The question made Ronny uncomfortable, are you out? “No. I’m out to some of my friends, though.”

“I’m out to my friends. A little. But my parents would kill me if they knew I was sitting here.”

The meeting started up again. Ronny was relieved, both at the fact that he didn’t have to try to talk to Judson anymore, because it felt so awkward, but also because he had said words aloud to somebody. No, I’m not truthful to everyone, not yet. But I know who I am, that’s why I’m sitting here. He had been scared of the admission in the moment. He was giving himself more credit than he had earned. But he had talked to Judson, who was a decent person; he knew Judson was gay, because he was here; he was wondering whether Judson liked him, whether he might like Judson. He took a deep breath, tamping down a feeling of panic, an urge to sneak out the door, to pretend he had never come. He kept himself perfectly still.

At the end of the meeting a lot of the people hung around, talking about a picnic they were planning, a dance that might happen in the spring; some of them were going out to the Clown’s Inn later. Ronny headed for the door after listening for a couple of moments, looking at them all, wondering. He took a deep breath outside.

Judson had followed him. So he waited. They stood together awkwardly. Judson started talking. He was in business school, he said, but he hated it sometimes. He wished he had the guts to do an arts major, maybe acting. Or even English, like Ronny. He liked to read. But his parents wanted him to do business. He did what his parents wanted. They lived in Greensboro, they came to see him sometimes. He was just rambling, wasn’t he? He talked like this when he got nervous. “Do you want to go out for a drink sometime?” He stopped there, waited like he was holding his breath. “I mean, not like a date or anything. Just, you know, talk.”

Ronny felt for a moment as if he were contemplating an act of betrayal. But that was crap. He said, “Sure.”

He gave Judson his number. The guy looked unaccountably happy. Maybe Sunday, Ronny told him, explaining that he had two jobs, and not much free time. But maybe Sunday.

Judson flushed red from the neck up, stuck the number into his notebook, stood there clutching his books in front of him, terrified. There was something sweet about it. Ronny said, “All right, nice talking to you.”

“Same.” The guy ducked his head, pushed his hair out of his eyes. “I’ll call you.” Walking away quickly, small steps, cautious, looking down the whole time. That was the moment that made Ronny like him, that timid turning away, the scurrying quality of his exit. Maybe they could be friends, he thought.

But he didn’t like to think of himself as timid, or scurrying, or hiding. When he wondered how much he was like Judson—or like his impression of Judson—he was troubled by the question. Because there were people in the gay association meeting who were not afraid, who declared themselves, who dared anyone to criticize them.