Either way, please get your passport and come visit me in this wilderness. I’m afraid I’m picking up more of an accent than I’d like. You must save me.

I miss you and Becky desperately.

Love, or whatever you need most,

James

The next day, I reread James’s letter and plan to write back, telling him I’ll get my passport as soon as I can figure out how to without having to ask my parents to sign anything or whenever I have the guts to take Connor up on his offer to forge Dad’s signature. But even then, I have no idea when or if I’ll find a way to make it to London. I just need him to come back soon.

But first, I pick up my guitar. Try to find the rhythms and pauses in my thoughts. Think about James holding the hand of some dying guy he didn’t even know.

Then I play so many minor chords it makes me cry tears I know I haven’t earned.

Becky is bummed, but understanding, when I tell her I can’t write for her. You’ll find a way to tell your story, she says.

But I don’t have a story, I respond.

Everyone has a story, Michael. Maybe you just don’t know the plot of yours yet.

After he kicked Connor out, after my mom barricaded herself in the bedroom without having stood up for her oldest son, after I watched my brother stumble up the street with his suitcase—all my father let him take—to go who-knows-where, my father burst into my room and told me we were going to talk.

If you have something to say to me, Michael, say it now, he ordered.

I had plenty of things to say, but I wasn’t my brother, so I stayed quiet.

Dad and I still hung out a bit back then, and even though he and Connor fought all the time, I usually blamed my brother for egging him on.

I never thought Dad would make good on all his threats. I thought he was going to ask how I felt about him throwing Connor out of the house, until he said, Don’t think the same won’t happen to you if you ever humiliate me and your mother like that.

And then I thought he was talking about the public method Connor had chosen, until he added, Had I wanted a son-in-law, I would have impregnated your mother with a daughter.

I was twelve. I hadn’t said it out loud, but I knew I was gay.

And I knew nothing would ever be the same. I knew enough to stay silent.

I’m tired of staying silent.

Our senior year started off with the same sense of anticipation that every school year brings.

But something about this year feels different. Who can care about memorizing Chaucer in Middle English when so much is going on in the world right now?

When I complain to Becky, I think she gets it because she says: Find some way to make a difference. Volunteer somewhere. Make your voice heard. But stay safe, Michael. Whatever that means, somehow always stay safe.