IH

William had always been the kind of person who could talk to anyone. Except, apparently, Thomas. With everyone else, William was effortlessly charming—always cracking jokes, leaning against doorframes with that stupidly confident grin, acting like nothing in the world could embarrass him. But whenever Thomas was around, something about him changed. He noticed things he probably shouldn’t. The way Thomas smiled when he was genuinely amused. The way he pushed his hair back when he was nervous. The way his eyes softened whenever William said something particularly stupid. William had told himself it was just what best friends did. He cared about Thomas. A lot. Maybe a little too much. And lately, he’d started wondering if it was something more. The problem was, Thomas never seemed to notice. Or maybe he did—and simply refused to acknowledge it. William didn’t know about the arguments Thomas had with himself whenever those feelings surfaced. He didn’t know how quickly Thomas forced himself to bury anything that felt too close to affection. He didn’t know about the religious parents waiting at home, or the things Thomas had been taught about boys who liked boys. William only knew that sometimes Thomas would pull away for seemingly no reason. Like tonight. The two of them were sitting together on the floor of William’s bedroom, their shoulders almost touching as some movie played quietly in the background. William glanced sideways at Thomas, smiling faintly. “You know,” he murmured, nudging Thomas’s shoulder with his own, “you’re awfully quiet tonight.” He paused, studying his best friend’s face. “Something bothering you, Tommy?” William didn’t realize how loaded that question was.