8 Chapter 8

“Why is that?” Lane asked at one point over the summer. They’d been together a little more than a year and a half by that point; he thought it high time he met the other man in Remy’s life. Over glasses of wine on Lane’s balcony, which overlooked the rapids on the James River, Lane wanted to know, “Is it that you’re ashamed of me, or something? Of us?”

Remy had reached across the span between their Adirondack chairs and rubbed Lane’s bare forearm. “Laney, no. It isn’t that at all and you know it.”

“So, well, what then?” Lane wanted to meet Braden, and felt as if a part of Remy was closed to him until he did.

Remy stared out over the river and didn’t answer immediately. Then he sighed, a lonesome sound, and downed the rest of his wine in one swallow. “I remember being his age,” he said softly. “I remember how cruel other kids can be. The word gaywas something derogatory, something bad. I don’t want Braden to think that about us. About me.”