The waiter comes back a few moments later to box up our leftovers and ask about dessert. Regretfully, this prompts Brenden to move away from me. But I get it. No server likes standing awkwardly at a table while a couple is being all cuddly.

“You pick what you want for dessert,” I tell him. “I’ll only have a bite of whatever you get.”

“Like hell you will,” he says. Then to the waiter, “I’ll have the crème brûlée, and he’ll have the raspberry cheesecake.”

I laugh softly at that. Why do I have a sneaking suspicion that he plans to eat both?

Once we’re alone again, I return my arm to where I want it. I don’t know when I became this person, feeling the need to hold someone, even in public, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He leans easily into me, running a finger over the line of buttons on my shirt. “You look really good in this.”

“Had to dig through my closet to find something appropriate to wear,” I confess.

“Believe me, I appreciate the lumberjack look a whole lot, but this just proves you’d look good in anything.”

“You look amazing,” I say. But he always does.

He leans in to kiss me, taking me by surprise. It’s only a brief press before he pulls away, but I chase him, capturing his lips again for a few more sweet moments. He has a smile on his face as the kiss ends, but it fades as he glances nervously past me.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Did I do something wrong?”

He shakes his head. “No, no, you didn’t. That was really nice. Um. I just thought you might be worried about doing it here. I’m sure it already looked like we’re on a date, but that makes it kind of impossible to deny.”

Oh. Maybe I should be worried about that. But I’m not.

“I wouldn’t have kissed you back if I cared,” I assure him. Then I remind him how I was living my life as essentially out for years while I was in Boston. “I don’t really care what strangers think of me.”

Only my father.

So yeah, if we were at a restaurant in Mayweather, it would be a different story. And the more time I spend with Brenden, the more I’m ashamed of that.

“Do you ever regret moving back?” he asks.

I take a moment to consider it. Sometimes I’m resentful of being stuck in Mayweather, of the way I escaped for a while, only to eventually wind up back in the town’s crazy clutches. And I stuffed myself back in the closet when I returned, but that’s not exactly the town’s fault.

And maybe it’s not exactly my dad’s either.

Maybe the only person I can really blame is myself.