“Yes?”
“Your mom still loves me.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“She offered me a slice of cinnamon pear pie.” I motion with my chin. “Downstairs. Just now. Moms don’t do that to people they hate.”
“Is that right?” He looks me over warily, then steps to one side.
I walk into his room and am met with a tidal wave of the smell of him. The Old Spice deodorant that smells horrible on every other guy at school, but for some reason, on Cam, crackles like a beach bonfire. Then there’s his sandalwood shampoo. His citrus detergent. It all swirls together, mingling but not completely mixed, so I keep catching different notes of him. I take a deep breath, but it does nothing to help me focus.
“Are you okay?” Cam asks.
Of course not, I think.I’m obsessed with you, and you hate me.
“Chin-ups,” I say instead, which is somehow an even worse response.
Cam looks at the bar over his shoulder. “Oh yeah, sorry. I was working out for a while, so it’s probably pretty warm in here.”
Steam might actually come out of my ears.
I thrust the pile of treasure hunt stuff—everything I’ve gathered this spring—toward Cam’s chest. He looks down at the bundle in my hands.
“What’s this?”
“It’s yours,” I say. “Take it. Please.”
He shakes his head. “I already took my book back. You found these things fair and square.”
“Well, that pipe sticking out of the wall was definitely more of a circle,” I say, then grimace. “Bad joke. The point is”—I swallow and look up at him—“this was always your hunt. You brought it over as something special to share with me, and I basically ripped it away from you. I’m sorry I have the sharing skills of an only child during their first week at preschool.”
He cocks his head. “That’s…an oddly specific metaphor.”
“It was a hard week for me.” I push the things slightly closer to him, to the point where he finally brings his hands up to take them.
“Can we talk about something? Unrelated to all this?” I ask.
Cam sighs and sets the things down on his bed. “I don’t know, Ivy. I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“Or it’s a brilliant idea, because all we’ve ever done until now is shout back and forth over the elephant in the room.”
He rubs his neck and looks away. “Look, maybe we’re just better off—”
“You’re hot,” I say. I step to one side to catch his gaze, even though my face feels like it’s going to melt completely off my skull.
“You were hot when we were younger too,” I explain. “I’ve always loved your eyes. And I feel like that one time I accidentally got my fingers caught in your hair was my first ever sexual awakening.”
He lets out a gruff laugh but won’t quite meet my eyes.
“But you’re much, much hotter now. Your voice makes my skin vibrate. Every time you wear a sleeveless shirt, like now, for instance, I get really itchy.”
A muscle on his bicep flexes involuntarily. My heart leaps into my throat.
“Why are you saying this?” he rasps.
I raise my hands and drop them to my sides. “I don’t know, Cam. Because I’m confused. I like you, but I am also queer. I’m pretty sure I’m pansexual, actually. And both those things are important to me. I should’ve done a better job of explaining what my queerness means for me and, maybe, what it could mean for us.”
Cam turns directly to me. “Why didn’t you do that before? Explain any of this?”
