I shake my head and answer honestly. “Nah. I don’t think so. I think we have two more games left.”

“End of an era, huh?” He sounds sad, but I’m used to that from him when talking about school ending.

“Yeah, but we still have baseball.”

“Oh, fuck yeah!” he says excitedly, and I laugh at his enthusiasm. “I forgot about baseball.”

I chuckle again, feeling lighter than I have in a long time.

The truth is out to my best friend, at least, and he seems totally fine with it.

Hell, maybe even a little too fine with it since he won’t quit asking me questions. But it’s still an amazing feeling.

13. Kingston

THIRTEEN

KINGSTON

We only have one more game left after the one we played tonight. We lost, and it was really bad. We have no chance at state, but that’s okay. Our next game is our last, and it’s against a team no one loses to. So we should go out on a high note.

I can’t say that I’m not sad about it almost being over, but I am pretty damn happy because tonight is the annual camp-out. Our parents know about it and most support it. We brought tents and sleeping bags—though some people sleep in their cars.

It’s cold as fuck, but we have the fire and extra layers. And I have a tent to share with Camden. It fits us both easily, and we each have our own sleeping bag lined in flannel. It’s a great tradition.

And tonight, Camden is calm, not worrying too much about Luce and his mom. His mom doesn’t have to work tonight and told him they were going to have a girls’ night, watching movies and having popcorn.

He was relaxed enough to enjoy some whiskey shots with me, and after we both take a piss out in the woods, we retreat to our tent while the party winds down. We climb into our respective sleeping bags, zipping them up. But I’m too wired to sleep.

“You think I’m hot?” The question slips from my mouth before I can stop it, and it’s met with an immediate groan from Cam.

“We aren’t doing this.”

“Oh, come on.” I move closer to him, confined to my sleeping bag, but I can feel his arm through his as I bump up against him. “It’s cold, and I’m not ready for sleep. We can totally talk.”

“Not about that.”

“Why not?” I have no idea why I’m harping on this one question, but irritation at his unwillingness to answer swarms me.

“Just because I had some whiskey tonight doesn’t mean I want to talk about my type.”

I’m lying on my side, facing him, my head propped up on my hand. “I didn’t ask about your type. I asked if you think I’m hot.”