I'm sorry, I text him. Let me make it up to you.

I don't know, he says back immediately. Almost like he was waiting for it. It would have been fine if you just didn't get it, but it really hurt me that you treated me like that today.

I shove another spoonful of ice cream into my mouth and blink back the tears. I'm horrible - and I ruined his precious surprise on top of everything else.

I'm hating myself for eating this ice cream right now, but at the same time, I can't not. Because, stress.

I get that, I say. I really really do. But PLEASE let me make it up to you.

Can you, though? Seriously - this was super hard for me, okay? Only some of my friends knew that I was gay, Nick. I wanted to come out to you with this, because I really freaking liked you. And then you made me feel awful this morning. Like, I get it. Maybe you had a tough morning or something, but I seriously can say the same.

I'm sorry, I say again. I'm horrible. Could I call you? I want to talk with you in person.

The phone isnt in person. And also I'm on the road to Sirina MacLellan's party, and I don't want to distract my friends.

God. Sirina's party - I completely forgot.

I get it. And I'll talk to you in person tonight.

Oh will you now? I can't tell what tone I'm supposed to read with that.

....My imaginary surprise rules only tell me that I can say yes.

Then I call Sirina.

My back row of seats is way fuller than it usually is, and I'm feeling pretty jittery as I pull onto one of the gravel roads leading to the MacLellan's ranch. I went there once for a New Year party - it was wretched; the barn was too warm. And the loft, as you'd expect, was the hottest. So, I was just a sweaty mess.

Today, I've come prepared not for the heat, but to look nice. (There's also about an inch of deodorant on my person, so take from that what you will.) I've got this light-green button-up on, as well as some nicer, dressier pants, because why not?

The road isn't too busy (please, it's not busy at all; there are just rabbits all-freaking-over) - I know I'll be kind of late, but it'll be worth it. It has to be.

I text Sirina when I pull up on the lawn, gingerly stepping in snow in my sneakers. (Every steps crunches with an echo of frigid regret.) Its redy, she assures me.

Thank you, I tell her.

Anytime, is her response.

The party appears to be in full swing; there are a few kids out back with smoke swirling around them, laughing. I don't know if they're vaping or just smoking - and I don't care to. Instead, I follow the sound of booming AJR and enter the barn.

It cleans up pretty nice, actually. I know that Sirina will have the loft closed up - it usually a hormonal free-for-all, so I'm really appreciative of her reserving it. It's pretty vital to my required big gesture, so . . . here goes nothing, I guess.

Edward weaves through the small crowd (there's less grinding here than I'd anticipated, so, yay) as if he'd been waiting to just appear out of nowhere. "Hey," he says, "your lover is over by the tire swing."

I grin and, with my free hand, reach out and squeeze his hand. He smiles wryly. "Get out of here, you basic cow," he says, turning me around and sending me off with a nice slap on the butt. "I expect that ice cream coupon back."

"I'll treat you later," I promise quickly over my shoulder before I allow myself to be consumed by the crowd.

The tire swing. I vaguely remember where that is - and, sure enough, I'm right. On the other side of the barn, good, ol' Farmer MacLellan observes the kids squealing on the tire swing, arms folded.

David, sat along the wall atop a bale of hay, meets my eyes.

He's hopeful. He's hopeful, thank God.

He smiles shyly, and I'm trying my best not to break down in the middle of the floor – what if this isn't good enough? What if he's realized I'm not good enough. No. No – what if he's decided I'm not good enough? You don't need this, I tell myself, you just want it.

I hold up the giant plastic bag in on of my hands and my giant, dusty comforter slung over my other shoulder, almost as a kind of offering. Even though his smile doesn't falter any, he doesn't look all too convinced.

"I'm heeeere," Sirina pants, coming up alongside me, blonde hair tied back, tugging something by a rope behind her. "Jesus, I'm here." She looks at me. "I'm awesome. I'm awesome, and you need to repeat that for me."

"You're awesome," I tell her sincerely.

Behind her, her pale girlfriend, Christa, clad in a yellow romper, smiles, dragging the rest of the rope's load behind her. The pony she pulls walks slowly, and I feel strangely proud of the red ribbon wrapped around its neck.

Missy Stevens is walking (ahem, skipping) behind her, holding a giant poster over her head proudly as she smiles cheesily. In big, pink, bold letters, it reads, "NEW GOAL: WIN BACK THE SECRET ADMIRER". I'm glad that girl loves crafts so much - she was our poster/ribbon supplier.

When I look back at David, I don't see him on the hay bale. My heart sinks.

Then I see him in front of me. He's almost reached me through the crowd, blushing and grinning, who are all standing still, staring. I'm sure most of them are wondering what's going on – and I don't care what they're thinking. They don't matter. This is about me and David.

He takes my hand, and I tuck my bedding under my arm. His palm is hard and chalky, and I give it a squeeze as I pull him in towards me. His other arm lands on my hip, and while part of me is too scared to move, the other part yearns to kiss him.

"Hey," I say.

"Hey," he says back. "You got me a pony."

"It's a pony on loan. It's me you get to keep."

"Guess what?" he whispers up to me, smiling. There are all these fairy lights in the barn, and I wonder if they're what are making his eyes twinkle.

My fingers lace between his. I can faintly feel his pulse, a liquid-y thrum. "Hmm?"

He's so close; it's even more of a whisper now: "Goal accomplished. And the reward isn't XP."

I drop my comforter and the bag on the filthy barn floor, not even caring about them in that moment. I'm too busy snaking my arm around David's back and pulling him to me, craning my neck down far so I can kiss him.

His lips are soft, and he squeezes my hand. His eyelashes brush my cheek as his eyes flutter shut. I don't want to let him go - it's too uncanny, the way our bodies seem to not just fit together, but meld together.

One of his hands cups the back of my neck, and I slowly release him. "I've reserved for us the best seats in the house," I tell him quietly.

"Good," he says to me, eyes opening. "Why are we still standing here?"

The crowd lets us through without any complaint. Smart me remembered to pick up the comforter and bag again (just kidding - Christa had to remind me, and then I had to let go of David's adorable hand to pick it up). I recognize a few of David's friends clapping, smiling. They look almost strangely happy, and my heart pounds nervously as I watch David climb up the narrow barn loft ladder before me.

The loft is pretty well-furnished - it's got a few couches and seats that are obviously long-used and don't match; the rug is scuffed, but bright. And, on the reclaimed-looking coffee table, a few kids from my lunch table light candles. The smells are already wafting over towards us, and I'm terrified. But the smiles of these people I've known from most of my life, kids like Nora Hickie and Josiah, relax me.

They put up a few more blankets for us, even though it's pretty hot up here, especially for the dead of winter. Still, I appreciate it. Seriously - I owe them, big time.

After I tell them that we have more than enough candles lit (seriously - clumsy teens potentially fooling around while close to fire in a hay barn? Not a good combo), they leave us behind, and we can hear their excited chatter as they climb down the ladder (perhaps too quickly to be safe, but I still appreciate it).

"So," David says, "you've got me alone here. Now what?" He's smiling up at me so hard; his eyes are practically shut.

I toss the comforter over onto one of the large armchairs. It spreads out midair and floats down, like some kind of puffy ray. Then, I take his hand in my own.

"I brought ice cream," I offer. Because I don't need him for anything body-related. I just need to be able to talk to him.

He's smiling even harder now. His face wrinkles he's smiling so hard - I want to boop his nose, but I force myself to refrain. (For now.) "Let's," is all he says.

"Let's," I agree.