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“And what if he does?”

There was a lengthy pause this time, and when Arlo spoke, some of his early-days’ voice had found its way there.

“T-then he’ll miss out on his boyfriend, who kinda wants to make sure he dreams about . . . something other than jam-jams tonight.”

Bren shoved the jamless halves into a container and slammed the lid down.

“Oh, man, I’m real sleepy, like.”

There was enough of a pause that he almost checked in on Arlo, but he pushed through the quiet.

“Alright, well, go get ready and stuff, then, uh, check your texts.”

“Yes, sir, assertive Robolad, sir.”

Arlo’s laughter was loud and the part of Bren’s heart that wasn’t concerned with more exhilarating things shone brighter.

He was about to tell Arlo he’d see him in a few dreams when he said, “Hey, Bren?”

That other feeling in his heart shunted his more urgent need aside.

“Yeah?”

“Just . . . thanks for caring about me so much.”

“It’s hard not to, Arlo.”

There was silence again, followed by a watery sniff. They still had a long way to go for him to see himself how others did, but that was OK—they’d have their whole lives to work on it.

47

April showers seldom brought May flowers in southern Saskatchewan. Largely because the showers were clumps of wet snow that worked inside your shoes no matter how careful you were.

This spring masquerading as winter also brought a flurry of time spent with Dustin. Sometimes Dustin and his friends, sometimes a mix of both groups, but never the two of them on their own until last Saturday.

“Guess that’s my bad, eh?” Dustin rubbed the back of his neck as the two-star rating mocked their most recent Rock Band performance.

“Meh. We were just honoring the spirit of the song,” A.J. said, though he was glad Patrick Stump hadn’t been here to witness what they’d done to Dead on Arrival—even if it had been all Dustin’s fault.

“Yeah, I’m sure it’s what Fall Out Boy would have wanted.”

Dustin twirled the plastic drumstick between his fingers, but he fumbled it and it clattered across the basement floor.

“You know they’re all still alive, right?” A.J. asked, scooping the drumstick up.

“What?”

He suppressed a laugh. “Never mind.”

It had been like this the last time they’d hung out solo, too. A couple of hours messing around on YouTube between spurts of jerky conversations that didn’t go anywhere.

“So, you’re really not gonna see Bren till August?”

“What?” He checked to see if Dustin was joking, but the somber expression on his face said he was being sincere.

“Not unless we both get into school over here,” A.J. said, handing Dustin the drumstick.

“Bro, I’m sorry. That sucks.”