He just sits and listens while I tell him all about Nana. It feels so good to just talk about her. I tell him stories from recent years and from when I was little, when my parents were still standing right next to her. As I talk, I push through the lump in my throat and wipe my eyes, and though the scene in front of my eyes is blurry, the images of memories that form behind them are crystal clear. 

He asks all the right questions, and I find that I’ll never run out of words to say about the incredible woman that I was lucky enough to call my Nana. 

And the small smile on his face and the care in his eyes makes me want to kiss him again. 

“Can… can I ask you a question?”

I tilt my head like a confused puppy. “You have been?”

“No, I mean like, what happened to your parents?”

Oh. “Well, they’re, uh, they’re not dead.” I chuckle weakly. “They live in Seattle.”

He looks at me curiously, and I know he’s not pressuring me to continue, but I want to tell him. I want him to know everything about me. 

“They kicked me out when they found out I like boys.” I don’t say “I told them I like boys” for a reason. 

“Oh my god.” He looks shocked, and then seems to realize something. “Wait. You like boys?”

I actually laugh. “Was that not made obvious when I kissed you? But, uh, yeah. I’m bi.”

“I guess,” he says, like he’s thinking it over. “Just so you know, I am very gay.” 

“I figured.”

“So your Nana took you in after your parents… you know?”

“Yeah, pretty much. She was a lesbian, too, but I don’t think they know that.” I almost say is, but stop myself just in time, and my stomach drops. 

“Wait, really? That’s awesome.” 

“Yeah, made it really easy to talk to her about the cute boy who showed up at the Starbucks one rainy afternoon.” I try to sound teasing, but my voice is too sad. “She would have loved you. She did, from what I told her.”

He looks down at our hands that have somehow found each other at some point in the conversation. “I wish I could have met her.”

“I do too, Oz.” And I’ve never called him that before, but the way he looks at me when I say it makes me think maybe I should use it more often. 

And then I’m crying again.