“The Outback is supposed to be the lesbian car. What you should’ve gone for is a Miata,” James answered as if he were some kind of expert on the “gay lifestyle.” At least Winston understood the subtleties of his own queerness — the codes in clothes, the smallest look in the right direction, the angle at which one’s smirk across the way signaled a romantic escape for another. James wore the same black shirt and jeans every day, a plain buzz of black hair, and the minuscule tilt of his smirk said nothing and thus displayed all of his uncertainties. And it was not good to be gay and uncertain.