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“Do I have to open it right now?” Bren asked as he avoided Mam’s misty gaze.

“It’s not like she’ll curse you if you don’t.”

Bren’s last sip of tea almost came back up as, on the off-chance Hell was real, his body fought with everything it had not to laugh.

“Mam!”

“Oh, come on,” Mam said, waving her hand. “Don’t tell me you forgot what she was like. It hasn’t been that long.”

It was impossible to argue with her. A rush of memories rose in him. Nan visiting after somebody’s funeral to give Mam the rundown of the event. She even had her own rating system—anything with thick-cut ham started at a B and it only went up from there.

“Okay,” Bren said, slipping the letter into his pocket. “Guess I better go pack, then.”

“If there’s anything you want that I missed, the washing powder’s where it always is.”

Bren took his tea with him, waving thanks, and set it down on his nightstand with a sigh. Two suitcases were open on his bed, a pile of folded socks and jocks next to them—like Mam was sure he’d forget to pack them if she didn’t remind him.

He put in a layer of clothes, then gathered the spattering of things that he needed to make the trip, even if they weren't essential: The picture of him and Arlo from their first Halloween together, the collection of mix CDs that kept growing with every milestone they shared. His thumb hovered along the gap in the letter’s seal as he held it above the suitcases.

Bren.

He hadn’t seen his name written in that overly swoopy hand since he was thirteen. She’d told him flat out once that she only busted out her “good cursive” for the younger generation. Something about not making it too easy for them, and how if she had to learn to make her words pretty, then the least people could do was learn to read it.

The adhesive strained against the faded paper as the traces of his cat-self urged him to look inside.

Instead, he grabbed his favourite sky-blue shirt and folded it around the last thing Nan would ever say to him.

He’d waited four years without knowing. What was another couple of days?

52

The human body was a wonderful, horrifying thing when you got down to it. Bits of electrified meat wrapped around something that people use to decorate their houses for Halloween. Skin and sinew to hold everything together. Dozens of liquids and a whole slew of beneficial hitchhikers to keep everything harmonious.

The only reason he was able to feel the peach fuzz on the back of Bren’s neck was because his electrified meat was sending signals to the wet sponge in his skull that controlled the whole unsettling shebang.

Really, wires and gears were probably the more elegant system in the end.

Still, he was so glad for all the pieces that made up the wonder of a boy lying in bed beside him. Their months apart suddenly disappeared, and it felt like the last time he’d seen him was yesterday morning.

They’d found their way back together again, just like Bren had promised.

A floorboard overhead creaked as the smell of fresh popcorn wafted into the Moores’ guest room. Since he’d only gotten there a couple hours ago, the room lacked the telltale signs that cropped up in whatever place was unfortunate enough to have Bren O’Shea hunker down in it—it was possible to see the floor, for one.

That was a thought. Whether it was because of the necessity of keeping things in order so your dad didn’t have to use an identity cane in his own house, or the unsettled buzzing in his head that happened whenever things got too out of order, his room had never gotten to the catastrophic state that seemed typical of his other friends.

If he and Bren ended up living together instead of in their own rooms on campus, would this detail about his boyfriend move from charming to fight-fuel?

His thumb slipped down to Bren’s wrist, trailing up until it reached the pale scar along the edge of Bren’s hand. The anxiety that had surged in him when Bren had mentioned that he needed ten stitches had faded fast, but the strange sense of loss that followed set up shop without ever fully going away.

Bren’s hand had been hurt badly enough in home economics that a piece of him had changed forever, and A.J. hadn’t been there. He knew Bren would say it was silly if he ever told him how heavy that sat in his heart—and maybe it was—but it was still something he promised himself he’d never let happen again.

“Hey. Bren. They’re getting ready to start the movie.”

He stroked a ginger wave off Bren’s forehead with a touch as soft as falling snow. Unsurprisingly, Bren’s only answer was the same soft exhalation he’d been making since he lay down to “rest his eyes” thirty minutes ago.

There wasn’t any part of A.J. that wanted to wake his adorably jetlagged boyfriend, but Bren had been firm about it back when he’d been conscious. He needed to stay up until at least eleven so he’d beat the jetlag in time to feel human for graduation.

Since it was barely seven, A.J. didn’t think he’d be thanked for calling it good enough and letting him coast through the rest of the night.