And he thinks about Henry’s guardedness, the way he carries himself with a careful separation from the world around him, the tension at the corner of his mouth. Then he thinks: Jf there was a prince, and he was gay, and he kissed someone, and maybe it mattered, that prince might have to run a little bit of interference. And in one great mercurial swing, Alex is not just angry anymore. He’s sad too. He paces back over to the door and slides his phone out of his messenger bag, thumbs open his messages. He doesn’t know which impulse to follow and wrestle into words that he can say to someone and make something, anything, happen. Faintly, under it all, it occurs to him: This is all a very not-straight way to react to seeing your male frenemy kissing someone else in a magazine. A little laugh startles out of him, and he walks over to his bed and sits on the edge of it, considering. He considers texting Nora, asking her if he can come over to finally have some big epiphany. He considers calling Rafael Luna and meeting him for beers and asking to hear all about his first gay sexual exploits as an REIwearing teenage antifascist. And he considers going downstairs and asking Amy about her transition and her wife and how she knew she was different. But in the moment, it feels right to go back to the source, to ask someone who’s seen whatever is in his eyes when a boy touches him. Henry’s out of the question. Which leaves one person. “Hello?” says the voice over the phone. It’s been at least a year since they last talked, but Liam’s Texas drawl is unmistakable and warm in Alex’s eardrum. He clears his throat. “Uh, hey, Liam. It’s Alex.” “T know,” Liam says, desert-dry. “How, um, how have you been?” A pause. The sound of quiet talking in the background, dishes. “You wanna tell me why youre really calling, Alex?” “Oh,” he starts and stops, tries again. “This might sound weird. But, um. Back in high school, did we have, like, a thing? Did I miss that?” There’s a clattering sound on the other side of the phone, like a fork being dropped on a plate. “Are you seriously calling me right now to talk about this? ’m at lunch with my boyfriend.” “Oh.” He didn’t know Liam had a boyfriend. “Sorry.” The sound goes muffled, and when Liam speaks again, it’s to someone else. “It’s Alex. Yeah, him. I don’t know, babe.” His voice comes back clear again. “What exactly are you asking me?” “T mean, like, we messed around, but did it, like, mean something?” “T don’t think I can answer that question for you,” Liam tells him. If he’s still anything like Alex remembers, he’s rubbing one hand on the underside of his jaw, raking through the stubble. He wonders faintly if, perhaps, his clear-as-day memory of Liam’s stubble has just answered his own question for him. “Right,” he says. “You're right.” “Look, man,” Liam says. “I don’t know what kind of sexual crisis you’re having right now like, four years after it would have been useful, but, well. I’m not saying what we did in high school makes you gay or bi or whatever, but I can tell you I’m gay, and that even though I acted like what we were doing wasn’t gay back then, it super was.” He sighs. “Does that help, Alex? My Bloody Mary is here and I need to talk to it about this phone call.” “Um, yeah,” Alex says. “I think so. Thanks.” “You're welcome.” Liam sounds so long-suffering and tired that Alex thinks about all those times back in high school, the way Liam used to look at him, the silence between them since, and feels obligated to add, “And, um. I’m sorry?” “Jesus Christ,” Liam groans, and hangs up.