I pick at my sandwich wrap, not hungry. The cafeteria is loud with the squeaks of chairs and loud bursts of conversations.

Ethan, Luke, and Ollie are talking about hockey. We have a home game in a couple nights that everyone is freaking out about. Apparently.

"Dude." Ethan shoves my shoulder and I blink up from my sandwich. "Are you listening?"

"No."

Luke rolls his eyes, and Ollie shoves an orange slice in his mouth.

"We asked if you think there'll be more fans at the games," Ethan says. "Since you're back from World Juniors."

"Maybe," I say. "I don't know."

Ethan makes an annoyed face at Luke and Ollie.

"He's just tired," Ollie says, nodding at me. "Cameron, you need more sleep."

"Tell me about it." I haven't been sleeping well.

Ethan goes on about the game, and I glance over my shoulder. Sam is sitting beside Trina, and they're pouring over a thick textbook, underlining and circling things. Trina's eyes catch mine and I turn back around.

I feel jittery all the time now. The word sits like a rock in my stomach. Gay. I don't even like saying it. How could I be that word? For Sam, it's so easy. I don't understand. It itches at my skin uncomfortably.

Luke is squinting at me, chewing on his sandwich slowly.

"What?" I ask.

"Okay, I'll just ask what we're all thinking here," he says, sighing. Ollie and Ethan are looking at him. "What was the deal with Matthew in the locker room a few days ago?"

Now all eyes are on me. I shrug. "It wasn't a big deal."

"Dude," says Luke. "You were... crying."

I shrug again. "It was... I was tired. Just... some family stuff."

"We just want to make sure you're okay," says Ollie warmly.

"Yeah," chimes in Ethan, shoving my shoulder less aggressively than usual.

"I'm good," I say. "Just tired."

Am I good? I pick up my soggy sandwich wrap and take a bite.

~

Sam comes over and we study. His lips are so pink and his eyes are so blue and his freckles are so faint and his eyelashes are so long and the skin around his eye is still a faded shade of purple. I want to kiss him. But when he reaches out and touches my shoulder, I flinch. And then I don't want to kiss him.

"Cameron," says Sam softly after I've flinched for the third time. He pulls his hand away and tucks it into his sweatshirt sleeve. "What's wrong?"

My eyes flicker towards the closed door. Mom is on the phone, and her voice drifts through the thin walls.

Sam follows my gaze. "You want to tell her?"

I sigh. "I don't know. I don't think I ever want to tell her."

"Why not? I can be there with you, if you want. She was fine with me."

I make my eyes meet his. "It might be different this time," I say, and for some reason, my voice is a whisper. "It's different when it's your own son."

"Is it?"

"You wouldn't understand."

Sam's eyes widen.

"Sam, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

"I know." Sam looks at his hands and bites his lip, a sigh running through his body. The fabric of his Harvard sweatshirt is so soft, I want to rub it between my fingers. I lean against my wall and tap my pen against the hard cover of my math textbook.

When he looks up, his eyes are pooling with something I can't read. "Do you want to come over for dinner?"

"Tonight?"

"I'm making eggs."

"Eggs?"

"It's the only thing I know how to cook." He half-smiles.

"You cook now?"

"Come over. You'll see."

"Okay. Sam..."

He studies me. "Yeah?"

I want to reach out and touch him, or kiss him, or something, but my arms are glued to my side. I can hear Mom laughing in the kitchen. The air in this house is like superglue now, and it sticks my limbs together and my thoughts together.

"Never mind." I try to smile. "Let's go."

We wave goodbye to Mom on the way out, but she pulls the phone away from her ear before we can slip out the front door. "Where are you off to?"

Sam smiles. "Cameron is coming over for dinner, if that's okay."

"Sure. Don't be back too late, Cameron."

"Yeah, Mom," I mumble, and we're out the door, and I exhale.

~

Sam's house is even messier than I remembered. Clothes are strung wildly across the living room, and old take-out boxes are stacked on the coffee table. Tom is sitting on the couch, and he glances at us as we walk through the front door.

"Hello Cameron," he says, his voice rough like sandpaper. He's wearing a flannel shirt and jeans, and his skin is tired and wrinkled. An NHL game plays quietly on the TV, two American teams that aren't very good. "How are you?"

"Good, thanks. How are you?" I ask, then glance from Tom to Sam. Should I have asked that? I've never talked to someone with cancer before.

"Never been better," says Tom, shifting his position on the sofa. He studies my face and rolls his eyes. "Did Sam tell you about the cancer?"

Sam opens his mouth. "Uncle -"

"Honestly, that boy is so dramatic. It's nothing. The doctors caught it early, everything will be fine." He shifts again, wincing slightly. Sam flushes beside me.

"I believe it," I say, stuffing my hands in my pockets. Tom smiles gruffly.

Sam grabs my arm. "We're studying," he says, and pulls me to his bedroom, even though I didn't even bring my backpack.

His bedroom is very organized. Much more like him. I sit on his bed, admiring the NASA posters hung on the walls, and notice the book I got him for Christmas sitting on his desk.

Sam sits beside me. "He hates sympathy," he says. "They caught it early, but I still worry. Should I worry? I think I should."

"I don't think you should worry." I take his hand, feeling the soft skin of his palm against mine, the way his warm fingers curl around mine.

"So now you hold my hand," says Sam, but he's smiling.

"Sorry."

"We should come to my house more often." The smile fades from his face. "I think you'll feel better once you tell your mom though, Cameron. I know you're anxious around the house now."

"It's okay."

"Really, Cam. She'll love you no matter what."

"Don't call me Cam."

Sam grins. "Cam and Sam. Get it?"

I shove him, but a smile is curling on my face. "Shut up. It's Cameron."

"I like it."

"I'm not a fan."

He laughs. "It'll be okay. You tell me not to worry, I tell you not to worry."

"Sure, Sam."

He stands up. "Come on, we have to go make dinner now."

"Okay, Chef."

I'll admit, he can make pretty good scrambled eggs. Not too milky, but just the right amount of fluffiness, and we eat them on the couch in front of the TV.

After we've eaten, Sam leans against my shoulder. My heartbeat spikes, but I don't flinch. That means something, right?

His body is so warm against mine, and I try to relax. I can smell the sweet shampoo he uses. Tom glances at us briefly before looking back to the game. How is it that some people care so much, and some people care so little?

All I know is that I like Sam. Gay. I'm not supposed to like Sam. But I like being here with him, and I don't know why.

Towards the end of third period, I think he's fallen asleep, but then he rubs his eyes and whispers, "Cameron."

"Yeah."

"I think you should tell your mom."

"I don't want to."

"I think you'll be happier."

Everyone has been talking about my happiness lately. Like it's something for concern.

"Fine," I whisper.

"When?"

"I don't know, Sam. Sunday."

"Sunday?"

"Go back to sleep."

His eyes flutter shut without complaint.

I like being here with him. But the word is hard to say. 

A/N the next few days I'm going to the lake with my family, so I won't be writing then and probably won't have internet at all! It'll give me lots of time to think though, and I'll update ASAP :) also, thank you guys so much for commenting and voting and being overall super awesome!!