Mel grinned. “Roxy and I have a long history, that’s true. She’s poly. I wasn’t ready for that when we were first dating. I guess I’ve . . . matured since then.”

“Polly?”

“Polyamorous,” Mel explained. “Nonmonogamous.”

“Oh.” I had never heard of it, but the tone in Mel’s voice didn’t make me feel ignorant. It made me feel like she was inviting me into a private club. “Are you poly also?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said. It sounded like a relief to her.

Later on, I wondered what would have happened if I’d given Mel a chance. It would have been a lot simpler, because Mel was fun to be around, and she was kind, and she was available.

In that moment, though, standing in Mel’s driveway, I thought: I wish I was attracted to you, but I’m not. And once that thought came into my head, there was no erasing it.

I said apologetically, “I should get home.”

The flirtation vanished from Mel’s face, and if she was disappointed, she didn’t show it. “You didn’t drink too much, right? You’re okay to drive?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You know, you should give me a call if you ever want to talk about . . . anything.” Mel sounded oddly serious.

“That’s really nice of you. Thanks.”

“Drive safe,” she said, and she pulled me into a goodbye hug.

On the drive back to Woodacre, I thought about what Mel had said to me. I was pretty sure she meant I should call her if I wanted to talk about gay stuff. Or was it queer stuff? I had no idea what the proper words were. I only knew what it was beginning to feel like in my body. An edgy, slightly queasy feeling; anticipation mixed with seasickness. It was that Frank Ocean song, “Thinkin Bout You,” playing on a loop.

Chapter 9

On Sunday morning I woke up remembering the day before, and I picked up my phone to scroll through my photos. A selfie with Mel on Market Street right before we left, the Castro behind us. A truck with go-go dancers that had driven past us during the march. A shot of Dolores Park filled to the brim with people and color and palm trees. And the picture of the movie poster I’d seen outside the corner store. There was Bernice Bing seated on the floor beside her big blue painting, looking straight at me like a challenge. I hadn’t taken any photos of Steph, but I could feel her standing beside me.