Chapter 4
FOUR
CADEN
I keep waiting for the freak-out, but I’m two weeks into spending every spare second I have kissing Theo, and honestly?
I’m good with it. Okay—mostly good. Not being able to hold his hand in the halls or sneak up behind him at his locker just to nuzzle his neck definitely sucks.
But none of that really matters when I know that the second we’re alone, I can do those things. I do do those things.
Sneaking around at home, though? Way harder. We’ve been caught in almost-compromising positions more times than I’m proud of. His little sister has developed a sixth sense for “Theo’s acting weird,” and my mom has officially stopped knocking before entering.
It’s not even about Theo being out. That’s been true for years, and both our families are supportive in that “open-minded but still slightly awkward suburban parent” kind of way.
But as for me…. Well, I’m still building up to the full coming-out conversation.
The “so, remember how I’ve always been straight? Surprise!” talk.
That, and I keep wondering if my parents will get weird about us. Like, will they overreact? Stop leaving us alone in a room together? Start side-eyeing our sleepovers? Make it a thing?
I don’t want it to be a thing. I just want to date my best friend without anyone watching us like we’re fragile or temporary.
“What’s up?”
My smile shows up before I even look. Theo’s leaning against my bedroom doorframe like he belongs there—which, let’s be real, he does. He’s in soft jogging pants and a hoodie I’m 90 percent sure used to be mine but looks a hell of a lot better on him.
I spin on my desk chair to face him. “You’re what’s up.”
“Lame,” he says, coming in and flopping onto my bed like it’s his. It basically is. “I ask a question and get pickup lines.”
“You like my pickup lines.”
“Unfortunately.”
He’s lying on his back now, curls spread out on my pillow, cheeks still flushed from the bike ride over from his grandparents’ house. There’s paint on his knuckles—he was helping them redo the porch railing this morning—and it’s somehow just unfair how good he looks in natural light.
Theo’s six months younger than me, not as tall or broad.
His skin’s lighter than mine—a soft golden-brown.
His curls are looser than mine too—he’s been growing them out into an afro, and it’s adorable as hell.
He claims he’s aiming for “cool, vintage blaxploitation, but make it millennial.” I tell him he already looks like the poster boy for “crush-worthy junior who knows more than you do.”
Which is also accurate.
Theo’s smarter than I am. Always has been.
He’s rocking a 3.6 GPA while I’m coasting at a 3.
0, and I know that number would be lower if he hadn’t spent the past few years forcing me to study, quizzing me, editing my essays, and making flash cards for history class like some kind of academic personal trainer.
And it’s not like he doesn’t know what he wants—he does.
He says it plain: He wants to teach English.
For all the time he spends on the court, he’s just as much a book nerd.
He gets this look in his eye when he’s talking about Baldwin or Morrison, like the words are alive under his skin.
Even when he’s stuck writing about The Scarlet Letter or The Great Gatsby—the usual stuff teachers throw at us—he’ll flip the whole assignment sideways, make it about power or injustice or resilience.
Over the past few summers, he’s been working at a kids’ club over at the rec center, and every time he comes back with some story about the younger ones hanging on his every word.
He laughs about it, but I can tell—he loves it.
Loves the idea of opening up whole worlds for kids the way books opened them for him.
I just hope wherever he ends up isn’t far from Lexington.
Because yeah, I had offers from other schools—some way flashier than UK—but the University of Kentucky was a sweet spot: still solid, respected, and close enough to come home when I want to. Six hours isn’t a commute, but it’s not a universe away either.
Even then, I think some part of me just knew I’d want to stay close to him.
“I gotta go car shopping tomorrow,” I say, kicking my heel against the wheel of my chair.
Theo glances over. “Oh yeah? Big day.”
“Dad’s been looking at used stuff all week. He wants me to have a car for Lexington, says he doesn’t want me ‘riding with strangers.’”
Theo snorts. “Because college basketball players never carpool. I bet the car’s gonna smell like protein powder within a week.”
“Most likely.”
He laughs, then sits up, legs crisscrossed at the end of my bed. “You excited?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I mean, it’s a car. Freedom. The ability to drive and visit someone cute on weekends….”
“Mm. Wonder who that could be.”
“Some guy. Curly hair. Ridiculously pretty.”
“Sounds annoying.”
“Definitely is.”
I lean forward to steal a kiss—quick, sweet, addictive. His fingers curl into my hoodie when I don’t pull back fast enough, and for a minute, we’re just there, breathing each other in. Kissing slowly and softly like it’s muscle memory already.
When I do finally lean back, his eyes are hazy, but he’s smiling. “Car shopping and secret kisses,” he says. “You’re living the dream, North.”
“You’re part of the dream,” I murmur.
And I mean it. God, I mean it so much it scares me a little. Because yeah, we’re sneaking around, and yeah, it’s still new, and messy, and kind of terrifying, but it’s also real.
And right now? It’s mine. He’s mine. And I wouldn’t change a damn thing.
I run my thumb along the inside of his wrist again, then say it before I can talk myself out of it. “I’ve been thinking about telling my parents.”
Theo’s eyes go wide—like, cartoon-anvil-just-fell wide.
My stomach clenches. “What? Too much?”
He shakes his head quickly, blinking like I short-circuited his brain. “No. No, it’s just—seriously?”
I nod, slower this time. “I mean… yeah. Not just about me, but about us.”
He stares at me for a second longer, and I can see it—the shift from panic to something softer, something kind of stunned.
“That’s what you want?” he asks.
I glance down, then back at him. “Yeah. I think so. I mean, I’m nervous—don’t get me wrong—but not because I think they’ll freak out or anything.
My parents love me. They’re super open. Dad literally works for an equity and inclusion nonprofit.
He’s the guy who leads workshops about bias and posts rainbow graphics on MySpace every Pride Month. ”
Theo snorts. “Okay, your dad might actually beat my dad in the progressive-parent Olympics.”
“I know. It’s annoying. He’s going to be so chill about it I might end up feeling worse for keeping it from him this long.”
“So why now?” he asks gently.
I lean back a little, propping myself up on one elbow. “I think it’d just… take the pressure off. This whole sneaking around thing—it’s fine. Kind of exciting, honestly. But it’s also exhausting. And if I can tell them, that’s one less thing to carry.”
Theo is quiet for a moment, nodding slowly. Then he smiles. “Okay. If that’s what you want, I’m in.”
I grin. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re not doing this solo.”
God, I love him.
He taps his fingers on my knee. “What about telling other people? At school?”
I know he’s not saying out out, as his sexuality is very much on the down-low.
He only trusts a few people with it. I chew my bottom lip, the answer already clear.
“I think we keep it quiet there. For now. Not forever. But I don’t feel like fielding questions every time I hold your hand between classes, y’know? ”
“Agreed,” he says quickly. “Like, I love you—well—not saying that yet—”
I laugh. “Too late. I heard it.”
“Shut up. I was saying, I love your face,” he corrects, smirking. “But also, yeah. High school is full of gossip goblins and walking red flags. I don’t want to deal with it either.”
There’s a pause, and then he shifts a little, his tone softening. “What about… you going pro? Like, one day.”
I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Yeah. That part? Still scares the crap out of me.”
He nods, watching me.
“There’s no one out in the league right now. Not a single guy,” I say. “And maybe I’m being selfish, but… I don’t want to be the first. I don’t want that pressure. I just want to play.”
“I get that,” he says, and the way he says it—no hesitation, no judgment—grounds me.
“I want to be honest with you,” I continue, “and maybe one day with the world. But right now? I just want to enjoy being yours without it becoming a statement.”
“You are a statement,” he says, grinning. “But no, I totally get it.”
“Thanks.”
“Besides,” he adds, tilting his head, “I’m pretty amazing. Being with me is already an achievement. You don’t need to carry two historic milestones.”
I burst out laughing. “Wow. Humble much?”
He shrugs, playful. “Just being honest.”
“Okay, honesty pact,” I say, holding out my pinkie.
He links it with his. “We just be us. No pressure. No trying to be perfect.”
“No trying to be anyone but… us.”
We sit there for a moment, pinkies locked like dorks, smiling like idiots.
Then Theo grins. “Look at us. Having adult conversations. Emotional maturity and everything.”
“We’re basically icons of healthy communication.”
He leans in, brushing his nose against mine. “And we’re so hot while doing it.”
I kiss him. Slowly. Sweetly.
Responsibly.
It hits me—like a “light bulb over the head” kind of moment—right after Theo pulls back from our kiss, smiling like he has any idea how in love with him I already am.
I sit up straighter. My chest is buzzing with nerves, but the feeling underneath is something solid. Unshakable. “You know what?” I say, voice low but sure. “Now’s as good a time as any.”
Theo turns to me, eyebrows raised. “For what? Another round of emotional maturity?”