June 23, 1979

Noah’s room smelled like pinewood and old books. There was a fan creaking softly in the corner, making the posters on his wall flap every so often like they were alive. We lay on our backs on the floor, side by side, the carpet leaving patterns on our arms.

"I think your school is probably lying to you," I said, tossing a pillow up in the air and catching it again.

Noah laughed. “About what?”

“That soda doesn’t rot your brain.”

“That’s science,” he argued.

“No, it’s capitalism.”

He groaned, dramatically rolling onto his stomach. “Why are you like this?”

“Because I go to public school,” I said, grinning.

We’d been talking for hours — about school, teachers we hated, kids we used to be, dumb stuff like how the sidewalks in his neighborhood were smoother than mine. The kind of things that only mattered when it was late enough that your voice went soft and everything felt more important than it probably was.

“I had to memorize the Nicene Creed last month,” Noah said after a beat, his voice muffled by the crook of his arm. “In Latin.”

I blinked. “That sounds like torture.”

“It was. Sister Agnes hit me with a ruler because I said et spiritus sanctus like I was sneezing.”

I burst out laughing, almost choking. “You’re kidding.”

“Dead serious.” He looked at me then, smiling. “She said I was possessed by sarcasm. I told her that’s not a demon in the Bible.”

“You told a nun she was wrong about demonology?”

“I have regrets.”

I snorted, shaking my head. “Man, if I did that at Jefferson High, Mr. McConnell would just shrug and go back to his newspaper. He doesn’t care. I don’t think he knows half our names.”

Noah hummed, tracing patterns in the carpet with his finger. “Sometimes I wonder what it’s like. Your school.”

“Loud. Messy. People making out in stairwells. Someone always trying to sell knock-off Firebird patches from the flea market.”

“That sounds… terrifying.”

“It’s chaotic, but honest,” I said. “Nobody’s pretending.”

He was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. Then he said, almost too softly, “At my school, everyone's pretending. Even me.”

That silenced me.

The fan groaned again. The air in the room shifted, like something invisible leaned in.

“Pretending what?” I asked gently.

Noah didn’t answer at first. Just kept drawing spirals into the floor.

“That I'm... okay. That I believe everything they tell me. That I don't get confused, or scared, or angry. That I’m not…” He trailed off.

I sat up, the pillow forgotten in my lap. “You don’t have to be anyone else with me, you know.”

He glanced up. His eyes looked darker in the low light, like deep water.

“I know,” he said, barely above a whisper.

A moment passed. Then I grinned, trying to lift the weight in the air.

“So. Tell me. What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done in school?”

He blinked. “What?”

“C’mon. I told you about the time I threw a frog at Trevor Reese.”

Noah laughed despite himself. “That was horrible.”

“Your turn.”

He thought for a second. “Okay. I once wrote a love poem during theology class.”

“Oh scandalous.”

“It was about... a boy.”

I froze. He caught it. He looked suddenly like he’d said too much, like he was waiting for me to make a joke. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. My heart thumped once, loud in my chest.

Then I poked him in the ribs. Just a little.

He yelped, kicked at me with his heel.

“Don’t you dare,” he warned.

So of course I did it again.

In seconds, we were tangled in a half-hearted wrestling match on the floor, giggling like little kids even though we were already fifteen. He tried to sit on me. I rolled us over. He elbowed me in the side.

"Truce!" he gasped, breathless and red in the face.

I let him go.

But then he shoved me. And I fell. And somehow — somehow — I ended up on top of him. My arms on either side of his head. Our faces too close. Too close.

His laughter died.

Mine did too.

The room went very, very quiet.

I could hear the fan. His breathing. My heart thudding like it was trying to break out of my chest.

I didn’t move.

His lips were parted, just a little. His hair was a mess against the carpet. I thought — I thought maybe I could kiss him.

God, I wanted to.

“Noah…” I whispered.

I wasn’t even sure what I was going to say. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

His eyes flicked to my mouth, just for a second — barely there, but I saw it. Or thought I did.

And in that moment, the whole world seemed to tilt. I forgot how to breathe.

I could feel the warmth of him, right there beneath me. My fingers curled into the carpet on either side of his shoulders, just to stop myself from doing something stupid.

I wanted to tell him. Something. Anything. That this wasn’t a joke to me. That I’d been thinking about this — about him — more than I should. More than I was ready to admit.

But then… he pushed my face away. Firmly.

“Okay! That's too close,” he said, his voice too loud, too fast.

He rolled out from under me, scrambling upright like I’d shocked him. His cheeks were red. He laughed, but it was shaky, off-key. He wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“Don’t be weird, Caleb.”

“Yeah. Sorry,” I said quickly. “Just messing around.”

I smiled, because I didn’t know what else to do. But it didn’t reach my eyes.

He tossed a pillow at me, like nothing had happened. Like we hadn’t just crossed a line I wasn’t even sure how to explain.

And that was that.

We went back to talking — about comic books this time, I think — but not as easily. Not as closely. Something had shifted. And I couldn’t tell if he’d felt it too, or if he was doing a better job pretending it wasn’t there.

I stayed the night anyway.

He let me sleep in the bed, while he curled up on the couch by the window, claiming I snored like a train.

But I didn’t sleep.

I lay there for hours, tangled in his bedsheets, listening to the soft creak of the ceiling fan overhead and the faint hum of cicadas through the cracked window. His room smelled like soap and old paperbacks and the kind of summer air that made everything feel like it might last forever.

I watched his silhouette in the moonlight — how his arm dangled over the edge of the couch, how his chest rose and fell slow and steady, like the world hadn't tilted at all. Like I hadn’t almost leaned in too close. Like my face hadn’t hovered just inches from his.

I wondered if he could hear my heart still running laps. Wondered if he was awake, staring at the ceiling just like me. Wondered if I’d ruined something or if I’d barely stopped myself from doing something right.

Because when he pushed me away — not harsh, but clear — I’d laughed it off. Said something stupid like, “Jeez, calm down.” But my throat had gone dry, and I couldn’t look him in the eye after that. Not really.

I kept replaying the moment over and over, like a song stuck on a loop. The way his eyes widened for a second. The way his breath caught. The way I hesitated — just a second too long — like I might’ve meant it.

I didn’t know.

Not then.

But if I’d known what was coming…

God, I think I would’ve held on tighter. Or maybe let go completely.

Maybe both.