Now. Now is the time to tell him. Take a deep breath, straighten your shoulders, and tell Adam that you’re some kind of weird superhuman. That you’re not normal but that that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you. Tell him that you like him. Then kiss him. Just do it. Jump out of the plane.

“… so, I don’t know, we’ll see how I feel once I read the rest of them, I’m only, like, halfway through the histories.” Adam is shrugging like his Shakespeare obsession is no big deal but I know better than that. I know he’s secretly totally jazzed that he’s got a musty old copy of all the plays that he can treat like some sort of challenge. I feel his laser-focused enthusiasm: the bubbling in his veins and the tingly sugar crystals on his tongue. I can taste them so strongly it’s almost like I’m the one who gives a flying fuck about Shakespeare. But it’s not enough—I want to know what he really tastes like. If the ways he feels when he’s excited translate to sweet cotton candy in his mouth; if the big blue waves leave salt on his skin.

“Caleb, are you okay?” Adam asks, a common question from him these days. Like if he asks enough I’ll finally tell him what I’m really feeling.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” I shake my head to clear it. “I’m good, actually. Really good.”

He gives me that soft half smile again and tilts his head. “Where do you go?”

“What?”

“You get this faraway look on your face sometimes and you don’t snap out of it until I say something. It’s like you’re in a totally different world.” The cotton candy turns to Pop Rocks as Adam’s curiosity takes over in his body, and it makes me anxious. Here it is, the perfect opening, the moment when I’m supposed to step into open air.

“Actually,” I start, bracing myself to take the leap.

“Boys! Dinner!” Mr. Hayes’s voice cuts through the strings of anticipation hanging in the air and I feel our twin disappointment fall like weights on both my shoulders. Adam sighs, says, “Come on,” and leads the way back downstairs.

Soon we’re back to playacting—sitting across from each other at the dining room table with Mr. and Mrs. Hayes on either end asking us questions about school like we’re being interviewed. The dinner is fine—the food is good and the Hayeses are nice despite how serious they are. Somehow Adam ended up with a diluted version of his parents’ intensity, which is really saying something, because he’s the most intense person I’ve ever met.

“How about you, Caleb?” Mr. Hayes asks, making an effort to include me in a conversation I’d completely tuned out of.

“Huh?”