I Wish You All the Best Read online

  “Heartfelt, romantic, and quietly groundbreaking. This book will save lives.” —Becky Albertalli, New York Times bestselling author of Simon vs. The Homo Sapiens Agenda

  “Tender and bursting with humanity, I Wish You All the Best tells a heartwarming queer love story without compromise.” —Meredith Russo, Stonewall Award–winning author of If I Was Your Girl

  “A beacon of hope in a broken world. We all need this book.” —Nic Stone, New York Times bestselling author of Dear Martin

  “Emotional and heartfelt … This is the sort of novel that goes beyond being important; it has the potential to save and change lives.” —Kheryn Callender, Stonewall Award–winning author of Hurricane Child and This is Kind of an Epic Love Story

  “A truly unique and beautiful debut.” —Adi Alsaid, author of Let’s Get Lost

  “Profoundly poignant and often swoon-worthy … a stunning gift to the world.” —Jay Coles, author of Tyler Johnson Was Here

  “An important and inspiring debut about identity, acceptance, friendship, familial relationships, and the people who become your family.” —Sabina Khan, author of The Love and Lies of Rukhsana Ali

  “A soft, sweet, and incredibly important story about a nonbinary teen finding their voice. This book is going to be so important to so many people.” —Alice Oseman, author of Radio Silence

  “A welcome addition to the growing body of LGBTQIAP+ literature.” —Booklist

  For Robin, who was there from the beginning

  Contents

  Praise for I Wish You All the Best

  Title Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Epilogue: Three Months Later

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  “Ben, honey, are you feeling well?”

  Mom plucks the plate from in front of me, with most of my dinner still on it, untouched. I’d taken maybe one or two bites before it fell into my stomach like a rock and what little appetite I’d had to begin with was gone.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I tell her. Always easier to just tell her that. It’s better than having her pull out the thermometer and every bottle of medication we have in the cabinet. “Just a lot on my mind.”

  There. Not a total lie.

  “School?” Dad asks.

  I nod.

  “You aren’t falling behind, are you?”

  “No, just a lot going on.” Again, not a total lie. Is it really even a lie if I’m just withholding certain information?

  “Well,” Mom starts. “As long as you’re keeping your grades up. When does your report card come in?”

  “Next week.” It’ll be all As, except in English, which will probably earn me a “We’re not angry, just disappointed.”

  “Are you sure you’re feeling okay? You know these temperature changes have always gotten to you.” Mom walks back over to me and brushes the hair away from my forehead. “You do feel a little warm.”

  “I’m fine.” I shake her hand away. “I promise, just tired.”

  And I think that’s enough for her because she gives me this little smile.

  “All right.” She’s still staring at me as she walks away. “We should schedule you a haircut, it’s getting too long in the back.”

  “Okay.” I sip some water to give myself something to do. “Did I tell y’all that Gabby Daniels had to drop out as Art Club president?”

  “No, did something happen?” Mom asks.

  “I think it was just too much for her, she’s in like every other club at school. But that means that I get to take over for her!”

  “Oh, honey, that’s great!” Mom says from the sink, washing off the plates before she slides them into the dishwasher. “Are you going to have to do anything extra for the club?”

  “It’s mostly organizing events and trips. I was already covering for Gabby most meetings, so it won’t be much different.”

  “You sure that won’t interfere with studying?” Dad chimes in, a grimace on his face. “Remember our agreement: If your grades slip, you have to quit.”

  “Yes, sir.” I can feel that light pressure in my brain, like something’s getting tighter against my skull. I look at Mom, hoping she might say something, but she doesn’t. She just stares at the floor like she normally does when Dad gets like this. “I know.”

  Dad sighs and walks into the den, while I grab the last of the dishes on the table and take them over to the counter, before pulling out the Tupperware to pack the leftovers.

  “Thanks, honey.” Mom doesn’t look up from the dishes.

  “No problem,” I tell her. “How was work?”

  “Oh, you know.” She shrugs. “Dr. Jameson keeps handing off his paperwork to me instead of doing it himself.”

  “Doing his own paperwork?” I tease. “What a concept.”

  “Right?” Mom chuckles and gives me this wide-eyed look. “One day I swear I’m going to tell him off.”

  “Don’t you tell me to never burn bridges?”

  “Yes, that’s true. But I’m the adult here, and I can do what I want.” Mom giggles to herself and sets the dishes aside. “So, what did you do today?”

  “Nothing really. Drew a little bit, worked on a few projects that are due after break, nothing too exciting.” Again, just withholding information.

  Mostly my day comprised absolutely freaking the fuck out about what I was about to do, rewatching videos on YouTube about how people did this, rereading old messages from Mariam, and almost throwing up the peanut butter sandwich I’d made for lunch.

  You know, typical, everyday stuff.

  Mom sets the last of the dishes on the drying rack just as I’m stacking the Tupperware in the fridge. “Are you sure you’re okay? You didn’t eat anything weird, did you?” Mom reaches up to touch my forehead again, but I manage to avoid her.

  “I promise, I’m totally fine.”

  Liar.

  “If you say so.” Mom carefully folds the dish towels by the sink. “You still up for the movie?”

  “Yeah, sure, I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “Maybe he won’t make us watch Home Alone for the twentieth time,” Mom mutters, mostly to herself I think.

  “It’s a classic,” I tease, and she smiles at me, grabbing the little baggie of peppermint bark she made a few days ago, before she disappears into the living room.

  When she’s gone, I drape over the sink, bracing myself in case my dinner comes up. I can do this, it’s going to be fine. Everything is going to be okay and this is most definitely the right thing to do. I know my parents, they know me, they deserve to know this thing about me as well.

  And I want to tell them, I really, really do.

  So that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

  “Ben, bring me the popcorn,” Dad calls from the den, and I feel my insides clamp up again. I grab the huge tub from the counter, the kind with the four different flavors that Dad always buys at Christmas, and migrate my way into the den, except it’s like my feet are covered with cement blocks.

  It still looks like Christmas in here. Mom and I actually agree that people don’t appreciate th
e holiday nearly enough, so she tends to leave the tree and decorations up until the first of the year. I’m not really sure if that’s how other families do it, but it’s my favorite of her mom-isms.

  She’s already decided that Elf is the movie for tonight, except we don’t own a copy of it, so it’s my responsibility to find somewhere we can rent it.

  “We can watch Lampoon next.” Dad crunches on a piece of popcorn.

  After a little exploring, I find it, enter Mom’s credit card information, and settle in. It’s weird, I usually love this movie to death, but tonight? It’s almost irritating. But I don’t think that’s actually the movie’s fault. I feel uncomfortable, no matter how I sit, it’s like I have to escape my body somehow.

  And then the movie gets to the weird scene where Will Ferrell’s character is singing with Zooey Deschanel while she’s in the shower, and I get that his character is supposed to be naïve or whatever, but it still creeps me out a little.

  “Now, that’s a woman.” Dad chuckles, feeding himself another piece of the chocolate-covered popcorn. “Right, Ben?”

  “Right.” I try my best to act like I’m in on the joke, even though that couldn’t be further from the truth. I wonder if they’ve ever seen through that disguise, if they’ve ever entertained the idea that I was anything other than their perfect son.

  I don’t like lying to him.

  Or Mom.

  I’m basically always living a lie. They don’t really know everything about me.

  And that’s what I’ve been working up to tonight, or really, the past few weeks. It’s the reason I didn’t have an appetite, the reason why I couldn’t really focus on anything over the past week. Christmas break seemed to glide by at a snail’s pace because I promised myself it’d happen now, at some point over the break. Tonight feels like the right moment, even though I can’t really explain why. Maybe I’m riding some magical Christmas high.

  ’Tis the season, I suppose.

  Too bad I don’t feel very jolly right now. Maybe I should’ve donned some more “gay apparel” to lighten the mood.

  Some commercial starts playing, and a car company is running a sale for the “Ho-Ho-Holidays,” and out of the corner of my eyes, I see Dad shake his head.

  “Ain’t right,” I hear him mutter.

  Mariam walked me through this half a dozen times; I just have to wait for a good moment, a lull in the night, when we’re all feeling pretty good.

  It was going to be fine; Mariam kept telling me that.

  Everything was going to be fine and I was finally going to get this huge thing off my chest and it was going to be great and they’d respect what I was telling them.

  And it was all going to be fine.

  I keep telling myself that now is the right moment. Over and over again as the movie keeps playing and commercial breaks keep coming. But every time I open my mouth, the words fail me, and I can’t force them out.

  I shouldn’t be scared.

  But for some reason I am, no matter how much I’ve willed myself to not be. I can’t get over this feeling. Maybe it’s an omen or something. A sign that I shouldn’t do this. Except I have to do this. I can’t explain it; I just feel it inside me. And underneath all that, I really do think it’ll all be okay.

  It’s cheesy, but I wait until the end of the movie, when everyone is together and happy and I see a smile on Mom’s face.

  Dad looks indifferent, but he pretty much always looks that way.

  It has to be now. I can actually feel it.

  “Hey, I wanted to talk to you two about something,” I say, my voice really dry.

  “Okay.” Mom leans back on the couch, tucking her legs underneath her and balancing her head in the palm of her hand. “What’s up?”

  Dad reaches for the remote and turns the volume on the TV down.

  “I …” I can do this. Just keep breathing.

  There’s that tightness in my stomach, like something is just twisting and twisting and it won’t let go until the moment is over. And everything will unravel, and I’ll feel free.

  “I wanted to tell you two something.”

  Dad looks at me now.

  This is it.

  It’s kinda funny actually; the script I wrote for myself, the one I typed in Word so I’d cover everything I wanted to, it’s just totally gone from my memory now. Like someone zapped it all away.

  Maybe that’s for the best; maybe this is how I’ll be the most honest with them.

  If it just comes from me and not some rehearsed version of myself, maybe that will help; maybe that’ll be better?

  I tell them. Slowly.

  At first, relief floods over me. I think I can actually feel myself relax.

  I just wish that feeling could’ve lasted longer.

  “Please pick up. Please pick up,” I whisper into the receiver of the pay phone, bracing against the sharp chill of the night, watching the glow of Christmas lights still hanging in shopwindows, even though it’s New Year’s Eve.

  Just an hour, that’s all it’d taken for my life to crumble around me. And now I’m here, walking around downtown without any shoes, calling collect to a sister I haven’t seen, let alone spoken to, in a decade.

  “Hello?” Hannah’s voice sounds tired, but it isn’t even that late yet. At least, I don’t think it is; I don’t have a watch. And my phone is sitting at home on my nightstand, charging, because the battery is total crap.

  “Hannah, it’s me.”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s me,” I whisper. Of course. She wouldn’t know my voice, not anymore. Hell, she probably wouldn’t even recognize me. “It’s Ben.”

  There’s a slip, or noise, or something on her end. “Ben? What are you—”

  I cut her off. “Can you come get me?”

  “What? Why? What’s going on?”

  “Hannah.” I look around. The sidewalk is totally empty, probably thanks to the sinking temperatures. Everyone else is inside, somewhere nice and warm. And here I am slowly losing the feeling in my toes, trying my absolute hardest not to shiver from the sharp gusts of wind.

  “Ben, are you still there? Where are you?”

  “Outside Twin Hill Pizza.” I tuck my hands under my armpits, balancing the phone between my cheek and shoulder. There’s some more rustling on her end, and the sound of someone else talking.

  “What in the actual hell are you doing there? It’s like thirty degrees outside.”

  “Mom and Dad kicked me out.”

  The line goes silent, and for a second, I think the call dropped without warning. Oh God, I don’t know if calling this way will work a second time.

  “What?” Her voice almost seems emotionless, the way it’d get when she was truly, needlessly enraged. Usually with Dad about something that didn’t call for it. “Why would they do that?”

  “Can you please just come pick me up?” I try to breathe on my hands. “I can … I can explain everything later.”

  “Yeah, of course, just wait for me. Okay?”

  “I’m going to the Walgreens down the street.” I can see the bright red sign from here, just a block over. I give Hannah the address, listening closely to whatever is going on in the background.

  “Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Hannah lives in Raleigh, an hour drive at least, maybe forty-five minutes if she speeds. So I’ll be waiting for a while.

  At least no one inside the drugstore seems to care that I’m no longer abiding by the “no shoes” part of their two most basic rules. The cashier behind the counter doesn’t even look up as I weave my way into the farthest corner of the store and take my seat in one of the chairs near the pharmacy waiting area.

  My legs ache, and I’ve already torn a hole in one of my socks. I wrestle the filthy, soaked things off my feet, and start rubbing at the numbed skin. I hope I can at least get some of the feeling back. None of my toes are blue, so I’m taking that as a good sign.

  At first, I don’t even noti
ce I’m crying. Maybe it’s because my face already feels raw from the wind outside, or because crying is something I’d been doing for nearly two hours straight before I made the phone call. My vision goes blurry as I start to cry again, staring at my naked feet. I try my best to wipe the tears away but the skin under my eyes stings so badly.

  Jesus. I’m a fucking disaster.

  I felt so numb on the walk over here, trying my best to get to the one place I knew had a pay phone. Everyone at school liked to joke it was probably the last one in the country. Because who needs pay phones anymore, right?

  I pull my knees in tight, trying to keep quiet. If any of the employees notice, or see me, they don’t say anything.

  “Get out of this house.”

  I didn’t even know it was possible for Dad to look at me the way he had, it was …

  Terrifying.

  At first, it was calm. Almost like they wanted to hear me out. They let me talk, and then I was done. Mom never took her hands off her necklace, the cross, the one she told me Grandma gave her when she was seven.

  Dad spoke up first. “That’s a good joke, son.”

  Except the way he said it told me he didn’t think it was a joke. His voice was flat, like there was nothing to it.

  “Dad …”

  “You should take it back,” he added, to pretend like nothing had ever happened, that the conversation was dust that could just be wiped away.

  But it couldn’t.

  And even if that was possible, I wouldn’t want to.

  I don’t think I would at least.

  “Mom.” I looked at her, and she kept looking from me to Dad and then back to me, not saying anything. “Please?”

  But she didn’t say anything. And Dad kept getting angrier. He never actually yelled at me. Dad’s voice was that scary sort of calm. We all just sort of sat there. “You’re our son, Ben. This just doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Dad, I can—”

  “Get out of my house, just get out of here.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Please.” I begged them both. “Don’t do this.”

  Dad led me to the door, and Mom followed on his heels. I just kept begging and begging, but they never did anything.