Chapter Two: Study at Least Three Hours

"Why were my heart rates ten times faster when I saw his name?"

Content warning: internalized homophobia, queer longing, religious pressure, parental tension

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My room is my sanctuary, where I sit and collect thoughts about telling my Catholic-Jewish parents I'm gay. As I think about their religious views, this is not the best thing to do. Their beliefs are exactly what keeps me from telling them. My father, a full Catholic, and my mother, a devout Jew, both attend church together. Over the years, I've rebelled against going. If the Catholic Church doesn't support gays, why should I bother showing up?

But it's more than that. It's not just about protest or anger or teenage rebellion. It's fear. Cold, paralyzing fear. The kind that curls itself into your stomach and whispers you're wrong for existing. That you're betraying something holy by just being who you are. And what if they already suspect? What if they already know? I've seen the glances exchanged at family dinners, the tightened mouths when I don't mention any girls, the time my mother quietly removed Call Me by Your Name from my bookshelf.

Shortly after realizing my sexuality at a young age, I knew I had broken the rule I was supposed to follow: men cannot love men. Women bring love. LGBTQ teens raised in religious homes often aren't accepted when they come out—and many of us never do, because silence feels safer than shame.

I think I was eight when it first hit me. There was this boy in Vacation Bible School, Isaiah. He had the kind of freckles that looked like constellations, and when he laughed, I felt it in my bones. I didn't know what it meant back then, not exactly. Just that I wanted him to look at me more. That when he smiled, it did something to me I couldn't name. And then there was Ron Weasley—funny, awkward, fiercely loyal. I replayed his scenes like they were secret messages.

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I was halfway through an essay when I heard Dryden in the living room. No doubt on a mission to get help with his homework. Like me, he didn't attend church—except temple once a month, something I'd grown used to.

He got my attention by standing in my doorway, framed by the Twilight poster I got on a dare in middle school. I still debate taking it down. I remember that night—Dryden dared me to buy it when we were both thirteen and awkwardly laughing our way through the DVD section at Walmart. He said it would make me seem "mysterious and in touch with my feelings." I didn't know what that meant, but I bought it anyway.

"How was the bus ride?" he asked, flopping onto my twin bed with a scoff. I should speak up. He's my best friend. I should be able to tell him anything. But what if he judges me too? What if he says something about Christian?

"I didn't ride the bus," I said. "I found a ride."

"What's going on? You, Luke Bradyn Montgomery, asked someone for a ride home?"

He only uses my full name when he's messing with me, which is most of the time.

"How was football?" I asked, quickly trying to change the subject. As he talked, I nodded, pretending to understand. He could talk for hours, and I still wouldn't know what a tight end does.

"Shouldn't you be doing homework instead of bugging me about things you weren't there for?" I added.

"I'll do it when I get home. Gotta keep it clean for football, you know? If I want this scholarship, grades matter. You know that."

"I do. I just don't have a football scholarship waiting for me," I said. "I don't even know if the college I want will accept me."

He grew quiet for a moment. "You've got a brain, Montgomery. You always overthink. Just apply. Worst they can say is no."

Just then, my phone buzzed.

Dryden looked at it like he expected it to be about him. I didn't check it until he left. My gut told me it was Christian.

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Sure enough:

Christian:
We have a test tomorrow 🌄 Study at least three hours.

Mr. Olsten hadn't said anything about a test. Was he joking?

Me:
Are you sure? Mr. Olsten hadn't said anything. Also... why three hours?

My history book lay untouched beside me, a silent witness to my academic avoidance.

Christian:
It's not true. Just wanted to see how you'd react. 😎🧪📘

I laughed. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard. I imagined his grin while sending that—smug, maybe. Soft. Something curled inside me at the thought.

Christian:
Three hours is how much you should study in senior year anyway. It's the last stop before college.

I wondered if I should ask him to help me study. Would he think less of me? Or just... say yes?

Me:
Is that a real fact or just something that sounded good?

Christian:
Right now I'm mastering AP Gov. Boring as hell. Don't take it. You should be studying the art of velocity.

That made me smile.

Me:
Time travel, right? That's what velocity's about.

I instantly regretted the joke. Dryden always said my jokes were bad. Would Christian think so too?

He responded with more geeky emojis. I stared at the text longer than I meant to.

Christian:
Interesting theory. Now write that down. And take notes while you're at it.

Suddenly, he was more than the shirtless boy from the pond. He was this entire presence in my phone, all blonde hair and brains and bizarre emojis. And maybe, just maybe... something else.

Christian:
Be honest... how many notes do you actually take in physics?

Me:
Like real notes? One page. Maybe one and a half. Including doodles.

Christian:
Impressive. I'm going to write your name on the Nobel Prize now. 😇✨

Me:
You're just jealous of my stick-figure diagrams.

Christian:
Only if they include me. With the Jeep.

Me:
I'll add flames to the tires. Maybe give you wings.

Christian:
Obviously. Angelic. Iconic. 😇🔥

Me:
Do you always flirt like this, or am I special?

I freeze after sending that. My heart jumps into my throat.

He doesn't reply right away.

Then:

Christian:
You're special, Hemsworth.

I don't know what to say back. I reread it five times. I save the text without meaning to. I can't tell if he's serious or joking or if it even matters. I let it settle into my chest and warm the cold parts.

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I heard my parents downstairs. Their voices drifted up—likely trying to figure out if I was working on homework. Was texting Christian about physics the same as studying? Probably not. But I told myself it counted.

My father knocked, stepping into the room.

"Dryden didn't stay long?" he asked.

"He decided to study at home."

My father looked me over, silent. We shared the same hazel eyes and latte skin tone, but not much else. He wanted a calculus-taking, Mass-attending son. I wasn't that.

"Dryden said he had calculus homework," I added quickly.

He seemed to want to say something else, but didn't. Then he turned and left.

My phone pinged again.

It was Christian. A selfie this time: tongue out, wearing a tie-dyed tank top.

Confidence Vibe.

God. He was hot. And he knew it.

I wanted to respond. I didn't.

Me:
Sorry. Studying.

Was it the truth? Kind of. Maybe. In a way.

Christian:
Sure. I'll quiz you tomorrow, Hemsworth.

My stomach flipped.

Me:
Seriously? I'd fail gravity.

Christian:
That's what notes are for. In case a test pops up. Then you'd fail.

I imagined us at that pond again, notebooks open, sunlight catching in his hair. Him pointing at formulas and making them sound almost poetic. I wondered if he smiled like that when he studied. If he tapped his pen like I do. If he liked the silence between the work.

The clock read 1:15 AM.

I had just spent hours texting Christian Day.

And somehow, none of it felt like wasted time.

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