CHAPTER 2 ~ FINN'S POV

"I am proud of you," she said, her voice softening just a fraction, though the intensity in her eyes didn't waver. "You know that, right? When you came out to us, I was so happy. I bought that flag for the porch. I went to the parade with you. I am the proudest mother of a gay son in this entire neighborhood. I just want you to be happy. I want you to have someone to bring to dinner. I want to buy an extra Christmas stocking. Is that so wrong?"

"It’s not wrong, Mom," I said, feeling the familiar weight of guilt settling in my chest. "I appreciate the support. Really. I know some guys have parents who aren’t okay with it, and I’m lucky. But you can’t force these things. It happens when it happens."

"But you aren't helping it happen!" she insisted. "You hide in the library. You hide in your room. You wear those oversized hoodies like you are trying to disappear into the drywall. If you want a boyfriend, Finn, you have to let people see you."

She stood up abruptly and grabbed the serving spoon for the green beans. "Here, have more vegetables. You look pale."

She plopped a massive spoonful of beans onto my plate before I could protest.

"I was thinking," she said, sitting back down and adjusting her napkin. "Your cousin’s wedding is coming up in three months. In July."

My stomach dropped. I knew exactly where this was going. "Mom, please."

"It would be such a perfect time to introduce someone," she said dreamily. "Everyone will be there. Aunt Carol, Uncle Bob, all the cousins. If you showed up with a nice, handsome boyfriend, it would shut Aunt Carol up for good. You know she made that snide comment last Thanksgiving about how you were probably 'just confused' because you haven't dated anyone since high school."

"I didn't date anyone in high school either," I reminded her.

"Exactly! That is my point!" She gestured at me with her fork. "It’s been twenty years of silence, Finn. People talk. I don't care what they say, but I care that you are lonely. And don't tell me you aren't lonely, because I hear you playing those sad indie songs in your bedroom when you visit."

"I like sad indie songs," I protested weakly. "They’re atmospheric."

"They are depressing," she corrected. "Look, I am not asking for a marriage proposal. I am just asking for a date. One date. Just tell me you are trying. D******d one of those apps. What is it called? Grinder?"

I choked on my water. I actually choked, coughing loudly as water went down the wrong pipe. My dad reached over and patted me firmly on the back while I wheezed.

"Mom," I rasped, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "Please, God, do not say that word. It’s not… that’s not the kind of app you think it is."

"Well, whatever it is," she said, unfazed. "Use it. Or talk to someone in your Literature class. Just promise me you will try. I want to see a change, Finn. I want to see you living."

She looked at me with such earnest, aggressive hope that I couldn't even be angry. That was the problem with my mother. She was suffocating, annoying, and had absolutely no concept of boundaries, but she loved me fiercely. She wanted me to have the fairy tale she thought I deserved, completely ignoring the fact that I was terrified of even making eye contact with a barista.

"Okay," I lied, just to make the conversation stop. "I'll try. I'll keep my eyes open."

"Good," she said, satisfied. She took another sip of wine. "Now, eat your chicken before it gets cold. And remind me to give you some leftovers for your dorm. You are looking a little thin."

I picked up my fork again, but my mind was already racing. I had promised to try, but I had no intention of actually doing anything. I was going to go back to campus, hide in the library, and pray that Aunt Carol forgot about the wedding or that the venue burned down.

But as I looked at my mom, who was now happily chatting with my dad about the gutter cleaning, I felt a knot of anxiety tighten in my stomach. She wasn't going to let this go. The wedding was three months away. That was twelve weeks. Eighty-four days.

If I didn't find a way to get her off my back, she was going to start setting me up on blind dates with Mrs. Gable’s son’s friends, or worse, she’d create a dating profile for me herself. The thought made me shudder.

I needed a buffer. I needed a distraction. Or, as I stared at the congealing gravy on my plate, I realized with a sinking feeling: I needed a miracle.