“No, no. You did it!” He picks me up by my waist, which shocks me at first because I don’t know what’s happening, and I don’t know if I like it. But he twirls me around in the hallway, narrowly avoiding this old couple who comes our way.

“Okay, okay.” I laugh. “Put me down!”

Even though I don’t want him to, Wyatt does just like I ask. It’s even more awkward when my feet are firmly on the floor again because his hands are still on my waist, and we’re looking at each other.

For a moment, for just a second, I think something is going to happen.

Our eyes don’t want to find anything else but each other.

But there’s no kiss.

Wyatt clears his throat, and instead of taking both his hands away, his left wraps into my right, and we start walking toward our room. It’s still awkward—I bet we’re both thinking about what just happened. But there’s almost a comfort in the silence. Usually, my silent moments with Wyatt were so uneasy, the two of us sitting on opposite sides of the room, not saying a word to each other, ready to pounce on the other when we dared to breathe wrong.

Now, though, in the quiet of this hotel room—

Things feel right.

“I’m going to go call my parents, okay?” Wyatt says.

“Yeah, sure.” I watch him step out onto the balcony as I change out of my button-down shirt and slacks for the T-shirt and sweatpants I’d been wearing earlier.

I almost want to test my luck and grab one of Wyatt’s shirts to wear, but I don’t.

I do, however, steal one of his hoodies—from some brand called Goodfellow—because it’s chilly in our room and I didn’t pack any. Imagine that, a trans boy not packing the most essential item in all of our wardrobes. I give it a moment before I step outside, Wyatt’s guitar in my hands.

He’s not on the phone anymore, so I figure it will be safe.

“What are you doing with Niall?” he asks.

“Niall? You’re not serious.”

“It’s his name.”

“I should turn it into firewood just to save it the embarrassment of ever being called that again.”

Wyatt stares at me, unflinching.

“Oh my God, I’m not actually going to burn it!”

“Don’t joke about Niall.”

“Well, take it.” I hand the guitar off. “I thought we could think about songs.”

“Is that my hoodie?” he asks.

“It was cold. Do you want it back?”

“No, no—it looks good on you.”

The fuck does that mean?

“Do you have any ideas? For a song?”

“I just found out I was doing this ten minutes ago.”

“So?”

“You’re the worst.”

“I know.”

“I was thinking about Carly Rae, maybe ‘Heartbeat’ or ‘Real Love,’ but those might be too on the nose. I know some Kacey Musgraves too, or Taylor Swift. I’m guessing ‘All Too Well’ is too depressing.”