She rolls her chair over to me and grabs my hand. “Okay . . . but what’s wrong?”

“Me.”

“You’re not wrong, my son.” She gives me a side hug, resting her head on my shoulder. “I don’t know what you were expecting would happen. That I would hit you with a belt? Maybe rub some cleansing oil on you?”

“I wish you could.” I cry, because there’s nothing like my mom telling me I’m okay the way I am to really scare me about living with this heartache forever. “I want a reboot, Mom. It’s not working with Thomas. I know I said I would be more open after what I put you through in April, so I’m telling you now: this whole thing with Thomas was a major awakening for me. But he’s still sleeping and I’m not sure I can do or say enough to wake him up.”

“What are you asking of me?”

“To make me right.”

She’s sobbing a little too, and she squeezes my hand. “Thank you for being honest with me, Aaron. I have said it before and I’ll say it always, but I’ll love you however you are. You’re being impulsive about Leteo. We can talk this over or schedule another appointment with your therapist—”

“Dr. Slattery is a joke! He’s a waste of your money! Leteo is the real damn deal, Mom. They say you can’t choose whether or not you like boys or girls, but you can help me get back on the right track.” I move out from under her head because she’s making me feel like I’m begging for a new Hess truck at Christmas. Kids my age can be impulsive, I get that, but when your son who almost killed himself asks for a better life overnight, your job as a parent should be as simple as signing on the dotted line.

“No, Aaron.” She lets go of my hand and stands. “I have to go to work. We can talk about this later tonight and—”

“Forget it.” I storm out of her office, speeding up when she calls my name over and over. I only wipe the tears from my cheeks when I reach the street corner.

I pull out my phone. I really want to call to Thomas or Genevieve but I can’t. I can’t hit up Brendan either because I’m pretty sure he’s pieced together all the Thomas-shaped pieces of my cataclysmic puzzle. The same goes for the other guys. I go through my phone book, scrolling past Baby Freddy, Brendan, Collin, Dad, Deon . . .

I call Evangeline. She doesn’t pick up.

I sink against the wall, wondering where the fuck my place is in this fucking universe that fucked me over. Thoughts I shouldn’t be thinking creep up on me. They’re telling me to seek out oblivion where rest and happiness await. I cry harder because it’s not what I want, but once again I am beginning to feel like it is the only solution.

My phone rings. It’s not Thomas or Genevieve but it’s the next best hope. “Evangeline, hey.”

“Hey, kiddo. Sorry I missed your call.”

“Don’t worry about it. I need to ask for a favor.” And in that moment, I realize that one lie will help me reach my life of lies, my only way out. It’s not like this lie would hurt anyone. “I’ve been talking with my mom about getting some Leteo work done but she can’t come with me. Are you around this afternoon?”

She’s quiet for a bit. “I’ll meet you in an hour. Grab a spot in line, okay?”

There’s a chance for my happy oblivion, after all.

I’ve been in line on the corner of 168th Street for close to an hour now, waiting to get into the Leteo Institute. I got bored and asked the older man in front of me what he was here for, and he told me he wanted to forget his cheating ex-wife before he kills both her and the twenty-year-old she slept with.

After that, I let a couple of people skip me.

When I finally get inside, I grab a ticket, and sit down in a waiting room as big as the one at the DMV.

On every wall there are two TVs, all rolling out the same Leteo videos.

QUESTION: Is this procedure total bullshit?

ANSWER: No, this procedure is NOT total bullshit.

Okay, the last one is in my head, but it’s exactly the wise-ass type of question I would’ve submitted back before Kyle pulled this little magic trick on himself. The ticket queue is only on 184 and I’m 224. At least that will give Evangeline some extra time to get off the line outside and in here. Seriously, the amount of lines in this place alone makes me think that if you knock one person into another, it’ll create a crazy domino effect and we’ll all be amnesiacs by the time the last person falls.

There you are,” Evangeline says, sitting down beside me. She’s in this silk vest that reminds me of the one Genevieve wore on a movie date last year. But she’s still the same old babysitter I knew. “Care to catch me up?”

“Everything’s a shit show. That’s pretty much it, Evangeline.”

“Language,” she says. “Talk to me.” Her eyes dart around the room. I can’t blame her. Mine did, too.

“When I was younger, did you ever think that I might be . . .” I thought I’d be able to spit this out. “Did you ever think that I might like other guys?”

“Not at all. Why do you ask? Do you believe you might be gay?”

“I am . . . but I don’t want to be. I want to be made straight.”

“Why do you believe being gay is the root of your problems?” she spitfires. I almost feel like she’s judging me.

“I had a girlfriend who loved me and good friends. Now I don’t. And that all changed when I met an idiot with zero direction in his life.” I’m trying not to sound defensive. If this procedure means I can forget my feelings for Thomas and the pain that would come from a goodbye, I need it. “I’m not happy with who I am. That’s enough, right?”

Evangeline searches my face. “Listen, kiddo. Even if what you’re asking of me is possible, and if you had every last penny needed to cover the costs, this isn’t a facility you can simply walk into and schedule work to be done this weekend. Your mother needs to sign off on everything, for starters, and they would force you to speak with therapists over a stretch of time first to determine if your feelings can be resolved over time.”

I don’t answer.

She massages my shoulder, and I flinch because it’s the same thing I did to Thomas on Friday before kissing him; this is one of many memories I need to live without if I’m ever going to be able to live at all. “I know the pain you’re going through, Aaron,” she says.

“Yeah, because you’re older, and I’m just a fucking kid, right?”

“Language,” Evangeline mouths.

We sit in silence while I wait for my number to be called. Then she straightens. Someone is waving to her from the other side of the room.