Page 41

I shake my head.

He orders for us: matcha milk tea for himself, banana for me. Bubblegum Girl seems uninterested, but she gives Ian a shy wave as we leave. I raise an eyebrow—not one of those “He’s Mine” ones—and her eyes quickly drop back to her graphic novel.

“My imo…” Ian pauses. We’re walking aimlessly around the plaza. “…my Aunt Jilynn is bomb at making boba. She’s got serious skills.”

His eyes track passing cars, all fleeing the cracked pavement for the main road. He stirs his tea with the thick straw that’s meant to capture all the tapioca balls at the bottom of the sea of green. The balls are this chewy-soft burst of tea when you mash them on your tongue. It’s strange, at first, but a nice contrast to the sweetness of the milk.

Ian says, “She’s hella cool. She’s fluent in Korean and speaks some Chinese too.”

The wind whispers a hello around us. I listen to Ian’s voice. I love this part—unlocking little mysteries in someone new: their likes and dislikes, their secrets and joys.

“My Korean is out of practice.” He says it with regret, as if that’s something bad.

I nudge his elbow. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Aunt Jilynn notices everything,” he tells me.

“Are you out to your family?” I ask, because I’m curious, because I want him to know I’m trustworthy.

Our lazy stroll stops in the middle of the parking lot. The sky is ripe peach, minutes from turning dark. Halogen lights click on, framing miles and miles of dark asphalt in waves of pale silver. The air has a perfect October bite to it—chilly but not uncomfortable. It’s hoodie weather. A coat of Chipotle’s spicy scents wraps around us.

“My parents know.” Ian, all denim and soft hair peeking from under his beanie, stares at the gray outline of the moon. “That was interesting.”

Simultaneously, we sip more tea. I give him space to elaborate.

“Dad doesn’t say much about it. He doesn’t seem bothered, though.” His eyebrows drop; his teeth gnaw at his straw. “My mom prefers not to talk about it. It’s how her family is. They’re the old school, hard-working family. Head down, never do anything to attract attention. But I don’t think that’s who she is on the inside.”

“Who is she?”

“The woman who dances to Prince by herself.”

“I get that.”

Ian lasers me with a doubtful stare.

“Seriously!” I try not to choke. “It’s not easy, even with a family supportive as mine.”

“Yeah?” Sarcasm has fled his voice, replaced by hope.

“My Aunt Sandra is a hardcore, church-every-Sunday, thou-shall-not southerner.” I chuckle around my straw. “She’s not the biggest queer-rights cheerleader. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t love me though. I know she does.”

Ian’s eyes are unreadable, but the slow-motion lift of his lips says enough. He understands.

We stay still. The moon doubles in size, or maybe it’s the way my eyes try not to focus on Ian’s mouth, and his eyelashes, and the way his hair catches on a breeze to sweep across the bridge of his nose. I’m trying not to focus on the sad, pathetic jolt of my heart. But something is happening. I can see it, highlighted in Technicolor-brilliance that nearly blinds me.

Ian’s hand twitches by his side, so close to mine. And then he says, “Can I hold your hand?”

“What?”

He flinches. Louder, he asks, “Can I hold your hand?”

“You’re actuallyaskingme?” I’m confused. “I mean, people don’t usually do that.”

“I do.”

Obviously. But I just blink at him a few times. I’m surprised.

“My halmeoni…” He stops, sucking in a breath. “That’s grandmother in Korean.” He says it so proudly that I grin. “She taught me you should always ask for consent to touch someone, to hug them or hold their hand, anything. She didn’t like being touched by strangers, not even hugs.”