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“You’re always playin’,” I say. It’s like he’s always in a good mood, and I can’t help but feel that way when I’m around him.

“You like it.” He winks. I’ve never had a guy wink at me before, and it does funny things to my gut—makes me feel like I’m on a roller coaster, my stomach falling as I take a header off a steep drop.

I look away. Stop it. What the fuck are you doing?

“Let’s go eat. I’m starving,” I say, heading out of the water. Desmond comes with me. We go back to where our towels and bags are, and dry off before sliding our backpacks on. We stay shirtless—the air is still warm and perfect—before going to the boardwalk and finding an outdoor restaurant to eat at that’s not going to tell us no shoes, no shirt, no service.

“I got you,” Desmond says after we both order a burger, pulling his wallet out of his backpack.

“What? Fuck that. You don’t gotta buy my dinner.”

Desmond shrugs, and without looking at me, says, “I want to.”

I don’t argue after that. I try to ignore the way my skin feels tingly and just try to enjoy time with my boy. I hope we stay in contact after this, hope that, even though we don’t live anywhere near each other, Desmond and I will always be close.

We eat outside, then walk around the boardwalk for a bit. I buy us ice cream, since he bought dinner, then we make our way back to the beach.

It’s completely dead now, the evening turning darker and darker as we lie in the sand again, arms touching and looking up at the sky.

“You think you’re gonna go pro?” he asks.

“That’s the dream.”

“Me too. That’d be badass—both of us playing professional football one day. I’d smoke you, though.”

I laugh. “You wish.”

“Where do you want to go to college?” he asks.

“Ohio. You?”

“Georgia. It’s where my pops went.” Desmond and his dad are close. He’s told me a lot about him. His dad isn’t into football—or at least he wasn’t before Desmond was. He’s a professor at their local university, but as soon as he realized it’s what Desmond loved, he learned about the sport and found a way to love it too. He practices with Des and plays with him, even though Desmond was better than his father even as a kid.

“That’s cool,” I say, considering telling him about my mom, then feeling weird about it again. That’s deep shit to share with someone you’ve only known for two weeks, yet Desmond and I have been doing that the whole time, haven’t we? “My mom left a few months back. We thought everything was fine, and then she was just…gone. That’s why my dad and I are here alone.”

“Shit, man. I’m sorry. That’s fucked up.”

Yeah, yeah, it is. “Sucks. We used to be close. My dad is all torn up about it. He’s head over fucking heels for her. It’s why he’s too sad to do much this vacation.”

“That’s rough. I’m sorry you’re going through that. Tell me a fun story about him…your dad.”

His request surprises me for a moment, confuses me a little too, but then I realize I want to share stories about him. Want to share with him how great my father is, even though right now I’ve never felt further away from him. “Okay,” I say, and then we just…talk: about my dad, my mom, ourselves, his family, football, school—everything. We talk until the night is black and silver dots of light paint the sky, share whatever the hell comes to mind for fucking hours, like we haven’t spent every moment together since the first day of our vacation.

I like talking with him, maybe more than I’ve ever liked talking to anyone.

Eventually, the conversation slows down, the silences stretching more and more between us. They’re comfortable, though—not heavy or awkward.

During one of those silences, I feel his finger brush against mine. My first instinct is to pull away. That it has to be an accident, and I should want it to be an accident, but I don’t.

I hold my breath, don’t move, and a few seconds later Des does it again, and then I’m doing the same to him, brushing our fingers together, moving closer, turning my hand over, and then his fingers are locked with mine.

I’m holding Desmond’s hand.

I’m holding a dude’s hand…and I like it.

“This cool?” he asks, willing to just put it out there in a way I never could. Des says what’s on his mind, and maybe I do with some things, but not most of the ones that matter.

“Yeah,” I reply, voice rough. “Your hand is big,” I say. Then, “Fuck, that was dumb. I’m just not used to…you know.”