So I had been watched exactly the way I had wanted to be, like a character in a book—without my knowing but without embarrassing myself, by someone who cared what I thought as well as liked hearing what I had to say. I was too lucky, I thought, too lucky and so inevitably cursed. No one had ever wanted me before and the logic followed, I thought, that no one ever would again. Well, so what? This was all I wanted—this boy who already seemed way more like an adult than I was, solid and reliable and believing in a future I doubted would ever come for me. He got good grades, had fun with his friends, participated in extracurricular activities, and got his driver’s license. He wanted to be a filmmaker and so he made films. He talked about going to Los Angeles. “Maybe I could come with you,” I said.

“Maybe…” he said, and so I didn’t mention it again, but thought about little apartment complexes with palm trees bookending the driveway, getting a job as a makeup artist. Everyone had seemed to suggest that being with someone who wanted to be with you would result in some sort of life-altering change, some feeling of elation or belonging, and they were right. Now that he was there I could think about a future: his. I wanted to go into what was next if it meant I could do it with him.