“I didn’t want to bother you,” he says as he lifts the edge of his T-shirt up to wipe the sweat off his face, giving the whole room a look at his abdomen, which isn’t jacked but is much more defined and tan than anything below the collar of my shirt has ever been.

“Or you didn’t want to be seen with me?” I ask, very clearly remembering the way he refused to look at me in the parking lot and determined to not be swayed by the sight of his chest for the second time in the last month.

He grits his teeth but says nothing.

I hand over my broom. “I think I’m going to pass the broom torch to Tucker and start working on those windows outside,” I say. “I could use some air.”

Tucker takes the broom and stands there while I grab some supplies to take with me.

Clem eyes me thoughtfully. “You want some company?”

“Nah, you stay here.”

I take my window cleaner and squeegee outside to pout in private.

From inside the sanctuary, Pastor Rich and Sheila are singing along to the Beach Boys while they paint once-faded walls a crisp but warm shade of white.

Church was always a social thing for my parents, but once Clem and I came out, we all sort of drifted away from Sunday service. And honestly, it was for the best. We wouldn’t have been welcome anyway. But this little place doesn’t seem so awful. Maybe a church that hosts a support group for parents of queer kids can’t be all bad.

The door around the front of the building creaks and I hold my breath in anticipation of who it might be.

“Hiya,” Clem says as she turns the corner. “Not who you were hoping?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Yes.”

She takes the squeegee from my hand. “I wipe. You spray.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, and knock my hip into hers.

“Spill it,” she says. “What’s the deal with you and this guy?”

“I think we hate each other. Or I thought we did. And then I saw him that night at the Hideaway and—”

She gasps and in a whisper voice, says, “Oh my God! I knew that was him. I saw him from across the room and tried pointing him out to Hannah, but he was gone.” She leans back, arms crossed. “Huh. Tucker Watson is into the menfolk? I had no idea! He’s so . . .”

“Straight!” I finish for her. “Or not, I guess. I don’t know.”

“Well, did you talk to him about it?”

I shrug. “Sort of. But I didn’t really know how to be like, so were you just spectating at the gay bar or were you participating?”

Clementine stares at me dumbfounded. “I guess he could have been there . . . to be there, but what eighteen-year-old straight boy goes to a gay bar to just . . . go?”