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“Late night, Remy.”

These are the first words she’s said since I tiptoed inside, three minutes past curfew. To be fair, I wasn’t late. Time doesn’t exist during kisses on the front step, at least, not during Ian’s kisses.

I clear my throat. “Not too late.”

“I’ve seen worse.” I can hear the snark in her voice. Dimi was a terrible influence. If I was making out with him—or other things—I was usually grounded for coming home too latebecause of him.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re young.” Her hand is on my head; my curls twine around her fingers. “Ian seems nice.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Uh huh.”

She’s waiting for more. I’m afraid to give it to her, not because my mom isn’t great with me being gay or dating, but because I haven’t pieced together what information is worth releasing and what I need to keep close to my chest, just in case Ian’s nothing more than a friend. Friends that kiss but don’t date exist, right?

“He likes you.”

“Okay, let’s not assume things, Mom.”

“It’s not an assumption.” When my eyes open, she’s smirking—that I Know Things smirk trademarked by most moms. Then, in a serious tone, she says, “Be careful. Not with just your heart; use protection.”

I resist screaming out of respect for Willow. But it burbles in my throat, lava-hot. “Mom,” I hiss to alleviate some of the pressure.

“I’m not ready to be a grandmother.” The urgency has faded, replaced by humor. “I haven’t even gone through my Britney Spears phase yet.”

“Which one? Catholic schoolgirl? Snake girl? Shaved head? Barefoot at a gas station?”

“Oh, honey,” Mom’s mouth curves upward, “All the Britney phases are important.”

In the dark, the television screen’s bluish glow brushes over Mom’s crow’s feet, across those miniature wrinkles around her mouth. Her strawberry-blonde hair is beginning to lose some of its luster. She’s notold, but age is catching her.

Her fingers shift in my curls. “I want to be that cool grandmother who still wears sports bras and track pants.”

I groan. “That won’t be happening,” I say. “I’m gay, remember?”

Mom blows a raspberry that shakes Clover awake. It’s almost the same reaction she had when I came out. I was thirteen and decided to do it the summer before freshman year, before the Age of Remy, the Gay One. She and Dad were right here, on the sofa. I told them in the most unique way I could think of: strolling into the living room, ruining a perfectly nice button-down shirt by ripping it open like Clark Kent changing into Superman to reveal a T-shirt that said “PROUD” with a rainbow over the letters. I thought I was badass.

Dad blinked at me for a minute, head cocked. He was confused. But Mom—she blew a raspberry, pulled me down between them, and turned on coverage of NYC Pride. We watched, the three of us, all the rainbow flags and floats filled with dancing people and joy, pure joy.

“Okay, so what’s the big deal?” Mom said. Then she laughed, wetly, with my head tucked under her chin. “We’rethe proud ones, Remy. Thank you for being yourself.”

Dad patted my curls and whispered, “Love you, kiddo.”

That was it. Honestly, it was incredible. I cried afterward, locked in my bedroom, with power-pop on full blast. But I wasn’t sad. I was so damn happy. Yes, it took Dad some time to adjust to me talking about boyslike that. No, Mom didn’t join the local chapter of PFLAG. They both struggled in the beginning with Dimi. It was frustrating, but I recognized something important: My parents aren’t perfect.

“Being gay doesn’t mean you can’t have children, Remy,” Mom reminds me. Her lips are pursed; her intense eyes watch me. I sense a speech coming. “When doctors said I couldn’t have children naturally, I didn’t mourn the loss. Your father didn’t either. We knew what we wanted. Adoption was the best thing ever.”

I blink at her. Everything around us softens: Clover’s snores, Willow’s exhales, the television.

“Adopting you was the best thing,” she pauses. A grin overtakes her face. “Adopting youisthe best thing that happened to us. You know that, right?”

“Yeah.”

“The best thing, Remy.”

Our smiles are the same size, shape, everything. Is that possible? I’m not their blood, but so much of who I am—internally and externally—is my parents.