I went and got a step stool so I could look around the shelf inside his closet. There were a ton of textbooks and notebooks up there. I went through each one of them. On the inside cover of one of his notebooks, Amir had written all these to-do list items, stuff like “haircut” and “wiki citations” that didn’t seem helpful, but also stuff like “cap and gown,” which meant he wasn’t planning to skip graduation, right? Then I noticed a phone number scribbled in the bottom-left corner of the page.

I called the number. It rang a few times before an automated voice answered.

“We’re glad you called Trevor Lifeline. If this is an emergency—”

Then it rang again, and someone picked up.

“Trevor Lifeline, this is Clark. How are you doing?” I was confused, so I didn’t say anything. “Hello, are you still there?” This Clark person sounded worried now. “I understand it can be scary to make this call, and I think you’re very brave—”

I hung up the phone. I’d never heard of Trevor Lifeline, but I already knew it was for people who were thinking about taking their lives.

I tried to imagine a world where my brother was gone—really gone—and my brother’s room started to feel very small and tight around me. I even had trouble breathing. Eventually, I googled Trevor Lifeline on my phone and learned that it was a suicide hotline for LGBTQ youth. When I read those words, I had to sit down on Amir’s bed.

Was my brother gay?

You’ll see that my mom’s head is turned away right now. And for once, I’d like to defend her. Because it’s not the kind of shame you’re thinking of. I sort of turned my head away like that, too. It was because I was sad . . . almost disappointed. I wasn’t ashamed by the possibility of my brother being gay, but by the possibility that he was hurting and I didn’t even notice.

Twenty-Eight Days Ago

AFTER I FINISHED my lie, Neil placed a hand on my shoulder. He delivered a big speech about how he and his friends were my “found family” now, and as Jahan and Giovanni nodded on, my mind shifted dramatically, and all I could think was, The hot bookseller’s hand is on my shoulder. This is not a drill. There is a literal Hemsworth brother right in front of me, and his strong hand is clenching my shoulder in a gesture of sympathy.

The actual content of Neil’s kind words noodled through my brain like soggy spaghetti. I do remember I was supremely uncomfortable. It wasn’t just his hand; it was the unquestionable Italian energy in the room, the fact that I had just lied to my new friends, the guilt simmering beneath the lie, the guilt for how quickly my hormones had one-upped the other guilt . . . it was all so overwhelming. An alarm was going off inside of me, and I needed to get away. I needed to catch my breath. So I stepped out of the circle. I was going to get a glass of water. Or wine. Who knows, maybe I was going to get out. But with my clammy hands balled up and my eyes glued to the floor, I collided right into one of Giovanni’s friends, who was transporting meatballs. A massive. Plate. Of meatballs.