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ponytail, and took stock.
    It wasn’t enough, he thought dismal y. He was definitely going
    to need Aunt Lyndie’s help. But first he had to come clean—and
    maybe not with his secret alone.
    The drive up to G rass Val ey was real y long without Tate
    plugging his iPod into the cassette player and talking Brian’s ear
    off. The last few times he’d been up to see Lyndie, Tate had been
    by his side, excited about getting out of Sacramento, since, short of
    the col eges they went to on their track meets, it was the only town
    he’d ever known.
    Lyndie was working in her garden, wearing a pair of man’s
    workout shorts and a man’s sleeveless tank top, both of which were
    full of holes and bleach stains, and Brian wondered if Lyndsey
    hadn’t been raiding her neighbor’s G oodwil castoffs again. She’d
    done it when he was a kid, with impunity and no remorse. As Brian
    had grown, most of his “play clothes” had come from the castoff pile
    that got put out with the trash three times a year. The neighbors
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    had seen him in their clothes after a bit and started just leaving the
    good stuff on Lyndsey’s porch. She was grateful enough to paint
    them a lovely little watercolor of their house in the sunshine, down
    the red-dirt hil and surrounded by pine trees. The neighbors had
    been impressed enough to start throwing in some new clothes in an
    appropriate size for Brian—and he’d managed to make it through
    his weekly visits with the homeschooling cadre without too much
    ridicule.
    He’d been grateful enough to mow their lawn whenever he
    mowed his aunt’s, and the cycle of being good neighbors and
    resourceful human beings had continued. It was a part of his
    upbringing he’d always be grateful for.
    As was Lyndsey’s enthusiastic, no-holds-barred hug as he
    stepped out of his twenty-year-old green Toyota.
    “Hey there, baby!” she said sweetly. Her hair—which should
    have been gray right now—was dyed a solid, raven’s-wing black,
    and it hung down her back from a band at her crown. Her face
    showed her fifty years, but her smile was just as young as that hair.
    “The haircut’s new—you going to keep it?”
    Brian shook his head. “It’s sort of a statement,” he said,
    quirking his lips. He threw an arm over her shoulder and realized
    for the first time how fragile she felt. Tiny and small-boned she had
    always been, but maybe it was Brian’s new sensibility to Tate that
    left him reeling with his aunt’s mortality and vulnerability here in the hills alone.
    He would definitely visit more often, he told himself firmly. If
    nothing else, he knew she’d share vegetables from the garden with
    him, and Tate always liked fresh tomatoes.
    Aunt Lyndie took him into the kitchen and poured him some
    iced tea into one of the jelly jars that were so old, they were actually glass. She was good at tea—had always had at least two dozen
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    types in her cupboards, and knew the uses for everything from
    chamomile to rose hips. Today’s blend was a mix of both of those,
    actual y, and Brian added a liberal dose of sugar and lemon and
    sipped appreciatively while Lyndie poured herself a glass and sat
    patiently at the small, hand-carved wooden table and waited for him
    to speak. (Much of what was in Lyndie’s home was either hand-
    carved or hand-me-down. The artist community in Placer C ounty
    was close-knit and believed very firmly in utilizing resources to their
    fullest.)
    “So, baby,” she prompted gently after a moment, “what’s the
    matter?”
    Brian sighed. Sell it to the world and maybe he’ll buy it. “I’m
    gay, Aunt Lyndie—but that’s not actual y the problem.”
    Aunt Lyndie blinked and frowned a little, as though trying to
    put together a puzzle. “So, al those girls you were with, growing
    up?”
    Brian shrugged. “Yeah—I don’t know how that happened.
    They just….” He flushed. “They wanted me, and, you know, they
    were nice, but