“Are we honestly having this conversation?” He seems completely surprised, and I kick myself again for being a shitty friend. He should know there’s nothing he can’t talk to me about.

“Yes. I want to. You can talk to me.”

“About what my type is?” His eyebrows pull together.

“Yes,” I say again. “I can talk about this stuff. It’s no big deal.” And it doesn’t feel like it is. Not really. We’re still the same people, and hell, maybe I’ll get him to actually talk about sex and stuff now, instead of just grunting his answers.

He shakes his head at me, but he’s smiling, so that’s a start. “I’m not talking about my type. I don’t even really know what it is.” I watch as he swallows his feelings and then smiles a little bigger. “But thank you.”

“Don’t bury anything, not from me.”

“Okay.” He says it too quietly.

“I mean it, Cam. Nothing. Don’t hide anything from me ever again. You can talk to me, and you damn well better talk to me.”

“Okay, Kingston. I promise.”

I study him closely, making sure he knows how much I mean it. When I’m satisfied, I flop onto my back and feel content with that. “Okay. So now, let’s talk about dicks.”

He hits me with a pillow in the face, and we both laugh.

And again, things feel right in the world because Camden is happy.

12. Camden

TWELVE

CAMDEN

“What about Chris?” I turn to look at Kingston with confusion because I don’t have any idea what the hell he’s talking about. We won the game tonight, but it was close. Really close.

And it wasn’t a home game, so it’s already late by the time we head out to the party. My mom is home with Luce, but I still need to get home soon. I opt for plain soda instead of any alcohol, but my friend sure didn’t.

He’s been chugging beer for an hour now, and his arm is slung over my shoulder. “Chris. What’s his name? Ummm . . .” He’s thinking awfully hard. “Combs. That’s it. That dude.”

“What about him?” He’s quiet, really smart, and he doesn’t come to parties like this or anything to do with the school. But that’s all I know about him.

He leans into my ear, whispering loudly, even though it’s just us sitting on the tailgate at the moment, far from anyone else at the party. “Is he your type?”

Oh, Jesus Christ. I swipe a hand over my face, too tired for this shit. “We are not talking about that. I told you already.”

“Caaaamden,” he whines, and I laugh, despite myself, because it’s fucking ridiculous.

“Kiiiingston,” I mock, and he nudges my shoulder with his.

“Is he your type? He’s cute, right?”