First published in the USA in 2007 by Alfred A Knopf,

an imprint of Random House Children’s Books,

a division of Random House Inc, New York

First published in Great Britain in 2014

by Electric Monkey, an imprint of Egmont UK Limited

The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

Text copyright © 2007 Rachel Cohn and David Levithan

The moral rights of the authors have been asserted

First e-book edition 2014

ISBN 978 1 4052 7244 5

eISBN 978 1 7803 1501 0

www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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EGMONT

Our story began over a century ago, when seventeen-year-old Egmont Harald Petersen found a coin in the street. He was on his way to buy a flyswatter, a small hand-operated printing machine that he then set up in his tiny apartment.

The coin brought him such good luck that today Egmont has offices in over 30 countries around the world. And that lucky coin is still kept at the company’s head offices in Denmark.

To Nancy the First

Electric Monkey books by David Levithan

Every Day

How They Met and Other Stories

Two Boys Kissing

Written with Rachel Cohn

Naomi and Ely’s No Kiss List

Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Front series promotional page

Naomi: SHIVER

Bruce the Second: DIAL

Bruce the First: INSOMNIA

Ely: KEY

Naomi: ORBIT

Ely: KNOCKDOWN

Robin(): VELMA

Bruce the Second: MUTANT

Naomi: MO(U)RNING

Ely: WEEKIVERSARY

Kelly: BINGO

Naomi: REALIZE

Gabriel: TRACKS

Bruce the Second: OUT

STARBUCKS

Bruce the First: LIKEWISE

Robin(): FRIENDS

Gabriel: TIGER

Bruce the Second: FAIR

Naomi: UP

Ely: EASY

Naomi: EXPECTATION

Ely: CORNER

Naomi: CLOSETS

Ely: CLOSE

Acknowledgements

Back series promotional page

Egmont Press: Ethical Publishing

I lie all the time.

I lied to Mrs. Loy from the fourteenth floor when I assured her that I walked her dog three times a day and watered her plants while she went to Atlantic City to win the money for her son’s sad operation (or for her own elective plastic surgery – I’m not sure).

I lied to the co-op board of my family’s apartment building about my mom’s episode that left our living room wall in partial collapse soon after Dad left. I also backed up Mom’s lies to the board that we’d pay for the damage. Monkeys will fly outta my butt before we’ll be able to come up with the money to fix the fallout. The way I figure, if Mom and I aren’t bothered by living in ruins, why should the co-op board care?

I lied to the NYU Admissions Committee that I care about my future and my education. I’m barely a year out of high school, and already I know this NYU deal is a losing proposition. I live out the college freshman lie to hold on to the only thing in my life that’s not in ruins – Ely.

I lied to Robin ( ) from psych class when I assured her that Robin ( ) from that time at the Starbucks at Eighth and University her and will call her. There’s no $$$ for me to move into the school dorms, and Robin’s a sophomore with a rare single who goes home on the weekends and lets me use her place when I need to escape The Building. The apartment building where I’ve lived my whole life may be situated on prime Greenwich Village real estate, but escape from it is my prime priority: escape from parent drama or my lies or Mr. McAllister, the creepy up-and-down elevator man who lives down the hall from Mrs. Loy and who’s been ogling me since I was thirteen and my breasts first announced themselves in the elevator mirror.

I’ve lied to Mom every time I’ve told her I’ve stayed the night at Robin’s when really I’ve stayed over at my boyfriend’s dorm room. I lie to myself that I need to lie about my whereabouts. It’s not like Bruce the Second and I are doing it. We’re more about a in bed, then turn out the light, and – just sleep – ’til he leaves in the morning for his accounting class. I lie to him that I think accounting is a worthwhile subject to study.

I lied to Robin ( ) when he won our chess game in Washington Square Park after that time with Robin ( ), and the price of my loss was my supposed obligation to answer Truth to his midnight question. Robin said he’d watched five men trip over themselves from checking me out, while I merely glared at them. Robin wanted to know if I use my beauty for good or evil. Evil, I assured him. Lie. Truth: I’m as pure as fresh snow over Washington Square Park on a winter morning, before the dogs and people and machines of this hard, hard city batter its perfect, peaceful beauty.

I lied to Bruce the Second when I promised we would have sex, the real kind, soon. Very soon. We’d barely made it to when his R.A. walked in and interrupted us. It felt like cheating on Ely.

I lied to Bruce the First when I let him believe he would be my first. Ely is supposed to be first. I can wait. Then maybe I’ll let Bruce the Second truly be second.

I lied to the three different men and one girl at the Astor Place Starbucks who eyed me in the wall mirror today and then wanted to sit in the empty chair opposite mine. I pretended I didn’t hear them through my . They could go themselves elsewhere. I placed my feet up on the empty chair, to reserve it for Ely. Only Ely.

Mostly, I lie to Ely. lie to ee-lie.

Ely calls my cell while I lie in wait for him. “I’m running late. Be there in about fifteen minutes. Hold my chair for me. Love you.” He hangs up before I can reply. I lie to Starbucks that I even drink Starbucks while lounging around in their chairs, killing time.

We’ve already survived so much together, what’s fifteen minutes more to wait for him? His absence is time gained to spool my un-truths.

I lied to Ely when I told him I forgive his mom for what happened between our parents. I lied to Ely that I’m happy for him since his parents worked things out and stayed together even though mine didn’t and now my dad lives not in The Building anymore, far away.

I lied to my mom that the damage is done but it’s fine if she needs to take her time to process the fallout before she can find her future. I lied by comforting her that I believe she’ll make it through. It’s not that I don’t think she can. She just doesn’t want to.

I lie to all the related parties when I let them believe Dad calls my cell to check in on me every week. Once a month (the odd-numbered ones) is more like it.

Dad’s not worried about me. He knows I have Ely.

Ely rarely leaves me, or ends a phone call, without first telling me “I love you.” It’s Ely’s way of saying “goodbye” – like a promise toward our future time together. I lie when I throw back the words “I love you, too.”

The complexity embedded in the different levels of meaning that go along with the words “I love you” ought to be a whole mindfuck of a video game, if anyone ever wanted to develop the concept.

Player One: Naomi.

Level 1: “I love you” to my mom, meaning I love you for giving me life, nurturing me, driving me crazy but still inspiring me, even through your heartache. Basic.

Level 2: “I love you” to my dad, said with sincerity that’s tinged with coldness, distrustful whether he can actually deliver on the sentiment when he returns it. Harder.

Level 3: The playful “I love you” I throw at my boyfriend when he waits for me outside my class with a hot coffee and a donut. This grade of “I love you” is understood to have no intent whatsoever of L-O-V-E luuuv. Our relationship is too new for that, and he understands this, too. When Bruce the Second says “I love you” after I . . . do certain things with him, he is careful to immediately divert away, like “I love you when you yell at the frat guys making too much noise down the halls when we’re alone in my room. You give most excellent bitch tirade, and now all those guys only envy me more. I love you for that.” Whatever.

Levels 4–9: Expressions of passion for the great loves of my life, like disco music, Snickers bars, the Cloisters, the NBA, stairwell games, the luck to have a life lived with Ely.

Here’s where the game gets trickiest.

Level 10 (but on a whole other plane, where maybe numbers can’t even exist): When I tell Ely “I love you,” but I’m not lying to him. I’m lying to myself. He absorbs my words as if they’re natural, coming from his best friend / almost-a-sister. And Player One: Naomi does mean it that way. Genuinely. But maybe other ways, too. The confusing and impossible ways.

Game stalled.

Truth intrudes.

Lies are easier to process.

I lied to Ely that I’m okay with gay. I am. Just not for Ely. He was supposed to belong to me in the Happily Ever After. Manifest destiny.

I lied to Ely that of course I recognized his true manifest destiny was the queendom of queerdom and hadn’t that been obvious all along? Right! And great! Except not! We’ve practically been promised to each other from childhood, grew up side by side, his family in 15J, mine in 15K. Naomi & Ely. Ely & Naomi. Never one without the other. Just ask anyone within a ten-block radius of the Fourteenth Street Whole Foods, where the entire Indian hot-bar section witnessed the disaster fallout between our two sets of parents. Naomi & Ely: played doctor ( ) / nurse ( ) together; learned how to kiss while rehearsing in private for the lead roles in our junior high production of Guys and Dolls together; shared a locker and their high school experiences together; and chose to attend NYU together, chose to remain side by side at home instead of move into the nearby dorms, for reasons of cost efficiency and of Naomi & Ely co-dependency.

When Ely finally finds me at Starbucks, he’s breathless and red-cheeked from running in the winter cold. He collapses into the chair I’ve reserved for him.

I hand Ely the hot chocolate the Starbucks manager comped me. “Get up,” I tell him. “We gotta go.”

“Why, Naomi?” he pleads. “Why? I only just got here.”

I grab his free hand and we’re off, right back outside onto the cold, hard pavement, where we immediately fall into the typical Naomi & Ely routine of hand-and-cup-holding, hurried-walking-and-talking-while-maneuvering-through-sidewalk-people lockstep.

“Trust me,” I say.

He doesn’t ask where I’m leading him. “Was it so necessary to make me miss the MacDougal Street café study session with the cute T.A. from my econ class to discuss your latest misdiagnosis? You don’t have cancer, Naomi. And in case you didn’t notice, it’s like thirty degrees outside and there are ways I’d rather be spending my time than freezing my ass off walking down this sidewalk. For instance, making eyes at the cute T.A. – in a heated café, by the way.” Ely extracts his one hand from mine, gives his hot chocolate over to me to hold with his other hand, and then places both his hands together at his mouth, to warm them. I want to do the breathing for him.

It would not be a lie to say I like cold. It’s what I yearn for most. To shiver.

“How can you not be concerned that I might have cancer?” I ask. “I found a lump on my breast.” Touch it, Ely. Touch it.

“Lie. Not only are you biting your lip, which you always do when you lie, but your mom told me about the alleged lump in the elevator this morning. The doctor said it was an overgrown pimple.”

Monkeys!

I must distract Ely from my lie. I stop us at a fence in front of a schoolyard playground. The school building behind it is massive, dank and dirty, graffiti-covered, with bars on the windows. The playground is all blacktop surrounded by dilapidated fence grating.

“I think we should get married here,” I tell Ely.

“Oh, my darling Naomi, you’re making me swoon from the gritty romance of it all. What happened to the Temple of Dendur inside the Met? I agreed to that one just so I can see you wearing the Nefertiti ivory gown, with Cleopatra kohl-eyes. You’re one girl who could totally pull off the ancient Egyptian goddess look.”

“What will the groom wear?”

“The same.”

Wrong wrong wrong. I must correct him.

“Not you and me get married here, Ely. Me and he.” I point to the hoops player on the blacktop who’s just landed an amazing three-pointer in the netless basketball rim. The player reaches his arms up and out in a V pose, causing the hoodie over his head to fall to his shoulders and present his beautiful face for our full viewing pleasure.

Ely’s eyes meet mine. “So worth missing a study session for,” he says, smiling.

He should know to trust me. Even when I’m lying.

We admire. Gabriel is not only the hottest guy on the court, he’s also the star player. Run. Pass. Jump. Dunk. WOW. Graveyard-shift doorman by night, superstar pickup b-ball player by day.

When the game ends, the players leave the court, sprinting off toward warm homes, I hope. Ely and I duck our heads low as they pass our salivating-at-the-fence, la-di-da, nothing-to-notice-here stance.

Once they’re gone, Ely bows down to me, as I’m owed. Discovering the early-evening hangout place of the new night doorman at our building, whom everyone in our building wants to know more about – but no one really knows anything about him other than how gorgeous he is, and whatever more there is to know, Gabriel’s not telling – that’s some prime sleuthing on my part.

When he raises himself from his bow, Ely turns around and slumps his back against the fence. He lets out an infatuated sigh. “I can’t believe we haven’t done this earlier, but clearly Gabriel belongs on the No Kiss List. Let’s put him at the bottom, since he’s new. He should work his way up.”

Ely and I created the No Kiss List™ in the aftermath of a long-ago Spin the Bottle party, still sometimes referred to as the You-Made-Out-With-Me-To-Make-Donnie-Weisberg-Jealous! ! Incident. Our No Kiss List™ is an ever-changing one, almost like a sentient being, chemically formed by Ely’s ratio of Obsessive Study Time vs. Observational Boy Crush Time, and my ratio of PMS vs. boredom. By agreeing in advance that certain people are off-limits, even truly, madly kissable ones – I’m talking it hurts knowing that person’s lips will never touch yours because of your own vow of no-kissiness – Ely and I keep our friendship free of jealousy. The No Kiss List™ is our insurance against a Naomi & Ely breakup.

If our parents had created a No Kiss List™, they could have saved us all a lot of grief. The next generation won’t make that mistake.

I tell Ely, “Okay to adding Gabriel to this list, but I disagree about his standing. Gabriel’s hotter than anybody on there now. I vote for him to go directly into number two position.”

“Deal,” Ely says.

Interesting. That concession was most easily won.

Bookies, take note. Updated top standings on the No Kiss List™:

#1: Donnie Weisberg, still – the grand symbol over whom we vow to remain chaste, to protect the sanctity of the institution that is Naomi & Ely. The fact that we have no idea where Donnie is these days – we’ve heard rumors he’s doing some Habitat for Humanity shit in Guatemala to dodge a drug rap after that senior skip-day ’shroom party last spring – has no relevance to Donnie’s permanent #1 standing on the No Kiss List™;

#2: Welcome, Gabriel, hot midnight doorman, lusted after by every Building resident with a pulse, except maybe creepy Mr. McAllister, who apparently needs at least C-cup cleavage action to get off;

#3: My cousin Alexander (Kansas All-State tight end – ’nuff said);

#4: Ely’s cousin Alexandra (East Village, standing ovation for her performance in the experimental stage version of The Crying Game – ’nuff said);

#5: Robin ( ), cuz both Ely and I like Robin ( ), who really likes Robin ( ), and Robin ( ) is my symbol proving that I can make friends in college outside of Naomi & Ely; and

#6: The tweedy theology grad student guy who is illegally subletting apartment 15B.

“How’d you know Gabriel plays basketball here?” Ely asks.

“Happened to walk by this playground one day and noticed him here,” I say.

The itsy-bitsy crawls up the lying wall.

I’ve never, ever kissed Gabriel. I’ve never, ever had more than a five-minute conversation with Gabriel without Ely present.

But.

I may have exchanged digits with Gabriel. He may occasionally text me. He might have mentioned where he sometimes plays ball with his boys before his night shift starts.

“Lucky break for us!” Ely says.

Installing Gabriel directly at #2 will keep the Naomi & Ely safe. Otherwise, down may come the and wash Naomi out.

“Reminder,” I say. “How much do I love you to give up ever having a chance with a Gabriel?”

“Reminder. You have a boyfriend already.”

I do need the reminder. “You’re right. Bruce Two is waiting for me. I gotta go.”

My boyfriend and I have our own study session planned: He studies while I avoid studying. I like to iron Bruce’s shirts while he studies at his desk, occasionally looking up from his laptop or his textbooks to smile at me in his boring but pleasing kind of way. Great teeth. Bruce will say, “Naomi, I wear plain black T-shirts from the Gap. They really don’t need ironing.” And I’ll say, “So?” Because ironing for him is somewhat more fun than making out with him. It’s, like, orderly, and reasonably fine time suckage. The ironing, and the kissing. And when the mandated interval of Bruce’s five-minute study-break time beeps from his cell phone alarm clock, he’ll stand up and cuddle me from behind, nestling his head into the curve between my neck and shoulder. Probably not developing a woody while pressed against me because that would interfere with his study schedule. But he will whisper into my ear, “God, you’re pretty.” Like he’s so proud of that. Like I had anything to do with a set of fucked-up genes delivering me shiny hair, a pleasant enough face, and a desirable body I don’t really put to use.

Let’s be honest. Even counting the No Kiss List™ members stricken from my lair, this body does not lack for attention, if I want it. But I should wait for Ely to inaugurate it. I owe him that. We’ve been planning our wedding since we were twelve, when Ely proposed as a means to extract from me the first real kiss we shared, together. Gay doesn’t change that – our shared past, our committed future. Gay doesn’t mean I shouldn’t wait for that one moment when he won’t be.

I reach for Ely’s hand. Game over. Time for us to leave.

But Ely stays rooted on the sidewalk, slumped against the fence.

Wait a minute. Shazam alacazam! as Ely and I used to scream in the building elevator before lighting up all the floors to annoy Mr. McAllister. Ely gave in too easily – to vaulting Gabriel to #2 on the No Kiss List™ and to enabling my class-skipping habit by showing up when he had a study session. Ely busts his ass maintaining a high GPA to keep his freshman scholarship in good standing. He’s got to. His parents make too much money for them to qualify for need-based financial aid but not enough to pay the full tuition tab and their mortgage. Ely is trapped by that scholarship as much as my mother and I are trapped in the apartment across the hall from his. Mom’s administrative job at the university may cover the tuition for my general studies program, but she could never finance us moving from The Building, no matter how awkward the situation might be with the neighbors. Mom could never afford on her own a place as nice as the one her parents bought for us.

“What’s wrong?” I ask Ely. His face has warmed up a little, and without the shiver-flush reddening his cheeks, I can see the worry lines around his beautiful blue Ely-eyes.

“I have to tell you something.”

“What?” I ask, concerned. What if Ely has cancer, or he’s decided to take out a student loan to move into student housing and out of The Building; or maybe he’s so mad about my lies he’s no longer going to care if I skip school and fail out entirely.

Ely says, “I kissed Bruce the Second.”

There are all kinds of ways to force yourself to decide. We do it all the time, make decisions. If we actually thought about every decision we made, we’d be paralyzed. Which word to say next. Which way to turn. What to look at. Which number to dial. You have to decide which decisions you’re actually going to make, and then you have to let the rest of them go. It’s the places where you think you have a choice that can really mess you up.

She wasn’t home. That’s the first factor. The doorman let me up, I rang the bell, and she wasn’t there, where she said she would be. Two months ago this would have surprised me, but now it just annoyed me. You know that feeling of waiting for someone. I mean really waiting for someone – standing in front of a restaurant in the cold and having hundreds of people pass you on the sidewalk. And you don’t want to do anything else, because you’re afraid you might miss something – that somehow if you don’t spot her right away, she’ll walk right by. So you stand there and you don’t do anything except think about how you’re standing there. Occasionally you might look at your watch, or check your cell phone to see if it’s accidentally on silent, even though you already checked for that a minute ago.

That’s what dating Naomi was starting to feel like.

I called her and hung up when it answered without ringing, because what good would it be to leave a third voice mail message? What good is it ever to leave a third voice mail message?

I was just standing there, trying to figure out how long I should wait. Then Ely’s door opened and he came out in his bare feet, carrying a garbage bag to the chute. He took one look at me, smiled, and said, “Let me guess.”

We’d never really made it past comes with the territory territory. He wasn’t really into me, because he thought I was boring, and I wasn’t really into him, because he thought I was boring. But when Naomi wanted us to hang out together, we were fine. I got to be the innocent bystander. I wasn’t jealous of him – how could I be, when he was gay? No, I was jealous of them – the way it was like they had grown up watching all the same TV shows, only the TV show they always kept referring to was their own life together, and each episode was funnier than the last. Every now and then, Naomi (and even Ely) would make the effort to explain one of their references to me, but the act of explaining made it even more awkward, even more obvious. My only comfort was that eventually the night would end and Naomi would go home with me, not him. I knew Ely didn’t think I was worthy, but I had a feeling he’d never think anyone was worthy of Naomi. Just like she’d never be happy if he was with anyone else. In old-movie terms, you had to think of it like this: Fred Astaire had a wife who wasn’t Ginger Rogers, and Ginger Rogers had a husband (actually, a few of them, I think) who wasn’t Fred Astaire. But was there ever any doubt who their true dance partners were? I could be Naomi’s boyfriend, sure. I could be the one she slept with (or didn’t). But I was pretty certain I’d never be her dance partner.

Ely asked me if I wanted to come inside, and I figured why not. I mean, I figured this would give me a reason to leave a third message, and would give Naomi a place to find me when she showed up. It was much better than waiting in the hallway.

No one else was home. I was curious to meet his parents; Naomi had alluded to them enough for me to put the story together. I know it’s wrong, but I always pictured his mother, the one Naomi’s father had the affair with, to be attractive. It made more sense that way, at least to me. And Ely was attractive, too. It’s not like I didn’t know that, although I really didn’t think it meant anything to me. It wasn’t like I felt it, the way I felt it when there was a hot girl around. Like Naomi, who was not only hot but actually happened to like having thoughts. I’d found, in my very limited dating and only-slightly-less-limited friendship experience, that there were a lot of people who treated thoughts like they were a nuisance. They weren’t intrigued by them. They didn’t go out of their way to prolong them. But Naomi valued the fine art of thinking. The only hitch was that I didn’t know what she was thinking. I imagined Ely would have a better idea.

We went into one of those rooms that’s lined floor-to-ceiling with bookcases, where the books have been sitting on the shelves together for so long that they look like they’ve merged into one multi-spined line.

“Can I take your coat?” Ely asked. I handed it over and he threw it on a chair. Which should have been obnoxious, but the way he did it – like he was laughing at himself more than me – made it almost charming. I sat down on the couch and he hovered in front of me.

“Can I offer you a drink?”

It would make more sense, perhaps, if I’d decided yes. But I said no.

He said, “Good. Brandy can get you in trouble, I hear.”

“Who’s Brandy?” I asked.

“My mother’s brandy,” he said.

I was confused. “I didn’t think you had a mom named Brandy,” I said.

Now he looked confused. “I don’t.”

“But you just said she’s Brandy?”

He laughed. “She’s more ginny than that.”

“She goes by Ginny?”

“You have to stop,” he said, really laughing. “You’re killing me.”

I laughed now, too, still confused. “But who’s Brandy?” I asked.

“I told you – MY MOTHER’S!”

At this point, he was absolutely cracking up, and I found myself laughing right beside him. He was turning bright red, which made me laugh even harder. Anytime it started to subside, he would yell “WHO’S BRANDY?!?” and I would yell “YOUR MOTHER!” and we would break back down into eye-tearing, bladder-threatening snorts and whinnies. I was keeled over, wiping my eyes. He sat down on the couch next to me and laughed and laughed and laughed.

You have to understand: I don’t laugh often. Not out of choice. I just don’t get the opportunity. So when I do, it’s a dam bursting. It’s something opening.

“Knock knock!” I said.

“Who’s there?” he asked.

“Orange!” I said.

“Orange who?” he asked.

“ORANGE YOU GLAD TO SEE ME!” I screamed.

It was the funniest thing either of us had ever heard.

“What did the mayonnaise say to the refrigerator?” he yelled to me.

“YOUR MOTHER!” I yelled back.

“Close the door, I’m dressing!”

We went on like this for at least twenty minutes. Every joke we’d ever heard in third grade was dredged up for a command performance. And if we met a pause, we just yelled “ORANGE!” or “YOUR MOTHER!” until the next joke came.

Finally we needed to catch our breath. We were still on the couch. He was leaning into me. I looked at his bare feet and decided to take off my shoes. As I did, he said, “The other shoe drops.”

And I said, “No – that was just the first.”

He looked at me and it honestly felt like the first time he’d ever seen me.

“I like you,” he said.

“Try not to sound so surprised,” I found myself replying.

He leaned his head so far back that he was looking at me upside down. I actually thought, He’s even attractive upside down. And I couldn’t even feel attractive right-side up.

“It doesn’t matter if I’m surprised or not,” he told me. “It matters that I like you.”

We heard the elevator stop outside. Gingerly, Ely jumped up and looked through the peephole of his front door. I took off my other shoe.

“Just Mr. McAllister,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

I understood the “Don’t worry.” Because I’ll admit: I didn’t want it to be Naomi in the elevator. I wanted to stay like this. I wasn’t just enjoying Ely’s company; I was enjoying my own as well.

“Let’s listen to music,” Ely said.

I said sure, assuming he’d turn on the stereo in the living room. But instead he led me to his room, which was covered with poems he’d xeroxed and photographs of his friends, Naomi especially. He scanned his computer for the album he wanted, then pressed play. I recognized it immediately – Tori Amos, From the Choirgirl Hotel. It seemed to loosen itself from the speakers as it fell into the room. I thought Ely would sit in a chair or lie on the bed, but instead he lowered himself down on the hardwood floor, facing the ceiling as if it was a sky. He didn’t tell me what to do, but I lowered myself next to him, felt the floor beneath my back, felt my breathing, felt . . . happy.

Song followed song. At one point, I realized I’d left my phone in my jacket, which meant I wouldn’t hear it if it rang. I let it go.

There was something about our silence that made me feel comfortable. He wasn’t talking to me, but I didn’t feel ignored. I felt we were part of the same moment, and it didn’t need to be defined.

Finally I said, “Do you think I’m boring?”

He turned his head to me, but I kept looking up.

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I mumbled, a little embarrassed that I’d said anything.

I thought he’d turn back to the ceiling, to the music. But instead he looked at me for almost a minute. Eventually I turned on my side so I could look right back at him.

“No,” he finally said. “I don’t think you’re boring. I do think there are times you don’t allow yourself to be interesting . . . but clearly that can change.”

How can you spend hours every day trying in small ways to figure out who you are, then have a near-stranger give you a sentence of yourself that says it better than you ever could?

We lay there looking at each other. It made both of us smile.

Then, out of the blue – the blue deep within me – I found myself saying, “I like you, too. Really. I like you.”

There is something so intimate about saying the truth out loud. There is something so intimate about hearing the truth said. There is something so intimate about sharing the truth, even if you’re not entirely sure what it means.

And that’s when he leaned in and kissed me once, lightly, on the lips. As if he’d read exactly what I needed.

It broke the spell. It’s not that I stopped being happy. I was still inexplicably, utterly happy. But suddenly the happiness had implications.

My face must have shown it.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Ely said, his voice freaking out a little.

“No,” I told him.

“Really, I shouldn’t have.”

He sat up, and I lay there a few seconds more, staring at the space he’d just left. Then I sat up, too. And stood up. And found myself leaving, without actually deciding to leave.

He stayed where he was, but turned to face me when I got to the doorway. I made noises that sounded like excuses for leaving, and he made noises that sounded like understanding why I had to leave.

But before I could go, he said, simply, “I wanted to.”

And I waited until I had decided to really leave before I told him, “I did, too.”

Then I was gone – out his door, putting my shoes on, grabbing my jacket, then out the front door, past her front door, down the elevator, out of the building, deciding to cross streets, deciding to wait for lights, deciding to put my hands in my pockets. Deciding that none of these things mattered. None of these things involved who I was, only what I did.

The whole night, the whole morning, the whole afternoon now . . . I miss Ely, and I miss Naomi. I miss how much easier life was just twenty-four hours ago.

I think about him a lot.

I think about her a lot.

But I think about him more.

“Really. I like you.”

I decide to take out my phone for the first time since I scared myself away from him. I decide not to check the three new messages. I decide to make a call. To start to wrestle with the implications. To maybe get back closer to the happiness.

I just have to decide who to call.

I’ve tried everything. Ambien, Lunesta, melatonin, counting sheep, The Best of Johnny Carson: The 1970s, Charlie Rose: The Present, Charlie Daniels, MTV2, 976-SLUTS4U, the complete works of Dostoyevsky, the complete works of Nicholas Sparks, completely jacking off, Jack Daniel’s, the Jackie Chan oeuvre. But nothing and no one can get me to sleep at night.

Blame Naomi.

She was seven. I was five. Our mommies had hustled us into the elevator, but in their two-second pause in the hallway to exchange mismatched mail, the elevator door closed and Naomi and I were left unattended. The elevator went up. Naomi said, “Would you like to see my underwear?” I nodded. She lifted her dress to her stomach. She wore the same kind of pink hipster briefs with elastic lace around the waist that my twin sister, Kelly, wore, but on Naomi, the hipster briefs looked entirely different. Bewitching instead of stupid. I can still recall that exact moment when Naomi dropped her dress back down to her knees and stuck her tongue out at me. Because my heart? It actually leaped, and hasn’t returned to me since. Naomi owned it forevermore.

Flash forward ten years to last spring, Naomi and I in the elevator at the same time again, only this time we’re taller, curvier (her), hairier (me). It’s not like we didn’t see each other regularly at school and in the building, but somehow, for reasons the universe has never bothered to explain to me, this time was different. Naomi appraised me head to toe as the elevator went up. She announced, “You’ve filled out nicely, freshperson.” “I’m a sophomore,” I corrected her, grateful my squeaky-voice stage had long passed. “Even better,” she said. “Come here, sophomore.” I ventured closer to her. She smelled like baby powder and pretty girl shampoo. She leaned into me, her head slanted, her mouth opened ever so slightly. I thought, No, the wet dream of what I think is about to happen could not actually be about to happen. I mean, it’s not like I’d never kissed a girl before. How many Spin the Bottle parties had I thrown just trying to make such contact with Naomi, anyway? If only I’d known all I needed to do was trap myself in an elevator and wait for Naomi. Then, contact. It happened. Naomi kissed me – slowly, on the mouth, sucking my soul into hers, floors four through fourteen. She tasted like she’d just eaten a Snickers bar. I love Snickers.

I know I know I know. I shouldn’t love a girl who toys so casually with other people’s feelings, specifically mine, but it’s not like my mind has the ability to overrule my heart – and the other parts of my anatomy. See, what people (and by people, I mean my sister, our friends, and most of the Facebook community) don’t understand about Naomi – except maybe Ely, he gets her, but I hate him, so his understanding doesn’t count – is that there’s more to Naomi than just the obvious evil. They don’t know how she tests out gummy bears for me, pressing them between the plastic cover to find the ones that are freshest, the way I like. They don’t know that despite her brazen kisses, her symbols and her lies, her obsession with visiting and chronicling every Starbucks in the universe (though she never orders a single drink; she just plops down in the big purple chair and waits for some guy or girl to fall in love with her), Naomi’s really a nice, simple girl at heart. I know this about her. I know that for all her boasting, to her means with your clothes still on, talking about movies and life and dreams, tickling toes. I know that I am and shall forevermore be Bruce the First to her – in every way. Bruce the Second – I laugh at you! One, two . . . a million lifetimes lived without her since Naomi took up with Bruce the Second, but I remain confident that he who shall have the last laugh will be Bruce the First. HAH!

The problem, says my sister, Kelly, is not that I can’t get over Naomi – it’s that I refuse to. You are correct, sir! Loving Naomi and waiting for her to come back to me – it’s not a stalker thing, but more like a personal mission. A job. Wake up, think about Naomi. Go to school, think about Naomi. Come home, eat dinner, do homework, think about Naomi. A few games of Xbox, a few IMs with whoever’s available while thinking about Naomi (except for Ely – blocked! blocked! blocked!), download some porn that looks like Naomi, try to go to sleep. Count Naomi sheep. Fail to fall asleep. Naomi Naomi Naomi.

When insomnia prevails and I don’t have Naomi physically present to comfort me through it – although in every other way, believe me, she’s there – I know I can count on an emergency meeting of the Bruce Society to get me through the night. In the spacious lobby of our one hundred–unit apartment building, the Bruces Below Fourteenth Street convene to pass the dark hours. Sleepless? Big deal. We’ve got important issues to discuss – specifically, the Burden of Being a Bruce.

We are:

• Mr. McAllister, who alleges to be named Bruce, but I don’t imagine anyone would ever dare address him by a name other than Mr. McAllister.

• Gabriel the graveyard-shift doorman, middle name Bruce (fact-checked on driver’s license).

• One of Ely’s moms, Sue, who may or may not have once been married to someone named Bruce. The University Place Stitch ’n’ Bitch knitting circle is hot with rumor over that one.

• Random persons hanging out in the lobby between late-night laundry loads, Bruces in spirit.

• Bruce the Chihuahua, also known as “Cutie Pie” by her owner, Mrs. Loy, but renamed by the Bruces-in-spirit because I’m the one, not Naomi, who feeds and walks her when Mrs. Loy goes out of town. I’m the “nice boy” (take that, Naomi’s sainted Ely) who uses the secret key under Mrs. Loy’s mat to tap on Mrs. Loy’s apartment door for the dog to hear, but not so loud as to wake Mrs. Loy, when Cutie Pie-sometimes-called-Bruce yelps for a midnight walk.

The problem with the Bruce Society is that I want to talk about being a Bruce, but the other Bruces, they want to talk about insomnia. What insomniacs don’t realize is that the more you talk about your inability to sleep, the more you will be unable to sleep. It’s like a whole mathematical problem that equals up to a solution called: Why Not Just Face It, You’re Screwed. The other members – I question their dedication to the Bruce Society. I suspect they care more about their sleepless nights than about what it means to be a Bruce. Because think about it. There’s the legacy of great Bruces whom we should honor and hope to emulate: Lenny the brilliant comedian; Mr. Springsteen; Master Lee; Robert the Bruce, aka “Braveheart.” But there are also those Bruces whom we need to seriously consider repudiating, and striking from our namesake society: Willis, Jenner, Hornsby.

Sue/Bruce never fails to dodge the importance of being Bruceness. Instead she asks me, “Honey, have you talked with a shrink about the sleeping issue? I’m worried you look awful tired. You’re too young to be an insomniac. Don’t you have SATs coming up? You need to get this sleeping issue resolved before then.”

I don’t know why I like Sue so much. Maybe because she’s not the DNA part of the Ely equation (I don’t think), or maybe because she’s not part of the Naomi & Ely parental situation that got the co-op board into such a state. I mean, it’s one thing to turn fifty and all of a sudden cross over into being midlife-crisis “flexibly” gay; it’s an entirely different matter to mess with your neighbor’s real estate standing. The consensus from the Bruce Society, in those middle-of-the-night insomniac gossip sessions when Sue isn’t present, is that if Ginny had needed to “experiment” so badly, it would have been helpful for the fifteenth-floor residents of our building if she had chosen a man who lives in, like, a different building entirely. And, a man more discreet than Naomi’s dad. We’d totally pass a resolution in support of Sue if ever called upon by the co-op board.

Since she doesn’t seem to have a clue, I tell Sue/Bruce, “I like not sleeping. Sleeping is time not spent living.”

Mr. McAllister the Bruce says, “Sixteen is an age not worth living. Too stupid to know any better. I read in Cosmopolitan that sleep apnea is linked to . . .”

Proof ! Naomi swears Mr. McAllister steals her mother’s fashion magazines from the garbage-chute-room recycle bin. According to Naomi, the models in those magazines are like porn for old guys too cheap to buy an Internet connection to get it like the rest of us.

Sue / Bruce ignores Mr. McAllister / Bruce like she always does. She pats my shoulder. “Have you given more thought to where you’d like to go to college? Last time we discussed it, you were hung up on colleges that have presidents with Bruce in their names. I’m hoping I was successful in talking you out of that idea?”

She’s so nice, Sue/Bruce. “You were. I have a new college plan, as of today. This morning I saw an ad on the subway for a college called PolyTechnic University. According to their slogan, it’s a university for people who aren’t mono-thinkers, but who are poly-thinkers. Must mean it’s the college for me.”

“That’s what you are – a poly-thinker?”

“Yes,” I state.

What else could I be? If I were a mono-thinker, I probably wouldn’t be an insomniac. How is a poly-thinker supposed to fall asleep, and more importantly, stay asleep, when thoughts just won’t stop darting! darting! darting! through my head?

Lights out. What is Naomi doing this very minute? Is she naked?

Tucked in. Has Bruce the Second seen her naked?

Fluff pillow. I’ve seen Naomi naked.

Mono-hand maneuver. Jesus Christ. Why bother with porn?

Discard Kleenex under bed. True, she kept her panties on. And I wasn’t allowed to touch. But I’ve SEEN.

Toss. Turn. Torture.

A poly-thinker is left no choice but to get out of bed, retrieve Cutie Pie, and go down to the building lobby for a Bruce Society meeting.

I really want to ask Sue/Bruce, “Do you think Ely has ever seen Naomi naked?” but I don’t. Because I’m sure he has. Gay guys get all the perks with none of the responsibility. It’s so not fair.

I hate that I only got to see Naomi naked because last summer Ely was seeing some boy and Naomi hated not having full access to Ely’s time so she gave me access to hers. And then Ely dumped the boy and Naomi dumped me.

Someone ought to dump something on Ely.

Did Naomi just walk by, barefoot and carrying a laundry load, or am I dreaming? I’ve got to be, because she is an insomniac’s most dire and darling vision, wearing a tiny, tiny, dreamy, dreamy black dress, the kind she wears when she’s going out partying with Ely, and it’s got to be the highest form of injustice how Naomi does not realize that she could look like a dump truck for all that Ely would notice her in the way she wants him to notice her.

The highlight of Bruce Society meetings comes when Gabriel the doorman notices he has nothing to do after midnight. He leaves his station, walks over to our area, and dumps a deck of cards onto the coffee table in the middle of the square of lobby couches. “Five-card stud?” He sits down with us and shuffles the deck.

Our members dutifully pull the rolls of quarters from our pockets that serve in place of poker chips as Gabriel deals. Since he took over the night shift last June, I think it’s fair to say that Gabriel has become a very rich guy. I don’t know what kind of salary a novice doorman with no experience makes, but Gabriel could easily fund laundry loads lasting into eternity with all the quarters he’s won.

Sue/Bruce asks, “I’m still waiting to hear from you, Gabriel, about when you’re going to make college plans. I know you’ve said you wanted to take some time off after high school, but how old are you now? Nineteen? Almost twenty? It’s time, son. I’d be glad to write a recommendation letter for you. What schools interest you? Have you heard of Vassar?”

Like it’s not obvious Ely put his mother up to gay-baiting Gabriel. Vassar. Right. A stud like Gabriel? So not gay, Ely. Keep on dreaming. Just like I dream of you being dipped in a vat of vinegar long enough so the smell permanently attaches to your skin and Naomi can’t stand to be around you anymore. Skunk.

“Dunno.” Gabriel shrugs.

Dunno? Dunno! This Bruce knows. Case solved: Gabriel the doorman, you are hereby proclaimed a Heterosexual. Make mine a Michelob, too, pal. You know what will also work? The beer that comes with the lederhosen girl whose breasts are spilling out of her uniform as she hands out the brewskis. Yeah.

Naomi would look awesome as the lederhosen beer girl. I bet she wouldn’t wear panties underneath.

The Chihuahua barks from my lap, and believe me, my lap is relieved for the distraction. With a tail wag and puppy yelp, Cutie Pie indicates the lobby door, where a new person has arrived. We all look up to see the cause of the disturbance.

Bruce the Second stands at the lobby entrance. He looks as tired as I don’t feel. Ruined. Or maybe that’s how I want to see him. Really he just looks like Bruce the Second, the main difference being now he appears as confused as he is moronic. Gabriel Bruce the Doorman asks him, “Who are you here to see?”

It’s like some psychic connection between Cutie Pie and me, because I’m sure her continued barking is really gossip code for “Check it over there, papi. Cuz don’t you know about wha’happen’d?”

“I’m not sure,” says Bruce the Second, fidgeting with the cell phone in his hand.

Excuse me? Everyone knows Naomi’s mom is out by 11:00 p.m. – and hell hath no fury like a divorcée on antidepressants who’s awoken by a doorbell or the ring of her daughter’s cell phone. Who else could other-Bruce be here to see?

I’m so not getting to sleep ’til I find out wha’happen’d.

It’s 12:08 a.m. and I look hot. I mean, I should look hot, since I’ve spent the past hour working it. As Naomi always says, I’d fuck me. Of course, I always tell her, “Well, it’s a good thing you’re gonna fuck you, cuz it ain’t gonna be me.” She loves it. Loves it.

The door chime’s ringing, and I can’t believe that bitch is picking tonight of all nights to be only eight minutes late. If I’d known she would be this early-late, I would have told her twelve-thirty. Then I realize: She probably just wants to borrow something. No fucking way is Naomi ready before one.

I open the door and it’s Bruce the Second.

“I was in the neighborhood,” he says.

“No you weren’t,” I say, just joking.

He looks down at his feet, embarrassed.

Fuck.

“Well, I’m glad you weren’t in the neighborhood,” I say. “Come in.”

I feel like Naomi’s going to open her door at any moment, and I don’t want that to happen.

It’s not that she took the news badly. I said, “Hey, I kissed Bruce the Second,” and she was all like, “Yeah, whatever.” Then she said, “I hope you had a better time with him than I have.”

And I actually kept my mouth shut. Because I didn’t say, “Yeah, I probably did.” Instead I pointed out that she’d never put him on the No Kiss List.

And she said, “Well, I didn’t bother to put your grandma on the list, either. Some things are just obvious. Bruce the Second’s not exactly your type.”

I told her she was right. Because she was. Is. He’s totally not my type.

Although lately, I have to say, my type has seemed to be total bullshit.

It’s Seventeen that’s letting me down, I tell you. Naomi and me both. I swear, we take those quizzes like they were sponsored by the College Board. When the boy you like walks you to his car, does he: (a) go around and open the door for you, (b) get in the car and then lean over to unlock your door, (c) put you in the trunk, (d) sit you in the backseat and say, “Take off your clothes and I’ll be with you in a second”? Naomi and I were never satisfied with the answers, just like we were never satisfied by the kind of guys who would be photographed for Seventeen, looking so goofy in their board shorts that you had to know they were the managing editor’s nephews or sons. We’d make up new quizzes for each other – Would your ideal date be underwater or atop a sea of lava? – and the prize at the end would always be dinner for two at whatever restaurant we were walking toward. More often than not, we’d take the quizzes for each other. And we were almost always right.

Except the Bruce the Second Quiz. When she’d asked me, Would you rather go out with: (a) a former First Lady, (b) gorillas in the mist, (c) a woman who looked like Stephen King, or (d) a future accountant, I went with (b). But it’s not the gorillas at my door now, is it?

I take Bruce the Second into the living room. He sits down on the couch. I offer him a drink. And then I’m like, whoa, we’re returning to the scene of the crime, aren’t we? But that wasn’t the idea. Not mine. And it doesn’t look like it’s his, either. He doesn’t seem to have the remotest clue about what he’s doing.

“Are you sure you don’t want to have a drink?” I offer. “I’ve already had two.”

Truth: It’s three, but since two of them were only about half as strong as the other one, I figure that counts as two. Usually it takes at least four for me to start feeling like life’s a musical. And it takes at least five for me to start feeling like life’s a disco musical. It’s a very expensive habit, unless you happen to have very cheap taste.

“Bruce?” I ask. Because he’s turned about as expressive as the couch he’s sitting on. Which, incidentally, is beige floral. Very lesbian.

Lord, I shouldn’t have kissed him. But, Lord, if You hadn’t wanted me to kiss him, why did You put him in my room like that?

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says. He’s turned away from me again, so it’s like he’s apologizing to the wall.

“What for?” I ask. It’s a genuine question. I have no idea.

“For coming here so late. For wanting to see you.”

“It’s no problem,” I say. “I was just about to go out anyway. So it’s not like you woke me up.”

I don’t touch the “wanting to see you” part, because honestly it’s setting off the Neediness Alarm in my head.

The door chime rings again. I hear Naomi scraping at the door, calling, “Let me in!” She doesn’t really care if the moms are home – one of them loves her and the other one owes her. Conveniently Naomi forfeited her key to my apartment a few months ago, when we fought over whether it was wrong of me to give a sweater of hers to a boy I wanted to sleep with. She threw the key at me; I kept it. She asked for it back four days later, after I’d stolen the goddamn sweater from the boy’s apartment, figuring he’d blame his hairy roommate. I kept both the sweater and the key, because I had to teach her to never throw a key at me again. With her aim and my luck, she’d end up poking out both of my eyes.

“C’mon,” I tell Bruce. I grab his hand and pull him back to my bedroom. He seems to remember the way from yesterday. I figure I can just close him in there for a little while. But then I have one of those brilliant revelations that screams, You. Are. A. Dumbfuck. Because no way is Naomi coming into this apartment without pawing through my room for something.

So I tell Bruce to get into the closet. He does it, and as I stare at the closed door I think, Did I really just tell Bruce to get into the closet? That is too fucking obvious on so many levels.

Naomi is treating my apartment door like it’s starring in the seventh sequel to Saw, and I know the assault won’t compare to the barrage of questions I’ll face if I don’t open it in the next thirteen nanoseconds.

“Where the fuck were you?” she says as soon as she gets in the apartment.

“I was jerking off and you startled me so much I dropped the photo of you into the toilet,” I say. “Calm down. You’re acting like it’s that time of the month and I’m the OPEC of tampons.”

She looks good, but unfinished. I give her the once-over while she gives me the third degree. Neither of us needs a mirror when the other one’s around.

“Is that my wristband? Are you ready to go? Why aren’t you answering your door? Are you ever going to give me that key back?”

This is all precious, since any gay boy worth his Madonna singles could tell that she’s come over to borrow a belt. Naomi hates hates hates the fact that we fit into the same jeans, but that doesn’t stop her from treating my clothes like I only have them on loan from her.

“I’m going to wear the red one,” I say. “I know I’m wearing this one right now, but I was about to change to the red one.”

“Fuck you. You look hot and you know it. You’re just saying the red one to throw me off the trail of your lick-my-hips-with-your-hands glitter belt. And I’m telling you, tonight that baby’s calling this waist Mama.”

There’s no use arguing, especially since she’s totally paying for my drinks tonight, whether she knows it (awwww, Ely’s puppy dog eyes) or not (stupid waif still hates purses enough to ask me to hold her plastic wallet).

She bounds into my room, and I swear it’s like I can hear the closet breathing. Bad move bad move bad move.

“Over here,” I say, thanking the Lord that I’m too goddamn busy to ever get my used clothes beyond my desk chair.

I hand her the glitter belt.

“Looks better on me,” I say.

“Only when it’s fastening you to the bedpost,” she shoots back.

Spoken like a true ignorant, which is what I love about my girl.

“All set?” I say.

“Do you mind if Bruce comes along?” Naomi asks. Clearly I balk, because she laughs and says, “What? He’s downstairs. I needed clean underwear, okay? I went to the laundry room, and he was hanging out with the sleeplessheads in the lobby.”

I’m so confused.

“The First,” Naomi says. “Not your cheap-thrill kissing partner. I swear, if he didn’t have such good teeth, I’d let you have your little mindfuck for a little while longer.”

“That’s not fair,” I say. The words are coming out before I can think, Don’t say that, foolboy.

“Wait a sec.” Naomi pauses right in front of the closet. “You make out with my boyfriend and I’m the one not being fair? Even a two-year-old on meth would be able to see how wrong that is.”

“I meant fair in the I have no fucking idea what I’m talking about sense.”

“Oh, I see. Maybe I need your leather jacket to compensate.”

She reaches to pull open the closet door. I do the only thing I can think of to stop her.

“Yeah, if you want to look dumpy,” I say.

Bingo.

“You think it makes me look dumpy?” She actually sounds hurt.

“Sweetheart, the damn thing makes me look dumpy. Why do you think I haven’t been wearing it lately? I’m ready to give it back to the cow. Cuz at least the cow’s supposed to look like a cow.”

“Okay,” she says, checking the mirror one more time. “Let’s go.”

I turn out the light as I leave my room, since I always do that and I don’t want it to seem like anything’s out of the ordinary. It’s only once we’re out in the foyer between our apartments that I say, “Oh fuck!”

“What?” Naomi asks.

“I forgot something. I’ll be right back.”

“What did you forget?”

“My dick, okay? You can’t possibly expect me to go out without my dick! I’ll be right back.”

I close the door before she can get out another line. I run back to my room, open the closet, and see Bruce the Second standing there in the dark.

“I want you to stay,” I say. “I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

He nods. But he doesn’t look happy.

I figure it out.

“You’re not a cheap thrill, and this isn’t a mindfuck,” I tell him. I don’t know what it is, but at least I know it’s not either of those.

He steps into the dark shadows of the room. He touches my shoulder. So damn earnest, and I so damn want to kiss him.

“I promise I won’t be long,” I say.

“Go,” he tells me. “I’ll be here.”

I’m almost out the door when he says, “Gum.”

“What?”

He throws me a pack of Orbit.

“Tell her you went back for gum.”

“Thanks,” I say. I could get used to a guy who knows his way around an alibi.

I head back through the apartment. Naomi’s waiting outside in the elevator. I have no doubt she’s been holding it this whole time. It strikes me for the gazillionth time that she is completely fucking beautiful. And I love it, because my love for her has absolutely nothing to do with that. I love her because she’ll hold the elevator for me even if heading downstairs without me would make more of a point. I love her because if she sees a shirt that she knows will look good with my eyes, she’ll buy it for me, even if she can’t afford it. I love her because when I feel like putting my head in an oven, she’ll gently take it out and bake me cookies instead. I love her because she can curse like a sailor and could no doubt sail like a sailor, too, if she put her mind to it. I love her because even though she doesn’t always tell the truth, she always feels like she should. I love her because I don’t need to love her all the time.

“Got your dick?” she asks.

“What do you care?” I say.

She snorts, hits the lobby button, and tells me, “All I know is that this party better not suck. If it does, you’re going to be one dead Ducky.”

I feel disloyal. Because as the elevator heads down, I feel like I’m moving away from something instead of toward something. The love I have for Naomi is the kind that’s understood. But I feel compelled to go back to the thing I don’t completely understand.

He’d go around and open the door for me, wouldn’t he?

I can’t let Naomi know what I’m thinking.

This is very treacherous ground.

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