“Moving in?” I blurt out. I can’t keep this volcano inside me contained. I look over at Conner, whose head is down. His dad must have told him about this earlier. “No offense, but we barely have room for the two of us—”

“Dean,” my mom says with a stern look. “This isn’t really up for discussion.”

“I know this is a huge bomb,” Coach Ben says, “but we’re going to try and make this transition as seamless as possible.”

That seems an impossible task--as long as this confusion and back-and-forth keeps raging between me and Conner.

“I mean,” I stutter, “where is Conner even going to sleep?”

My mom hesitates. “The sewing room is a good size for a bedroom.”

The sewing room. My sanctuary. Snatched away from me, all for a wrestler who doesn’t know the difference between a basting and a cross stitch.

“Mom,” I say, trying to carefully modulate my voice so I don’t look too unreasonable. “Mind if we go to the kitchen for a second?”

“Actually,” Coach Ben says, standing up, “Conner and I will give you two some privacy for a minute. Take your time.”

They both leave the room, Conner casting back one last furtive glance before he’s gone. All my insides feel mangled.

“Mom,” I say. “We can’t do this.”

“We can,” she says, “We will. I wish I didn’t have to spring this on you. But, regardless of the flooding, Ben and I have been getting very close. And mortgages aren’t cheap. This was going to happen eventually.”

“I’m going to have no privacy,” I say. “Please. Do we have to do this?”

My mom sighs, then comes over and pulls me into a hug. I resist at first, but I can’t help but give in. The comfort is necessary. I rest my head against her shoulder.

“You are a great guy, a good person,” she says. “And so is Ben. And Conner. Together, we’re going to make this work.”

Every fiber in my being says the opposite. I close my eyes and let my mom hug me deeper, already scared about what’s to come.

#

I go up to my room, needing some more time to recalibrate and figure this shit out. I lay on my bed and look around at my stuff. I wonder how long it will even be my stuff. How long until my mom and Ben decide to bulldoze the wall between my room and the sewing room to give Conner more “space”?

The amount of possibilities that this move-in could bring with it are staggering. I feel like I’m back in Mr. Ryan’s class, hearing him talking about all those infinite universes. In this universe, will Conner moving in with us make him hate me? Will I hate him? Will I never know any rest, pining after something I can’t have? Will Conner keep leading me on, and will I keep falling for it? How ethical is it to hook up in our parents’ house while they’re dating?

But no answers are granted to me. I watch my ceiling fan spin, text Colleen i’m never going to be happy again, then get up to wallow in the shower.

When I get outside the bathroom, Conner is already reaching for the door. I have to quickly avert my eyes--he’s shirtless, only wearing scandalously short shorts.

“Uh,” I say. “What are you doing with that towel on your shoulder?”

He looks at me, confused. “I was going to go take a shower.”

Already, Conner’s invading my space.

“I was going to take a shower,” I say.

“Oh,” he says. “That’s fine. You can go first.”

The only thing I hate more than Conner supplanting my place in the shower line is him trying to act like the bigger person.

“No, you’re okay,” I say. “You can go first.”

“I insist. I don’t even need to shower.”

I do a subtle sniff. “I know that’s not true.”

“C’mon. It’s your house.”

We both stand around, unsure what else to say. I close my eyes.

“Okay,” I say. “We have to do something about this.”

“What? Like shower together?”

“Oh my god, Conner, no,” I say, ducking down my head. “Summit in my room. Now.”

We head to my room, where I sit Conner down in my desk chair while I move to my bed.

“We need to figure out some set of rules,” I say.

“Rules?”

“This is, like, an unprecedented situation,” I say. “We need to have some kind of terms of agreement.”

“Rules of engagement.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Exactly. How are we going to handle the two of us living together under the same roof?”

I pull out my notebook and take out a pen, ready to start writing.

“I’m thinking,” Conner says.

“It’s always hard to tell.”

“Okay, says the strategy master using the glitter gel pen.”

“It has style,” I say, annoyed. “I mean, number one, obviously,is no hugging or touching.”

Conner shrugs, lets out a huff. “I mean, yeah. That goes without saying.”

“Great.” I write it down.

Conner suddenly raises a finger. “No going into each others’ rooms without knocking.”

“That is a must,” I say, and write it underneath. “I don’t think I can do the bio book swaps anymore.”

“No more swaps?” There is an almost-hurt expression on Conner’s face, but he shakes it off. “You’re right. Too suspicious. And inconvenient.”

“Good.”

“And,” Conner says, “I don’t think we should hang out one-on-one, unless our parents are forcing us to.”

I get a sharp pang in my chest as I write it down, but I do it anyway.

“Right. Exactly,” I say. “Annoying parents.”

I look at the list, pass the notebook to Conner. “Does this look good?”

Conner scrutinizes it, then gives a wearied thumbs-up. “Let’s shake on it?”

We both stand up and give each other our hands. Conner’s are so tough and calloused. What does it mean that we’re shaking hands, like we’re business partners and not two people who used to kiss each other? I start to think about the history behind every hand shake I’ve seen--maybe everybody in the world kisses and shakes hands, and I just don’t know anything about it.

That’s probably stupid.

We both release our hands. I clench mine a little bit, try to keep Conner’s warmth in my palm for a second longer.

“I’ll shower first,” Conner says. He heads out of my room.

I stay on my bed. Everything is still spinning. I know this is the right move, but it doesn’t make me feel any less sick.