My eyes snapped to the door the moment I heard the knob begin to turn. The effect was immediate -- my breathing stopped, trapped in my throat, and my heart started beating so hard, it broke from its hold and plummeted to my gut. In the span of one measly second -- if it even was that long -- a bead of sweat broke out on my forehead and iron hands twisted my stomach into a sickening knot.

     Then that one measly second was over. The doorknob paused mid-turn, and my brother's voice floated through the wall. "It's me. It's Jacob."

     My heart stopped racing, and my stomach stopped churning, and I could breathe again.

     I hadn't slept more than two hours the night before. Two hours broken into short increments, intervals of sleep between shocks of restlessness and nausea and panic. Eventually, I had given up on rest and attempted to push myself out of bed, only to sink back down as if an anvil had been dropped onto my chest when I realized what awaited me beyond my bedroom door. The thought of facing my parents, of seeing their faces when I walked into the living room, had been enough to send me spiraling. Enough to stomp on the broken pieces last night had left behind.

     Leaving my room wasn't an option. So I called Jacob.

     He opened the door just enough to slip inside. In his hands he held a glass of water, a protein bar, and a banana.

    "I know you said you weren't hungry, but . . ." he handed me the glass and set the food on my nightstand. I took it with quivering hands and dipped my head; a nod was about all I could give him. It was a struggle to raise the water to my lips. I hated the way my hands always shook when I was anxious. There was nothing weaker, daintier, than having shaky hands. They were the trademark of every damsel in distress, every helpless child. People always noticed shaky hands, always saw them as a pitiable sign of fragility. I saw them as a pitiable sign of fragility. I noticed the ripples in the glass of water and saw just how fucking delicate I was.

     Jacob eased himself onto the edge of my bed. His discomfort was so clear, it almost glowed in the early-morning darkness. It almost had its own color.

     We had gotten somewhere last night, somewhere we hadn't been in a very long time. Maybe ever. But I could feel the distance between us, too old and too stubborn to shrink after one night, not just internal but physical, blatant in the way he sat himself at the edge of the bed and pulled his legs close and made himself smaller. Cutting that distance would take time.

     But we didn't have very much time. In a few months, I would move away, go live with Stevie. Her roommate would graduate this year and move away (she was getting her masters in California), and I would take the empty room in Stevie's apartment. Jacob and I couldn't make the leaps and bounds we needed in such a short time. Especially not when I couldn't even drink a fucking cup of water without nearly dropping the glass.

    "I'm gonna be sick," I muttered, voice like sandpaper. It hurt to talk. My dry lips burned with the effort. My throat seemed to cave inward, like it was trying to shut me up, and I let it.

     Jacob slipped away wordlessly. He came back -- he made sure to say his name before he touched the door this time -- with a plastic bucket in his hands. Dad liked to use it when he mopped.

     "Don't puke on the floor," was all Jacob said as he set the bucket down at my bedside. I nodded again, and finally took a sip of my water. It stung like rubbing alcohol on an open wound.

     He didn't say anything for a while. His discomfort faded to a dull shine as the sun came up behind my closed curtains. His lips were red from chewing on them too much.

     "What's happening right now?" he asked finally, slowly, quietly. He tried to keep it gentle, tried to keep the edge out of his voice, like he could hide the fact that I was scaring him. But whatever had made him so impossible to understand was gone now. It was like reading a horror novel. I knew exactly what his words meant: what's wrong with you?

     I shut my eyes, set the glass aside. I didn't answer him, not for a long time. Instead, I wondered where everything had gone wrong. Everything with my parents. Everything with Jacob. Everything with Jamie. Everything with me.

     My parents couldn't even look at me because they couldn't stand my sexuality. My brother had felt lonely for years because I hadn't been there for him. The boy who'd made me believe in love no longer believed in it himself because I couldn't handle my fucking emotions. I was in my bed, throat on fire and head throbbing, not going to school or even leaving my room because my brain was too fucked up to let me live.

     "A lot," I told Jacob. "Too much."

     Then I leaned over my bedside, head spinning with fear and dizziness and bitterness and nausea, and grabbed the bucket Jacob had brought just in time.

++++

Jacob stayed home with me that day. I told him he didn't have to. He told me he didn't want to go to school anyways. I told him school was important. He told me to shut the fuck up.

     Even after my parents had both left for work, I couldn't so much as think about leaving my room without hearing a ticking in my head. That was the most frustrating part; the irrationality of it all. How I would tell myself, it's fine, they're not here, a million times, but still couldn't convince myself that I wouldn't see the brokenhearted disappointment in their eyes the moment I opened the door.

     Jacob sat on the other side of my bed. His eyes were fixated on the TV screen, and mine were, too, but I couldn't focus on the movie. I didn't even remember which movie it was. Just that it was another stupid romance.

     That was all I'd been watching lately. Since Jamie. Stupid, cheesy, horribly cliche romances. I used to hate them -- of course I did, I hated everything that romanticized the idea of falling in love. I wasn't sure if everything with Jamie had made me like or dislike them more -- maybe I was just watching them to be bitter -- but either way, they were all I felt like watching.

    I didn't eat the banana or the protein bar. Jacob stopped insisting after a while and went back to watching the movie and scrolling through Instagram. The movie ended. Another movie. That was how the day went. Rom-com after rom-com. 

     The sound of the front door opening made me squeeze my eyes shut tight and hold my breath. I could feel Jacob's stare, but he didn't ask, and I was sure he didn't need to anymore. He was a smart kid.

     I didn't understand why he stayed. He sure as hell didn't need the burden. But he did -- he stayed until the lights were out and my parents were asleep. Then he crawled out of my bed and told me to feel better and shut me up when I tried to thank him and sent a meaningful glance at the untouched food on my nightstand and left.

    I didn't feel even remotely better for two more days. I forced Jacob go to school after one. I forced myself after three.

     My mom was in the kitchen when I went to get cereal. It was ironic -- I had spent four days holed up in my room, mustering the courage to leave, because I'd been scared of the look in her eyes when she and dad faced me. But she spared me the look. She didn't fucking look at me at all.

     I knew she knew I was there. I knew because she nearly dropped the fork she was holding. But I didn't even get a glance.

     Maybe I should have been glad. If I couldn't see the expression on her face, it couldn't hurt me. Funny thing was, when she walked past me, eyes on the floor like she was counting the tiles, the feeling in my throat seemed a lot like pain.

I didn't get to class until third period. Not because I left the house late, because I didn't. I left at the same time I always did.

     But I wasted half an hour driving around aimlessly, wasting gas that I really shouldn't have wasted now that I had no idea where I stood with my parents. Maybe my mom would come home, stretch out her hand, and ask for my card. The money had never been mine.

     Gas wasn't on my mind, though. My parents weren't even on my mind -- not at that moment, at least. Bryan was on my mind.

     When he texted me on Monday asking where I'd been, I told him I was sick. I knew he'd been worried for the last few days, but worry never reached as far when the issue was only skin deep. I had the flu, I'd be out for a few days. Unfortunate, but not catastrophic. He would fret, but he wouldn't freak. He wouldn't seek me out.

     I didn't want to see him. He would ask me how I was doing, and I didn't want to lie to him anymore. We were past that. But I couldn't stand the thought of his sorry eyes when I told him what happened. He was too empathetic; he'd be too sad for me. He would pull me into a hug, and I would break down because I needed it, and that would break his heart, and he would feel so damn sorry for me. Not in the pitying, you poor thing type of way. He wouldn't look down on me, take me in as his comfort project. He wasn't the type of guy to say that's horrible while secretly thinking, deep down, that this was just life, or that I needed to get over it. He wouldn't secretly feel better knowing that the misfortune of the world didn't fall only on him, and that I'd gotten my fair taste. Most people were like that. They pretended not to be, but they were. Bryan wasn't.

     He would feel sorry for me because he was sorry for me. Too damn empathetic. I couldn't bear to make him sad, not today.

     Tomorrow, I would cave. I would go to him like my life depended on it, and I would spill every bit of truth in me until I ran dry, and I would breathe in his embrace like it was oxygen. But, just for today, I wanted to keep my poisoned fingers away from his smile.

     So I waited out the first few periods in my car. Then, once third period was a few minutes underway, I reluctantly climbed out, dragging heavy feet across the pavement toward the attendance office. Late pass in hand, I trudged toward class, as ready as I'd ever be to dive into the load of missed lessons, new assignments, and peer expectations that awaited me after missing nearly a week of school.

     I was halfway down the hall when the door to my left burst open so fast, I stumbled away from it with wide eyes. Out stormed my ex-boyfriend, so fixated on his phone screen that he didn't even look up as he rushed past me.

    I should've kept going, should have continued to my class at the end of the hall and brushed it off as exactly what it was: nothing. No big deal. A chance encounter. Not even an encounter; a chance passing.

     But shit, man. His shoulder brushed mine when he breezed by me, and the tiny contact -- nothing more than a gust, really -- made my skin itch all over. There was no point in pretending that he didn't have the power to root me in place, because he absolutely did, and I absolutely couldn't fight it.

     I turned on my heels to watch as he leaned back against a locker several feet ahead and worked madly away at his phone. Despite all of the glances at him I'd stolen since we ended -- and there had been many, all of them against my better judgement, none of them against my will -- I hadn't seen him look this pale since Vagabonds. It was taunting, the way my body instantly jumped into boyfriend-mode, lips parting to ask "are you okay?" when I didn't have the right. A cruel reminder that, once upon a time, he would have actually answered. Maybe even with a smile.

     He looked different somehow. His hair was growing out at the roots, darker than the white-blonde at the tips. He used to dye it too often for that to ever happen; now, I got a glimpse of his natural hair color. It was a light brown-ish color, the kind of shade you saw on people who were blonde in their childhood, but whose hair had darkened over time.

    He still hadn't noticed me there. It was selfish and ridiculous and childish, but I wished he had. I wished he'd felt my presence a few yards away the way I could still feel his all the way across the cafeteria. Maybe then it would be harder to believe that he was over me.

     My lips curled in disgust at my own mind. I wanted him to be over me, even if I was lagging behind.

    That was what I'd been telling myself, at least.

     I should have wanted him to be over me. For his own sake, his peace of mind. 

     I shook my head as if that ever worked to clear it and started to turn around, determined to get away from Jamie and from myself before I could do or think anything else I would regret. But then I heard Jamie gasp. It was private little sound, too personal for my interference, but it was deafening in the silent hallway, and the string tugging me away from him was too thin not to snap.

     I pivoted back around to see him covering his mouth with his hand, staring at his phone screen like he couldn't believe his eyes. "Jamie?" I said, too caught up in his emotions to think first. He startled and nearly dropped his phone, eyes wide with layers of shock as he stared at me. "I know it isn't my place to ask, but is everything alright?"

     "Holy shit," he whispered, dragging a hand so roughly through his hair that it stood up in places. He was staring right at me, round-eyed and gaping, but I got the feeling he wasn't seeing me at all. He only saw whatever was on his phone screen. The fog in his eyes blurred whatever emotion he was feeling, good or bad, leaving me with nothing to judge. But I couldn't remember the last time something good had happened to him. "Holy shit. Oh my god."

     Anything that could so deeply shake a guy like Jamie had to be serious, and I felt the hairs on my arm stand up with worry. Had something happened to Vanessa? Or at home? To Penelope? God, if anything ever happened to that little girl, he would fall apart.

     "What happened?" I demanded, my concern trumping my inhibitions. I took a couple of long strides toward him, so that he had to tilt his head back against the locker to look up at me. He did, but his eyes were dazed. I could feel my pulse beating in my temple. "Jamie?"

     His eyes sank slowly shut. He squeezed them tight for a moment, forming a crease between his brows. "1500," he muttered.

     "What?"

     "My SAT," he said, sounding as disbelieving as he might if he'd said 'I just saw a unicorn.' "I got . . . I got a 1500 on my SAT."

     Hearing him say it was like having the wind knocked out of me, or the rug pulled out from beneath me. But in the best way possible. Shocking enough to leave me breathless in the best way possible.

     "You're kidding!" I blurted, jaw-dropped and beaming. "That's insane!"

     Before either of us had time to think, or process, or hesitate, Jamie's arms had flung themselves around my neck, and mine had wrapped around his waist, and we were flush against each other, breathing in each other's excitement.

     "Congratulations!" I sputtered, tucking my arms around him as tight as I would allow myself and rocking back and forth from foot to foot. "What the hell did I tell you? You're too damn smart for your own good. That's amazing, Jamie."

    He pushed his head into the hollow of my neck, and I could feel his million-watt smile against my shoulder. "Yeah," he whispered, the word coming out in a relieved laugh, like a breath of fresh air. "It kind of is, isn't it?"

     Right then, it didn't matter that we were ex-boyfriends, the disastrous outcome of a naive experiment. Celebration didn't call for baggage. I didn't care that we were over, or that I would spend the rest of my day replaying this hug in my mind like wishful thinking. In that moment, I was just too damn proud of what Jamie had done. He needed someone to be here now, to celebrate with him, and I would happily fill that role. It was a nice feeling, knowing I was the first to find out about Jamie's score, the first to congratulate him. After all, I'd been the first to help him toward it, too.

     He had done it. He had proven that it was possible to fall from the top and come back from the bottom. Sure, he was still making his way back up, and he had a long way to go. He might never get to where he was before. But he was climbing, still climbing, and he wanted it, even if he refused to let himself think that. Even after I screwed him over, after I kicked him while he was down, he had found his footing. I didn't have to blame myself for his undoing.

     Out of the two of us, at least one of us was doing well. The one that deserved it.

     "You're amazing," I told him. My voice was too raw and I was holding onto him too tight, leaning into him too much, gripping his blazer too harshly. But I couldn't turn it off, couldn't let him go now that he'd wandered back into my arms. He gave me an inch, and I was taking a mile, but God, I'd forgotten how good it felt to hold him. I'd missed him so much, I'd forgotten just why I missed him. The little details; the way his body sank against mine like we were molded to hold each other up, and the way his head fit against my shoulder like I had been carved for him, and the way his arms hooked around my neck like connecting puzzle pieces. "God, you're amazing."

     I wished I hadn't spoken. There was too much in my voice to hide, and Jamie seemed to wake up in a way, as if I had splashed water on his face and reminded him of what -- who -- we were. He leaned away from me, sliding his hands away from my neck to hold onto my arms. Still close, but nowhere near as close as before, and nowhere near close enough.

    The glee was gone from his gaze. "Is . . . is everything alright with you?"

     I studied his face for as long as I could get away with. He was doing better. Not great, but better. Finally better again. My heart fluttered at the thought that he still cared, but I squashed that dangerous train of thought before it could go anywhere. The last thing he needed right now was to worry about me.

     "Yeah," I said, cursing how much one word could give away. I didn't sound alright at all, and Jamie was too smart to believe it. "Of course I am."

    Jamie watched me like I had watched him moments before. The difference was, I was the one with more to hide this time. And he was way better at seeing through me than I him. We were still holding each other; my hands spread across his back, his my upper arms. And suddenly the touch I'd missed so much left a scorching burn. I edged away from him, and he got the message -- seemed to notice for the first time that we had never fully let go -- and dropped his hands to his sides.

    "Congratulations," I said again, much quieter this time. "I always knew you had it in you."

     Then I stepped around him and made for the end of the hall, deciding I'd had enough of school for the day. I felt him turn, felt him watch my back, felt the door close between us.

     I drove home. Wasted hours doing whatever people wasted hours doing. Eventually, Jacob came home. We spoke, but only shortly; the distance between us hadn't shrunk, but the time we had to fix it sure had.

     Mom and dad came home, separately, after a while. Dad muttered a greeting but couldn't look me in the eyes. Mom didn't even try.

     The one thing that had made living in this house bearable was that my parents, as much as they couldn't stand each other, had always been there for me. Loving and supportive and tender and firm and understanding. Authoritative but reasonable, willing to talk through things instead of handing out blind punishments and setting unexplained rules. Now, they were unwilling to talk, and they resented me for breaking a rule they'd never explained.

    I went up to my bedroom and called Stevie on my laptop. I figured it was time to tell her everything that had happened in the last week. She helped -- Stevie always helped -- but she couldn't change the past, or the present, or the future.

     But Jamie had gotten a 1500 on his SAT. Out of the two of us, one of us was doing well. The one that deserved it.

++++

ngl i 'm pretty sure i kinda fucked up the timeline here, this part should take place at the end of march but somewhere ig i lost my fucking mind and never specified how much time passed since the club scene and the coming out. the way it reads makes it seem like jamie got his sat scores like a week after he took it but oh well it be like that (and yes i know most of you probably would have never noticed but there's always the one lil shit that does)

also i just noticed as i was editing:

liam: *doesn't go to a single class, doesn't even get down the hall*

also liam (2 secs after gay ouchie): aight nuff school for today ima head out