Mom rolls her eyes and exhales loudly. “You have no idea.” She holds out her hand and I take it. “Come on—we’ve got a wedding to get through.”

*  *  *

I don’t know if I feel better or worse. There’s so much running through my head, with Mom and Michael and Wyatt. I don’t know what to think, what to feel.

Before the wedding begins, I find myself a quiet spot in the garden, pulling out my phone, finding Wyatt’s contact information again. It rings, and it rings, and it rings.

“Hello?”

I take a very shuddery breath.

“Neil?”

Their voice makes me stop, and for a moment I think that they might be in front of me.

But they aren’t.

“Neil?”

“Wyatt.”

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

We both hold there in silence for a moment. Has it only been a few hours? It feels like it’s been months since I’ve seen them. That’s when I realize how much I miss them.

“Hey,” they say again.

“Listen, Wyatt … I’m really sorry. For everything, for what I said to you, how I pushed you away.”

“Yeah, I got your last message.”

I want to ask them what they think, what’s going through that head, what they want to say to me. But I’m scared of their answers.

Isn’t that what Mom said, though? If it’s scary, maybe it’s worth doing.

“How do you feel?” I ask. “About us.”

“I think … I think I need to think,” they say, their accent slipping out. “For a bit.”

“Okay, yeah.”

“Tell Michael I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the wedding.”

“It’s okay. He still wants you to audition.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

That’s when I see Mom racing toward me, this look on her face. She’s motioning with her hand, mouthing words like “Come on!” and “Now.”

“I think I have to go,” I tell them.

“Yeah, of course.”

“I’ll see you soon, right?”

“Definitely.”

I don’t want to let them go. I don’t want to hang up the phone. Because I might lose them if I do. What proof do I have that they’ll come back to me? What proof do I have that I won’t fuck this up again?

I think that Mom was right.

Maybe part of being in love is the fear of fucking up, and doing whatever you can to make sure you don’t.

“Goodbye, Neil,” they say softly.

“Goodbye, Wyatt.”

It doesn’t feel like goodbye, though.

Not yet.

I’m going to make sure of it.

The call ends, and I slip my phone into my pocket, double-checking that it’s on silent before I walk toward Mom.

“Who was that?”

“Wyatt.”

“How is he?” She crosses her arms.

“Sounded pissed,” I say.

She doesn’t say anything; she just sits down next to me on the concrete bench.