That it took nine weeks, true love and a dozen orgasms for him to realize this is beside the point.

The point is, today I remember. Today I remember who I am.

Because the store is packed, they're still waiting for their paint order; which is why Kurt has enough time to wander into Aisle 15 and try not to think about the other, much more significant ways in which he has not been behaving like a Hummel. He'll think about building materials instead.

He knows he should go find Deidre before she wrecks something, or someone, but the beautiful steel bars lined up in neat little rows call to him like long-lost friends. He runs his index finger down the flat surface of a forty-eight-inch crown bolt, so simple, so nothing, really, and imagines all that it could be. Just give me a few hours, a jig and a pair of suede work gloves (blue, preferably, or lime), and that bolt will meet its destiny.

It's been so long since he actually made something.

As his eyes scan rows upon rows of opportunity in the form of flat metal sheets—galvanized steel, zinc-plated, aluminum black lincane, diamond tread—he can hear his own ecstatic voice shining through a transatlantic phone call, dying to tell his dearest friend about finding the workshop space on Third Avenue, to make it all the more real.

"Blaine! It's just seven blocks from my apartment in Park Slope. And it has this old freight elevator and two crazy performance artists down the hall and seven outlets in my area alone and—Blaine! It's perfect. It's just perfect!"

It was his pair of post-modern, brushed-steel deck chairs that landed him the job at Blue in SoHo; and though he created many pieces for the showroom in his first few years working, high-profile interior design jobs soon took precedence over time in the workshop.

Then, shortly after he moved in with Paul, he gave up his beloved space. He'd spent many late nights cutting, sanding, shaping and dreaming in that space, and yet, when the time came, he gave it up without so much as a tear or heavy sigh. By then, he'd moved on to this other life; he was practiced at giving up on dreams, after all.

Whenever his old New York friends asked when he'd get back to the work he loved, he'd say, "I haven't found the right space in Manhattan." But he wasn't really looking. High-end furniture design is a risky, competitive game. Why would a sought-after interior designer in a saturated market give everything up to make furniture he might not be able to sell?

Despite Kurt's best efforts, the urge to create something of his own often bubbled up to the surface. He'd ignore it until he felt like he might jump right out of his skin, his hands aching for the familiar, repetitive movements, and say, "I need to make something beautiful." To which Paul would always reply, "But you make everything beautiful," missing the point entirely.

Walking over to the fine-gauged wire, Kurt has that nagging feeling again, like he forgot something—something he was supposed to do, someone he was supposed to call. He reaches out to touch copper, brushed steel: a reunion.

Paul. Sweet Paul. Earnest, heartfelt, clueless Paul.

He was genuinely excited to hear Paul's voice last night when he called, and thanks to that third drink, he let himself forget for a moment that he was about to break the poor man's heart.

"Paul?"

"Hello, stranger. I was afraid Deidre locked you in the basement."

"Adobe homes don't have basements."

"God, I miss you. Can you talk? Please tell me you can talk."

"I'm at a bar, but yes. Of course. How are you holding up? What's happening? Are you getting any sleep?"

"Not much. Either I'm in a meeting or in session, or too wound up to sleep. If we don't come to an agreement by Sunday, it's not going to happen."

"Shit."

"I know."

"What can I do?"

"Just let me hear you."

"Okay."

"Tell me everything. I want to hear about beveled windows and crazy Deidre and how you can't wait to get out of hellish New Mexico. Tell me all about it."

"I met Adele."

"What? Are you kidding?"

"She's recording an album out in Galisteo with an old friend of mine."

"Really? That's amazing. Who?"

"What, who?"

"Who's the old friend?"

"Blaine Anderson."

"Blaine, Blaine?"

"Uh-huh."

"Small world. How fun for you. Tell him hello for me. So what else? Tell me more."

He cradled the phone and told Paul about choosing between three doors, about the unpainted kitchen and the silver serving tray he'd found at the Namb� outlet store on San Francisco Street and willed himself not to start his next sentence with, "Speaking of Blaine..."

He let the sound of Paul's agreeable, loving voice drown out the ambient sounds around him, the sounds of truly special people he'd just met who knew him in ways Paul never would. It wasn't Paul's fault. How could he understand that Kurt had kept the truth hidden all of these years, even from himself?

Then, he did the worst thing. He hung up on Paul, let the mere sight of Blaine preparing to sing take precedence. And, as his phone vibrated in his pocket, Kurt continued to ignore Paul's calls.

Later, after he nuzzled his face into the back of Blaine's neck at his hotel room door; after they kissed for an hour and then an hour more; after he climbed into Blaine's lap, naked, and teased him mercilessly until he finally let the tip of Blaine's cock slide in, just a bit, just enough; after Blaine cleaned them up, and held Kurt's hand, and kissed the tips of his fingers; after he traced pictures onto Blaine's back and whispered love, love, love into his ear, Kurt sat on the edge of the bed and texted Paul an apology and a crappy excuse about poor cell reception in the bar. Another lie.

As Blaine sang in the shower—Forget the chorus, you're the bridge, the words and music to every day I've lived—Kurt somehow managed to put the lying out of his mind until just before he fell asleep in Blaine's arms. But then, as he listened to Blaine's soft, contented breathing, it was all he could do to push the sound of Paul's voice out of his head. How fun for you. Tell him hello for me.

Shaking the memory off, now, Kurt backs down the aisle, eyes fixed on the materials he wants to twist and mold into something else, something new—and bumps right into Deidre.

"You left me in the ninth circle of hell. Do you hate me? Is that it?"

He laughs. "It's only paint, Deidre."

"People were staring," she says, gripping his hand.

"No doubt because you look like a Gucci ad and swear like a sailor," Kurt teases. "Is the paint ready?"

"Maybe? I went to look at the fucking flowers and got lost. Do you need something from this aisle?"

Kurt looks at her blankly.

Do you need something?
Doesn't she know?

No, how could she know that he used to live for these materials, for thick sheets of aluminum, for wire cutters and table saws and mallets of every size? He wants to tell her everything, show her renderings, drag her through the homes of old friends who still proudly display his "almost" and "not quite" pieces like treasures, like art.

Do you need something?
Do you need to make something beautiful with your own two hands?
Do you need a different Wednesday, or winter, or next year?
Do you need something you left behind, something you forgot you loved?

Kurt turns to her, takes both of her French-manicured hands in his own and says, "Let me make you a table. Or two. Let me make you two tables!"

"You want to make me—?"

"For the courtyard, to go with the wrought iron set we just bought."

"Kurt, of course, but—"

"I can do it! You know the stainless steel fainting couch in my office? The one with the lilac cushions? I made that," he says, eyes bright. "It was years ago, and I don't have the tools, but I'm sure Antonio can help me find someone who would have—"

"Kurt! Stop. What the fuck? First you want to paint the kitchen yourself, and now you want to make my furniture. Who are you?"

She looks worried, like a little girl watching her first scary movie, afraid to find out what will happen next. He lets go of her hands, offers a small smile and then tucks her perfectly-styled blonde hair behind both of her ears. "Just me," he soothes. "Still me."

"Fuck. You're leaving New York, aren't you?"

"Did you ever wear your hair like this? Away from your face?"

"Yes. When I was nine."

"I like it. You have a sweet face," Kurt says.

"You say that like you've only just met me," Deidre replies, tugging on the hair behind her ears. "And you didn't answer my fucking question."

Kurt sighs, kisses her forehead and says, "You're running out of houses for me to decorate, anyway. You'll just have to resign yourself to being my friend."

She wraps her arms around his waist and gives him a quick hug, her head resting on his chest just a few seconds longer than normal. For Deidre, it might as well be a declaration of love. When she pulls back her smile is radiant. She looks him up and down and says, "Is the sex really that good?"

"For what?"

"For you to break up with your perfect fianc�, create the scandal of the season and move to another country in shame?"

He laughs, ignoring the truth in her question. "No, I mean, yes, holy wow the sex is amazing, but we haven't decided. I'm not sure what I want to do. I can't even figure out how to tell Paul, or when to tell him."

"Or if you want to tell him," she adds, which earns her his steely glare. "What? I thought we were best friends now."

"You're not ready for that, honey."

"Whatever. You know I'm right."

Kurt turns on his heel and marches toward the paint section, where Lucky, the six-foot-four college student who put up with Deidre's mouth and misgivings, has loaded two gallons of Wheatgrass, a roll of painter's tape, one roller and three brushes of varying lengths into their cart.

"Thanks, Lucky. You're a sweetheart," Kurt says.

"No problem. You need some help with that paint job? I get off at three." Kurt looks up from the cart to see Lucky winking at him, trying to flirt. He takes in his Lucky's shoulder-length, strawberry blond hair, his slightly bloodshot blue eyes, and smiles.

"I'm too old for you," Kurt says.

"You're not, but I know when someone is trying to let me down easy," Lucky says.

Deidre catches up to Kurt at the paint counter, pokes him in the side and says, "So, can you really bend steel?"

"Sure."

"Dude! Superpowers? Are you sure you don't wanna hook up?" Lucky says, leaning over the counter.

"He's taken. So taken. Double taken," Deidre teases.

"Stop," Kurt warns.

"Kinky, huh? It's like that?" Lucky asks.

"No, it's nothing like that."

Deidre leans over the counter, right next to Lucky, invading his personal space. She touches his nametag, letting her fingers linger over his name. "Is this your real name, Luck-y?"

"Okay, okay. Enough paint fumes for you," Kurt says, dragging her away. "Thank you, Lucky!"

After the cashier rings up the sale, after Kurt covers Deidre's mouth to stop her from cursing at the woman behind them in line, after they load up Deidre's rental and head up Cerrillos Road, back toward the Plaza, Kurt finally lets himself think about the promises he's made—to Paul, to Blaine, to himself. He settles into it, this new side of him he can no longer run from: the liar in him, the cheater, the selfish prick who is lucky enough to get two perfect men in one short lifetime.

They're halfway back to Deidre's "godawful house" when he realizes she's right. It isn't that he doesn't want to tell Paul about Blaine right now; he doesn't want to tell Paul about Blaine at all.

---

It's evening, close to eight o'clock, when Antonio pulls up to the Alexander house and offers to help Kurt finish the second coat. They're done by a quarter after ten, walls glistening, backs aching, brushes clean. Blaine won't be out of the studio and back in Santa Fe until at least eleven, so Kurt accepts Antonio's invitation and they head over to the Cowgirl Hall of Fame for two dollar beer (for Antonio), margaritas (for Kurt), and ostrich burgers (for both of them).

The crowd on the Cowgirl patio is young, yet distinctly "Santa Fe"–girls in peasant skirts and ratty band t-shirts, and boys in skinny jeans wearing more jewelry than the girls: turquoise chokers, hemp bracelets, crystal necklaces, Celtic symbol earrings. These are the transient Santa Feans, who, in a few weeks, or months, or maybe years, will move to Boulder, or Austin, or Nashville, always chasing the next experience.

They sit in overlapping groups, laughing and talking over the sound of a local, pseudo-grunge band playing inside.

"Don't let me drink too much tonight. I have to head out to Taos early in the morning," Antonio says, as they grab a table next to the stone wall bumping right up to the sidewalk just barely at knee level.

"Normally I would say, ‘I'm not your mama,' but I don't want to get drunk tonight, either, so—"

"I bet you don't."

"Must you? I thought we agreed you were done."

"I'll stop, I'll stop!" Antonio says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "I'm just feeding off your happy. You're more fun to tease when you've had something other than a stick up your ass."

Kurt kicks Antonio's foot and says, "You're lucky you're not wearing sandals."

"Sandals? I don't wear sandals."

"Ever?"

"I didn't even wear sandals on my Super Romantic Hawaiian Vacation," Antonio says, in his best game show host voice. He looks out over the crowd and waves a server over to their table.

"Don't sound so excited about it," Kurt says, settling in. He places his phone on the table, in case Blaine calls or texts, along with a pen and a small, leatherbound notepad he picked up at the Marcy Street Card Shop earlier that afternoon.

Reasoning that he needed to get practical and stop fearing the inevitable, Kurt had planned to make a list of all of the tasks he'd have to complete in order to start fresh with Blaine. He'd even jotted "FRESH START" at the top of the first page of his notepad. But when he still had nothing after staring at the mostly blank page for twenty minutes, he gave up and watched the paint dry in Deidre's kitchen instead.

"I'm not much for forced romance," Antonio says.

"Please tell me you didn't wear cowboy boots on the beach," Kurt says.

"Barefoot. I went barefoot," Antonio says.

The server arrives, a young woman with her hair in a loose bun through which she has stuffed two pencils. As she takes their orders, her expression blank and body rigid, Kurt asks her name. "Jillian," she replies, "but I prefer Jill, and before you ask, no, I did not come tumbling after."

Kurt says, "Of course not. Anyone can see you're a modern girl. You know how to turn on the damn faucet." This earns him a belly laugh and a pat on the shoulder from Jill before she marches back to the main bar.

"Nice," Antonio says.

Kurt shrugs and says, "It pays to have them on your side."

"I'm glad you came out tonight."

"Me too. I've been meaning to—I want to apologize," Kurt says. "I should have accepted your invitations on earlier visits. Your wife—Sarah's lovely. And the kids at Alex Marin House, and just... I'm sorry. I should have said yes more often."

"Don't stress about it. We're cool."

"I tend to judge things too harshly, and too soon. I don't hate New Mexico. It's—I'm not sure yet, but I might even like it."

"Another couple of days and you won't want to leave," Antonio says. Kurt shudders, his face a mask of mock horror.

"It's unnerving, this place," Kurt says, fingers twisting the thin blue ribbon bookmark in his notepad. "I've been knocked off my center, you know? It's both exciting and nauseating."

"Are we talking about New Mexico or Blaine? Because there's no stopping the Blaine Train, magical desert or not."

"Antonio. The Blaine Train?"

"What? That's what he is—a train that was coming whether you liked it or not. Chugging down the road, following the tracks straight to your station."

"Chugging? To my station?" Kurt says, trying not to laugh.

"Listen, man, it's a solid metaphor."

"So Blaine is a train that travels all over the world—"

"I didn't say all over the world, I said—"

"And I'm a decaying building just waiting for him to arrive? Is that it?" Kurt is using his "just kidding" voice, but really, the analogy does hit too close to home. He was always waiting for Blaine. Even when he thought he had stopped—after that night under the northern lights, after he slept with the blond "boy-who-isn't-Blaine" just to get it out of the way, after Blaine left for London, after they couldn't get their shit together for the four-hundredth time.

No matter how many times he forced himself to move on and carve out a life that worked—a life that looked like something people like him should want, a life that was a fair substitute for feeling wildly happy, for being stupidly in love with someone who felt the same—he couldn't shake the sixteen-year-old boy mooning over the Warbler who, with the simple touch of his hand, had awakened his soul and cut him off from every other chance at real happiness.

He was always waiting for Blaine, no matter how wide his smile or how sure his proclamations, no matter how many lies he told himself to prove otherwise.

"And I didn't say ‘decaying,' either," Antonio says, interrupting Kurt's thoughts. "Sounds like you've got some boxes to donate."

"Sorry?"

"You know, boxes of old crap taking up space and messing with your life. Whenever I'm holding onto stuff from the past, Sarah says, ‘Time to donate that box, Antonio'. It's helpful to think of it as useless junk."

"So I'm a hoarding train station—"

"Okay, stop with the train station stuff—"

"You started it."

Antonio sighs and looks out onto the sidewalk and across to the Zia Diner, to the map store Sarah loves, to the Jean Cocteau cinema, its age-old marquee dark for the night. Kurt follows his eyes and whispers, "I'm sorry. I sound like a crazy person, I know."

"I don't want to tell you your life," Antonio says at last.

"You keep saying that, but you are telling me my life. Can we just agree that as much as you don't want to butt in, you can't help yourself? And as much as I don't want to be told what to do, I really do need your help figuring all of this out?"

Antonio's smile is so warm Kurt can't help but smile back. "You're a good friend, Kurt. I think a lot of you, crazy talk and harsh judgments aside."

"Thank you," Kurt says, playing with his pen. "After this is all over, you may be my only friend."

"Come on. Everyone makes mistakes. Besides, I can't be the only person on this planet who knows. You two radiate soul-love like a freaking neon sign."

"Soul-love?" Kurt asks.

"You're the one who feels it—why do you need me to tell you what it is?"

Kurt looks down at his hands, a small smile on his face. He knows. He knows all about how it feels to love someone across time, to hear his heartbeat over his own. But he doesn't know what having a soul-love means, or how long you can have it before something goes terribly, horribly wrong. He doesn't know if it's fragile, or forever; he doesn't know if it's a guarantee of happiness or heartache.

He starts to say as much, but he's cut off by the arrival of their drinks. "Ostrich burgers will be right up," Jill says, before she dashes off to another table.

"Ostrich burgers?"

Kurt looks to his right and sees Blaine leaning against the stone wall, arms crossed, staring up at them. He looks tired, but good-tired, the way you look when you've been hard at work doing something you dearly love.

"Hey! You're off early," Kurt says, leaning down for a kiss. "How'd you know where to find us?"

"Sarah," Blaine mumbles into Kurt's mouth, his lips full and warm. The kiss is a bit dirty for a public sidewalk, so Blaine ends it with a chaste peck and backs away toward the entrance. Kurt leans right to watch Blaine bounce up the stairs like a kid, denim stretching across his toned thighs as he takes them two at a time.

"It seems Sarah and Blaine are getting to be good friends," Kurt says, turning back to Antonio. He raises his glass, and his eyebrows, which earns him a clink from Antonio's glass.

"Cheers to that," Antonio says. He slides a nearby chair over to their table, and waves Jill over to take Blaine's order.

"Thanks," Blaine says, and shakes Antonio's hand. "Get a lot done today?"

"We have a green kitchen, yes," Antonio says.

"Wheatgrass," Kurt corrects.

"Whatever. It's green."

Blaine plops down in the empty chair and looks right into Kurt's eyes.

"Hi," Kurt says, grinning.

"Hi," Blaine replies, smiling back.

"I was just thinking about you," Kurt says.

"I thought about you all day," Blaine replies.

"I was hoping you'd be done early."

Blaine reaches over and thumbs a spot under Kurt's ear. "You have a little paint on your—let me—"

He licks his thumb and rubs the spot again for a moment, eyes locked with Kurt's. "There. Better."

"I missed you," Kurt says, taking Blaine's hand in his own.

"I like it when you miss me," Blaine replies, intertwining their fingers.

There's a cough, and someone is talking, but Kurt is suddenly, completely lost in Blaine's eyes, every worry completely gone from his mind. Lost, that is, until Antonio kicks him under the table.

"Ouch! What?"

"Are they always like this?" Jill asks.

"They haven't gotten to always yet," Antonio says. "New lovers, you know the drill."

"Right. So, do you want anything?" Jill asks, nodding at Blaine.

"The sign signs one dollar beer," Blaine says, finally giving her his attention. "I'll have a beer, and the ostrich burger. Why not, right?"

"You don't want the $1 beer. Trust me. I'll bring you a local brew, off the tap," Jill says, marching away before Blaine finishes saying, "Thank you so much."

"So what are we talking about?" Blaine asks.

Before Antonio can launch into a new lecture about trains, or soul-love, or whatever desert voodoo he wants to impart, Kurt opens up the notepad, folds over the page marked "FRESH START" and says, "Zozobra. Antonio was just telling me about this tradition, of burning a giant man in drag—"

"I said he looks like a man in drag," Antonio says.

"Whatever. Apparently, we are supposed to write down our regrets and worries and somehow stuff the paper inside this giant Zozobra man and then burn him to the ground," Kurt says, pen at the ready. "So, is it just our regrets and fears of this past year, or—?"

"Hold up. Why are we doing this?" Blaine asks.

"So, you know about Fiesta—the burning of Zozobra is the final night of Fiesta, when Santa Feans burn ‘Old Man Gloom' to the ground, and start the new year fresh, free from the burdens of regret, fear, worry, negativity—basically, we burn up everything bad and wipe the slate clean."

"That sounds amazing. How do you get the paper into the Zozobra guy?" Blaine asks.

"There are boxes all over town. There's one near the Eldorado, if you want to participate," Antonio explains.

"Yeah, I do. Is this the thing Sarah wants us to come to?" Blaine asks.

"We'd like you two to come, yes, but I wasn't sure if you could get the time off. We go down to Fort Marcy field in the afternoon and have a picnic. It's a local thing. You'll like it. After he burns, we have a party at our house."

Kurt's heart flutters. You two. They are "you two," and "us" and "them;" like before, like when they were joined at the hip, blazer-to-blazer, but different. More. Everything.

"I'll make it work," Blaine says, looking at Kurt with a question in his eyes.

A fresh start? A chance to bury old regrets and new worries, and wipe the slate clean?

Kurt smiles, squeezes Blaine's hand and says, "Yes. We'll absolutely be there."

---

On Wednesday, Kurt sends the new door back. It fits, and Deidre likes it, but it's just not right. He thumbs through the pictures on his phone—koi, orange and gold, swimming in a pond up at Ten Thousand Waves; the blood red rug he left behind in Chimay�; the rows and rows of doors and the row of three he'd asked the guys to line up for inspection. Has it only been one week since that first night at The Pink?

Paul calls once more, but doesn't leave a message. Kurt knows he should call him, but he can't; their five-minute conversation rattled him so completely, he can't go there again.

Not yet.

Not yet.

With the house almost complete, Blaine at work and Deidre up at the Waves for a spa day, Kurt has time to figure things out. He could fill up his entire notepad with ideas, and plans, and to-do lists. But, just as before, he's terrified by the endless options and the finality of putting pen to paper, so the pages remain blank.

Instead, he accepts Sarah's offer to join the Alex Marin House crew down at the Hysterical Parade on the Plaza. They agree to meet up beforehand to wander downtown.

Sarah slips into alleys and down ancient, narrow streets, showing Kurt her Santa Fe. They shop, and laugh, and find the best leather, and silver, and art. He gently pushes her past the matchstick skirts and toward something fashion-forward but quiet and elegant, like her.

When she twirls out of her dressing room, shiny and bright in a white eyelet dress, Kurt revels. She's not worried about image, or labels, or public perception. She just wants to feel pretty.

By the time they wind their way to a tiny candy shop, Todos Santos, Kurt is in love with Sarah, too. She introduces him to her friend David, the proprietor, and starts collecting little candies in a small basket.

Kurt bends down to look inside the glass cases, admiring the wrapped candies in brilliant colors, the chocolate skeletons covered in edible gold leaf, the bite-sized marzipans shaped like chile peppers.

"This is art," he says, mentally choosing pieces for everyone he knows.

"See? You find the best places when you just keep turning the corner," Sarah says. She asks David to pack up six chocolate squares covered in crushed pistachio and tie the box with a bow. "A Fiesta present, for Antonio," she explains.

"Is that tradition? To give a present for Fiesta?"

"Not really. But I always do, because for Santa Feans it's like New Year's Eve and Yom Kippur and Winter Solstice all wrapped up into one—no disrespect to those who understand Judaism and Paganism better than I do."

"I wouldn't know," Kurt says, sifting through a basket of Our Lady of Guadalupe charms.

"So I give him something, just a little trinket or candy, or whatever, to let him know I'm letting go of my regrets, and starting over in all areas, including our marriage. It's surprisingly effective," she says, bumping Kurt's shoulder.

"How so?"

"Let's just say that after Zozobra it's all very... fresh." She giggles and Kurt joins in, trying not to think about Antonio getting it on with this lovely flower.

"What are these?" he asks David, pointing at gold and silver candies shaped like human hearts.

"Milagros—‘miracles.' They come in many forms, representing the miracle you're hoping to receive," he replies. "They're my specialty."

Kurt says, "They're beautiful," his voice almost a whisper. He thinks about his heart, and Blaine's, and the men they are leaving in honor of their own miracle.

"I'll take that one, the one in silver. And could you wrap it?" he asks.

"For Blaine?" Sarah asks.

"Yes. For Fiesta."

They both watch as David places the silver heart in a small black box, wrapping it in bright red paper. Sarah's hand finds Kurt's own, resting on the glass. "It's perfect. He'll love it."

"Anything else?" David asks.

"So much, yes. Can you ship to Ohio?"

Later, at the parade, Kurt holds Sarah's bags and lets her stand on the bench behind him for an unobstructed view. The Alex Marin kids, dressed in their most outrageous attire, take pictures, and clap, and scream; they are at home in the wildness, in the different. The event reminds him of Pride—carefree people dressed in random costumes, making joyful, riotous noise.

It reminds him of a time when he walked the halls of McKinley in celebration, in defiance, in honor of all the fabulous, and strange, and unique beauty in life. And of a new day, later, when he and Blaine would sing, unburden themselves in music, in declarations, in wonder, in joy.

He's let so much slip by, blending in and staking a different claim among powerful people with long-term vision who rock the boat in careful, predictable ways.

The parade is familiar in the most perfect way. Kurt laughs, and forgets about blank pages and unspoken confessions and instead texts Blaine about every little piece of awesome. He takes pictures for his father, and for Antonio, and one of a hippie football player/go-go dancer he'll send to Finn. He feels good. And right. And more like himself as each float passes by.

The city is growing on him. Imagine that.

Slowly, as June predicted, he's remembering.

He's remembering who he really is.