Page 47 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

“No?” he says on a question, like he doesn’t trust his opinion.

“Not my favorite either. I prefer my music louder, but maybe that was the thing with Simon. The music is kind of mellow and sad, like it’s one long exhale. Maybe he enjoyed it because the sound matched how he was feeling at the time. Or how he wanted to feel. Like he was dying to exhale.”

Max chews his lip, as though deep in thought. The girls giggle at their phones. A yellow-bellied warbler flits in the trees.

I do the opposite of those Elliott Smith exhale songs and suck in a shaky breath as I prepare for my next question. “When the book starts, Simon’s pretty secure in who he is. He’s obviously stressed about coming out and all the change ahead of him, and I don’t think he liked that his dad made all those off-the-cuff heterosexual comments, but how do you think Simon felt before the book starts? Like the years leading up to when we meet him?” When he was younger and closer to Max’s age.

Max scrunches his face and absentmindedly taps his foot on the grass. “I think,” he starts, then stops. The blush on his cheeks flushes redder. He eyes the Camila Cabello fan club, who wouldn’t notice if pigs started flying around us, then shifts his focus back to me. “I think he probably felt . . . alone. And maybe scared.”

“Yeah, I bet he felt really alone.” I’m practically whispering, barely blinking, worried one wrong move will shut him down. “But why scared? What do you think he was scared of?”

“I don’t know.”

“I bet feeling different was scary. Maybe he was wondering if something was wrong with him.”

“Maybe.” His foot tapping picks up speed, and that red flush travels down his neck. “And of people not liking him, maybe. Of his mom not liking him.”

I freeze midswallow. My insides shoot to a seven on the Richter scale.

If I had to guess, this is Max talking about Max. Not Max talking about Simon, who had a close relationship with both his parents, not just his mother. But that’s all Max has—a mom. Not four brothers like me. There’s no father in his life to worry about, although I’d take fatherless over a criminal asshole any day. He has one person in his corner, and I think he’s scared if he’s “different,” she might like him less.

At the end of the day, his true sexuality doesn’t matter. Max is ten. These are early days in his self-discovery. This conversation isn’t about him coming out or fully acknowledging what he is or isn’t feeling. It’s about me getting across that I’m a safe place. That in time, when he knows who I am, he can tell me anything without fear of judgment and will hopefully walk through his life stronger.

“That makes sense,” I say tentatively. “People in general can be uncomfortable when they meet others who are different from them. And Simon felt different from his family, but I also love that he still knew his family would support him. Like later, when we’re in his head, he’s still freaked out about saying the words out loud and changing their dynamic, but he’s not worried he won’t be loved.”

“Yeah,” he says, breathing harder. “I liked that part.”

“If I was Simon’s dad, I’d be sad if I knew he was sad or scared when he was younger, before the book starts. I’d probably wish I could go back in time and tell him he’s loved unconditionally. Because he was, even if his dad made heterosexual jokes too much.”

Max blinks a bunch, his attention firmly on the branch in his hands. I blink a bunch, willing my tear ducts to calm the fuck down. I want to fold Max into my arms, hug him fiercely. Give him nothing but love and comfort and unsay the careless girls will dig you comments I uttered.

“You’re as good as my mom at book club,” I say through the strain in my throat. “What should we read next?”

He twitches his nose and sniffles. “I just got If We Were Us from the library. And Divergent. And The Hate U Give.”

He really is a reading machine. Hard to believe he struggled reading early on. “Since you did a bang-up job on the last book, it’s your pick.”

“Divergent?”

“Divergent it is. We’ll convene for book club next week, same time, probably different place. Until then, I have another important question.”

He scratches his ear. “Okay?”

“Is it the color or taste of carrots you don’t like?” I steal another from his bag and crunch loudly.

He grins. “They taste boring.”

“Celery is boring. Celery tastes like nothing.”

“Not nothing. Celery tastes refreshing, like water. And sometimes it’s bitter in a good way.”

I make a face. “If you say so.”

“What’s with the weird ink on your neck?” His topic change jars me, but he smirks, blushing slightly. And wow. He’s also part Lennon, going for the snide jabs.

“This?” I point to the blurry lion that I maybe like a little more in this moment. “You don’t dig the dolphin on my neck?”

He rolls his eyes and laughs. “It’s not a dolphin.”