I wait outside school, obsessively checking my phone. The bus is way past due. It’s times like these I especially regret putting off all that studying for my driver’s license.

With a sigh, I sit down on the curb and settle in for a long wait.

A ding from my phone—my mom.

No. Not just my mom. A group chat, with two other numbers I don’t recognize.

I click on the message: Family group chat. Reply with ur fave emoji!

The red-dress dancing girl is stuck on the end. I nearly gag.

“Hey. Everything good?”

Just his voice makes something inside me ring like a bell. I turn and see Conner behind me, backpack slung over his shoulder, his hair still wet from his shower.

“Yeah,” I say and hold up my phone. “Did you just get this?”

Conner checks his phone. “Oh, shit.”

“Disgusting,” I say. “I can’t believe—”

Another ding. I look down at my phone.

“Conner,” I say. “Your favorite emoji is the umbrella?”

“I love umbrellas. They keep you dry.”

God, he is so simple. Makes it even easier to convince myself that pursuing this wouldn’t be worth it.

“What are you doing out here?” he asks. 

“I may be waiting for the bus.”

“You can’t drive?” he says, “I could give you a ride if you want. That’s my Jeep.” He points to a gleaming green car in the parking lot. “My dad has to stay back for a staff meeting.”

My heart thumps, thumps. I imagine riding next to him, the top down on the Jeep, wind rushing by.

“That’s nice of you,” I say. “But that’s okay. If people saw us together they might ask questions.”

Conner gives a slow nod. “Yeah. I guess that’s true.” It looks like something has just occurred to him. “Are you…out here? At school?”

“Everywhere,” I say.

“That’s cool. Good for you.” But there’s a squirmy light behind his eyes. Conner looks around, as if he’s also suddenly aware that people are watching. My stomach does a quick, short drop like a cannonball. He seems to get it, understand: if people see us together, the wrestler with the only out gay kid at school, they’ll start talking. And it’s clear that Conner doesn’t want this.

“Nice to see you anyway,” Conner says. “I’m taking off. Can’t wait to see what your favorite emoji is.”

He leaves, and I stay on the curb. The bus finally rolls up. My body feels like it’s full of the black smoke it’s spewing from its tailpipe.

#

At home, I try to lose myself in my outfit. I’m doing a difficult set of stitches today, and the work is slow and not as immediately gratifying as I want it to be.

“You seem very focused,” my mom says. She’s working on a dress for one of her friend’s children.

“Vital work today, mother,” I say. “You seem unfocused.”

“I’m focused!”

“I think you’re thinking about Coach Ben.”

My mom giggles—giggles. It’s a noise I’ve never heard come out of her.

“Mom, that was scary.”

“I’m sorry. I just like him!”

“That’s good. He’s definitely…a presence.”

My mom is still smiling. She pumps the foot pedal of the sewing machine with a joyful, vibrant zest.

“I’m just happy,” she says. “It’s been a long time, Dean. You know that. It can be scary to dive back into the deep end.”

“You could always just not.”

“I am not going to be one of those sad old lady spinsters.”

“Mom,” I say. “Look around this room. You are literally a spinster.”

“But I’m going to be a sexy one with a very sexy man.”

“That’s so disgusting,” I say.

I focus back on my outfit, trying to rid the image of my mom as a “sexy” spinster from my mind.

“He really is a lot sweeter than he seems at first,” my mom says. “He likes to make me happy. He treats me well.”

“Damn, mom. You are in love love.”

“Maybe. It’s a nice feeling.”

I look over at my mom, and I can see the shine coming out of her, humming along like her sewing machine. A peace radiates off of her, and I can’t help but smile. After all she’s gone through, it makes me happy to see she’s found something that makes her feel whole.

Something inside me turns. I wonder if that’s a feeling I’ll ever get to know, a feeling I’ll get to experience unsullied and unspoiled, without any of the annoying complications or high school bullshit.

“Good for you,” I say. “Just watch your emojis in the group chat.”

“You know,” she says, “I have this friend, Melinda. You remember her?”

“Not at all.”

“Her son is also gay. If you wanted to, I could set the two of you up. How cute would that be?”

The idea of having my mom matchmake fills me with quiet dread.

“I appreciate it,” I say, “but I don’t think I have time for that these days.”

Another ding from my phone. I pull it out of my pocket to check.

“Who is it?” my mom asks.

My heart drops. 

“Conner,” I say.

He’s sent me a photo from some store in town. Shelves of music line the walls. In his hands—big, strong-looking hands—he’s holding a Cigarettes After Sex album.

There’s a message attached to the photo: just bought this. you like these guys right??

“Conner, how sweet,” my mom says. “It makes me so happy to see you boys get along.”

“Right,” I say. “Getting along like a house on fire.”

I type back a text: this is like a stalker level of attention. but yeah, I love them. you should check them out.

I add an umbrella emoji at the end, just so he knows I’m also paying attention.