," I hear him say. "My friends come over sometimes. I love my friends."

"You're so sweet," comes David's voice. A door opens. "Is this Nick's room?"

Jesus Christ, NO.

"Yeah," Ben says. "That's his bed – he never makes it. Mom calls him a slob, but she doesn't mean it. That's his laundry pile. I sat in his hamper. That's why it's broken. He's supposed to do his own laundry now – do you have a brother? Is he weird about his socks, too? Anyway, he's lazy, so he doesn't do his own laundry enough—"

"Ben!" I shout. "Get out of my room, please! David doesn't want to see it!" Or my promiscuous bed, for that matter.

As soon as the hot chocolate is out, Ben retreats into a documentary. I sneak off to lightly clean my room and open the curtains. It's started snowing again – I swear, if I have to wait another day to meet Secret Guy, I'll die. In fact, I'll probably have to wait till Monday. I'll be very much dead by that point.

There's a light knock at my door. "Um, hey," David says. Jesus. He's still in my house. I almost forgot.

"Hey," is all I can say back. He's in my freaking room. David Marquez is in my freaking room. Then: "Thanks for the ride. Seriously."

He gives me this smile that almost looks shy. I don't know if I've ever thanked him before. This is just more swiftly-accumulating evidence showcasing what a horrible person I am. "It's nothing. Really. You'd do the same for me."

Like hell I would.

I just kind of nod as I pull my covers up over my bed. (My way-too-big bed. My anxiety has totally been justified about this thing – it's freaking massive, I swear.)

"Your bed is huge," David says.

See?

"Must be really relaxing, though," he continues. "Like, to just get to fan out or whatever? I kick the wall a lot. My bed is tinier than I am." He's trying to get me to laugh. He's always trying to get me to laugh. This once, I give in. (Because I'm not sure if one tiny mug of hot chocolate is payment enough for him driving us home on a snow day.)

"Do you remember when we were in Ben's grade?" he asks me – after sitting on the edge of my bed. If I were a more relaxed person, I'd sit next to him and be like, "Wow, this is a really fun, chill time."

I sit in my desk chair instead.

"I remember many times," I say, wishing with all my heart he'd just leave. "You'll have to be more specific."

Some people talk with their hands. David talks with his eyes – he always has. They go wide for emphasis and small for playful scrutiny. I don't even know him that well, and I could probably tell you what he was feeling solely based on his eyes.

His eyes squint a little now as his face scrunches. It's his "Ha, You're Funny, Mister" face. "That one time that we got called off from school, and neither of our parents came to pick us up, because they didn't get the memo."

That happened a lot that year for me – my dad was working at a plant the town over, and my mom was busy with a voracious, toddler Ben. But I vaguely do remember what he's talking about. And the black eye that came with it.

He shakes his head slightly. "Man, Edward was such a jerk back then. Don't get me wrong – he's great now, but he used to treat you like crap."

"I think he was just acting out," I say. "As opposed to coming out." Everyone knew Edward was gay since he moved here in the first grade.

David gives me one of his smiles. I don't know where to look – legs? Collarbone? Shoulders? Eyes? Mouth? This boy is a punishment from God, I swear.

"It hurts me that people think they have to act out," he says. "But the pressure's insane, am I right?"

I shrug. "Kind of." To be honest, when I was sure that I was indeed gay, I just . . . came out. It was only after it was hard for me. "I was lucky, I guess. My family has been really supportive." (By "supportive" I mean by not mentioning it at all, because they don't even think it's a big deal. My dad, to paraphrase, said, "Cool! You prefer eggplants. . . . Bananas? Why are you making that face? Fine, I'll stop." We never spoke of it again.)

"Supportive families are the best," David says, kind of absentmindedly as he looks out the window. "Dang. It's getting worse out there. I'm going to head home." He stands up; when he stretches, his dark choir shirt pulls up over the line of his sweat pants for a moment – I look away, but not before I get a glimpse of some prime, David abs.

"Sounds good," I say before walking him to the door.

The suspense is killing me. Secret Guy.

Why don't you just tell me who you are then?

. . . . Because I want to do it in person.

You're killing me.

I figured as much.

What if I see you today? Will you tell me then?

He hesitates. I feel like he's next to me, breathing into the space between my neck and shoulder as he thinks to himself. Which is just about too much for me, thank you.

Maybe if I see you. *loads supplies up into automobile*

"Supplies"?

*unloads supplies from automovile* *loads supplies up into a VERY ROMANTIC hot air balloon*

"Suuuuppliiieeees"? Consider my eyebrow quirked.

My imaginary rules prevent me from telling you ANYTHING.

I've already forgotten about Josiah. You're so cute when you're disagreeable.

Goal accomplished.

Now, I say, I just have to accomplish MY goal.

World domination?

Thats four on my list. I'm talking about the one I stated earlier.

I'm an idiot. You'll have to remind me ;))))))))))

Goal: Break the secret admirer.

I just want to send more winky faces, he says.

Do so at your own risk.

What are you going to do? More winky faces. "Break me"?

I feel like you'd like that too much.

Oh, definitely. I YEARN to have you "break me".

I feel better already. Mostly better, at least.

Maybe if you and your hot air balloon come find me, we'll see. I feel so daring. Too daring, really, but that's fine. That's fine, that's fine. I'm not freaking out or breaking down.

You wouldn't be able to resist trying to break me. I put the "hot" in hot air balloon.

I'll be judge of that.

I think you mean you'll be the witness.

This. This is what I've wanted. For longer than I'd like to admit.

I end up swaddled in blankets in my bed again, texting Secret Guy. Dad shoveled before he left so he and Mom could get out of their elitist garage, so that's one less thing on my plate.

I'm legit bummed that we didn't get to meet today, I tell him. I have a feeling we've already met, though, but I don't know from where, exactly. Still, it's comforting. It's not like I talk to a lot of people in my life - and I like pretty much everyone that I do talk to. Even Edward. (Most of the time. Usually, he's not bad.)

Same, he says, but at least I get more time to make your surprise specific. Then, he adds, I'm really sorry about today. About everything.

My breath hitches, picturing the pained look on Josiah's face as I left the kitten room today.

No. He's not Secret Guy.

Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope.

"Nick," calls Ben from the living room, "wanna come watch TV with me?"

I glance down at my phone screen. Do I really need to be spending this much time with a guy who won't even tell me his name? (I mean, there's an understood "yet" there, but still.)

Picking up my whole, dusty comforter, I head off to the living room.

Living with Ben's documentary obsession has actually been pretty good for me, I think. I mean, I can tell David Attenborough by just his voice now, so that's great.

Attenborough is talking about penguins and seals, and I'm waiting for that signature death scene that always happens before they move onto something "happier". I'm not really watching - I'm on my phone, picking at a bag of chips Ben brought out.

"You know what makes me mad?" asks Ben, rocking back and forth on his heels as he squats in front of the television.

I look up. "What?"

"Mr. Popper's Penguins."

"And why's that?" Three chips, down the hatch.

He doesn't even turn. "I don't know. 'Just does."

"Sound reasoning."

"Yup." He goes back to watching seals circle a penguin.

Hey, Secret Guy says, tomorrow morning, can I meet you at your locker?

Okay, I say immediately. Sounds good. Sounds great.

You're adorable.

I know.

But, yeah, he says. I will meetest thou at thy locker.

With ice cream.

With ice cream. And maybe more.

Like ....? I'm smiling. Hard.

IMAGINARY RULES ALARM! IMAGINARY RULES ALARM!

It's hard not to chuckle out loud. Screw your imaginary rules.

I have to SURPRISE you, Nikolai.

"nikolai"

"NIKOLAIIII"

That's right, I say. Scream my name.

I feel. . . Broken, he says.

+10000000 xp to Nikolai. Goal accomplished.

He says, You're welcome.

No, I retort, I'm Nikolai.

Tomorrow can't come soon enough. Seriously, I will take a hair dryer to the streets to prevent another snow day. Because, if there's another snow day tomorrow, I'll have to wait till Monday to finally meet Secret Guy.

And I can't wait anymore.