I lead Wyatt up the block and across the street toward Beverly Gardens Park, the bronze—almost gold—letters shining on the blue sign, and I take in the bright green of the lily pads on the small fountain in front of the sign, the smell of the grass and the trees, and the slight breeze that’s blowing.

I’ve missed this place.

“A park?” Wyatt asks, looking around. His expression is kind of hard to read, but he doesn’t sound disappointed.

“Yeah, I thought it’d be nice to take a walk.”

“I’m down.” Wyatt smiles a little bit wider.

“My parents used to bring me here a lot.”

“Really?” Wyatt looks around. “Doesn’t seem like the kind of place a kid goes for fun.”

I shrug. “Don’t laugh, but I kind of had this plant phase as a kid.”

“Seriously?” Despite my request, he still lets out this laugh he tries hard to hide.

“No, there’s a playground. I was all about that jungle gym life.” I laugh, and I only realize a few seconds later that Wyatt’s staring at me. “What?”

“Nothing—it’s just cute to imagine kid Neil.”

The words set off sirens in my head. What does he mean by that? Is he calling me cute? Is that what we’re doing here? Is he being serious, or just pulling my leg? If I’m being honest, I’d rather Wyatt not think about kid Neil—being forced to wear dresses and grow my hair out so it could be tied in little bows, being called a girl, having a name that I didn’t like, that never felt like it belonged to me. It’s bad enough that Mom still has some of those pictures hanging up in our home, that some of those pictures will forever live on the internet because of Mother’s status.

“What?” he asks, and that’s when I realize that I’ve been staring a little too long.

“Nothing, just … thinking,” I say.

This close I can see how unfairly long his eyelashes are; I can see the faintest of freckles, the trail of moles that begins under his left eye, and then to his ear, down to his neck, to vanish beneath his shirt, a half-finished constellation. There’s the crack in his lips where he clearly hasn’t worn ChapStick properly, even the sparse acne scars on his cheeks that suddenly make me feel less self-conscious about the acne on my own face thanks to the testosterone shots.

I never noticed how pretty he is up close.

I feel my pulse jump a little.

“I like this place. The plants are cool,” he says.

“Yeah, it’s really pretty.”

“We should take a picture.”

“You want to take a picture?”

“Yeah, I mean, if we take a picture of, like, a day out or something, won’t that make Josh jealous or whatever it is you’re trying to accomplish?”

“Oh, yeah. Right.”

I pull out my phone, and we stop near this walkway, leaning against the half wall.

“Here.” He holds out his hand. “I’ve got longer arms.”