Matty cocked his head. “Maybe I’m a brother. Maybe I want you to shake the gay out of my brother. Or my sister. Or maybe I just want you to find them.”

“You already told us you’re gay.”

“But what if I hadn’t.”

“Then you shouldn’t have stared at my partner like you wanted him to bend you over the desk and make you call him daddy.”

“North,” Shaw felt the heat rush into his cheeks.

North ignored him, gaze fixed on Matty. Matty met the gaze with surprising equilibrium. The tears were drying in shiny tracks on his cheeks, and he ran his arm under his nose again, soaking the sleeve of an expensive-looking poplin shirt that went with neatly pressed chinos and leather loafers. Money. This kid had money.

“I’m sorry,” Matty said, breaking his stare with North. “I’m still new to this. How to look. When to look. I feel like I’m naked sometimes, like everybody can see right through me.” He drew a deep breath and shuffled his feet. “I didn’t know you two were dating, and I’m sorry—”

Shaw burst out laughing a moment before North did, but only barely. Shaking his head, Shaw said, “We’re not dating.”

“Never,” North said, rocking back in his chair, his whole body expansive with amusement. “Not in a million years.”

“Oh man.” Matty hung his head again. “I keep screwing things up.”

“It’s fine,” Shaw said, his laughter shrinking to a grin. “Start over. You’ve never told anyone you’re gay.”

“The first guys I told ended up laughing.”

“All right,” North said, the edge in his voice finally dissolving. “We’re sorry about that. But we laughed because you said we were dating, not because you said you were gay. Go on.”

“You might as well look me up now. It’ll help—the rest of what I’m going to say will make sense if you look me up. Do you have a computer?”

North dragged his phone out of a pocket and waved it. Shaw pulled a MacBook from the bottom drawer and squeezed it in between the mountain of Emily Dickinson criticism on his right and the smaller, more manageable ski slope of loose papers on his left.

“Matthew Fennmore. RiverChurch. That’s all one word.”

Shaw typed in the search; out of the corner of his eye, he saw North pecking at his phone.

“First result.” Shaw clicked. It was a clean, well-designed page with a picture of a church at the top—a church approximately the size of a football stadium. It was an About Our Staff page, and halfway down was a recent picture of Matty Fennmore in a chambray shirt and well-cut slacks. “Youth Director.” Shaw scanned the rest of the page, and then he said, “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Matty dug the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“So your dad is the pastor.”

“Yeah.”

“And I’m guessing,” North was still tapping on his phone, “oh, there it is: ‘RiverChurch believes in the sanctity of marriage and the values of the traditional family.’ God, they didn’t even try to bury it; that part is right at the top.”