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I don’t argue. I used to stand up for Dimi after he broke up with me, because the memories of his affection and attention clouded everything else, because I blamed myself for the breakup. It’s funny how having your heartbroken is always your own fault at first.

I redirect our conversation: “How are things with Uncle Gabe?”

Uncle D’s reaction is instant. Brown eyes light up like sunlight pouring through a glass of stout. An upward curve pulls at his mouth. The push of his cheeks forms deep crinkles by his eyes. It’s the kind of contagious thing that makes my stupid heart roar.

“Good. Things arereallygood.”

Our shoulders bump again. I watch the way Uncle D rubs his hands together. His chin is lowered, his mouth twitches. He’s holding something in, something big, something important like—

“Oh my god, Uncle D!”

He flinches.

“Are you gonna propo—”

A wild look passes over his face. “Christ almighty, don’t let your Aunt Sandra hear you take the Lord’s name in vain.”

We grin at each other. Uncle D leans forward, legs pulled to his chest, elbows on his knees. He’s an awkward grasshopper—like me, but not.

“It’s about time, isn’t it? Eight years seems long enough, right?”

“Eightmonthsis a long time for me, Uncle D.”

In Uncle D’s eyes, I can see lightning and shadows; love and fear. A million things I thought I knew from being with Dimi, but I don’t. Not like Uncle D.

“You’re really going to pop the question?” I ask.

“I—” He cuts himself off as if the words are there, but he’s scared to set them free too soon. “Yeah.”

“Yeah? That’s cool.”

“You think so?”

“Uncle Gabe is gonna cry.”

“I might too.”

We exhale together, happy and content. I want to stay here forever.

I was too young to understand the impact of Uncle D’s coming out. He was in his mid-twenties; I was transitioning from crayons to markers. I didn’t know the doors he was opening or the wars he fought inside himself. He’s not like my dad or Aunt Sandra. Uncle D lives in the quiet spaces rather than in the bright and loud center like his siblings. All my life, it’s as though Uncle D was in a battle with who he was and who he wasn’t.

Then Uncle Gabriel came around. And Uncle D became this Technicolor version of himself. It was like that old movie,the Wizard of Oz, where everything suddenly transitions from black-and-white to vibrant and captivating color. Uncle Gabriel is amazing. He’s always the first to make a joke, he was always the one to let me climb on his back for a stroll through the park. Because of them, gay wasn’t a word I had to incorporate into my vocabulary to understand someone who was different. It just existed, free and normal. I wonder if, for me, being queer will ever mean being free, being anything other than different.

“Hey,” whispers Uncle D, nudging my knee, “Another guy will come around.”

“No, Uncle D, that’snotthe plan.”

“It’s not?”

“No other boys. No relationships.”

Uncle D rolls his eyes.

“I’m seventeen, and it feels like that’s all I am. Boys. Crushes. Dimi.” I glare at the grass as the wind bends it. “That’s not who I want to be.” And then, because my mouth is on a roll and my nerves are free-falling, I say, “I don’t know who I am. There’s this essay for AP Lit where I’m supposed to figure all this shit out, but—”

Uncle D waits, patient and quiet.

“I have no effing clue.” I press my bare feet into the grass, just to feel the prickle against my skin. To absorb the warmth, push back the cold clenching my bones.