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"The way we've been the last two years? That was me trying really hard to give you space. I held back. I couldn't stand the idea of you dating someone, but I promised myself I'd try not to kill them. Dal, you have to understand that if you give yourself to me for real, I'm done holding back.
Last night will feel like a kid's game, because at least you had a tiny chance of getting away from me. And if that doesn't scare you, it should. So I want you to take thirty seconds, right now, and decide if you want to back out. Because if we go, I'm not gonna be able to stop again." "I–" He breaks off when I shake my head. "I'm dead serious, Dallas."
"The only thing I'm scared of," he murmurs, "is just how much I love you."
He squawks in protest when I drag him across the room so I can open the door. "Everything I just said, I take it back. You were put on this earth to annoy me."
He stumbles to a stop next to me, with his red face and sex hair and my blanket clutched around his body. I'm gonna get yelled at so much later. "Dallas and I are together," I announce to the silent room. "Boyfriends, except not. More like we're married. Technically not yet, but we could be. It's the same–" "Beck," Dallas cuts in, his voice still hoarse from sleep. "You get three more words before I maim you and go take my shower."
"Scout." Roman throws his brush across the room with terrifying precision, nailing his boyfriend in the shoulder while Scout curls up in a laughing ball.
"I'm still going to hurt you. But I'm going to do it with clean hair."
I got so excited about having a real boyfriend that I never stopped to consider whether going on an actual date was more fun than just watching NASCAR naked in bed and eating cookies.
“Your shirt is giving me an anxiety attack,” I add. “It has buttons down the front.” I thought the suit he’d buy for our wedding someday would be the only collared shirt to ever touch his body, but he pulled this one out of his ass and sprung it on me.
“My pretty boy asks for a date, he gets a date.” The grin widens. “And he doesn’t complain about it.”
“I think she would have been okay with me being gay. And I know she would have liked you.” “She would have said you look handsome.” He smiles hesitantly when I tug at the front of his black dress shirt. “She also would have told you your buttons are mismatched and fixed them for you.”
Kissing is so new that each one feels like my first. Or maybe every kiss with Beckham Alexander, for our entire lives, will feel as fiery and curious and tender as the first.
She slaps a sheaf of papers on the desk and levels a glare at me. “I’m very busy. Do you people think I have time to remember two thousand made up genders?” “I think you had time to learn his pronouns, decide you didn’t like them, and choose to use different ones,” I say evenly. “So you must not be that busy.”
“Please, please don’t tell Beck about me,” he begs softly. “He thinks I’m cool.” Maybe there aren’t any right times or inspiring speeches in this life–just everyone doing their best to take care of each other.
“But you’re exactly like a real guy.” “I am a real guy,” I say, buttoning up my shirt again. “So are you, if that’s what you want. We just have to put in more work than some people.”
“Does Beck know that you’re…That you were–” “That I’m transgender?” He nods sheepishly, nibbling at the corner of the cookie like he can’t help himself, even in the middle of a serious conversation. “Beck knows everything about me. He always has.” “And he still wants to be your friend?” “Of course.” I reach over and brush back his uncut mop of hair. “He’s actually my boyfriend.” He stops eating abruptly, eyes wide with shock. “You can have a boyfriend?”
“I finally found you. There’s one grumpy fucking nurse out there.” I jump up and grab the paperwork off the tray. “I’ll tell you later. Can you sign this and take it up to the desk?” If he hears what happened, we’ll have a crime scene on our hands.
Some days I look at my trans body, everything it is and isn’t, and I don’t know what it’s for. What it even means. Today, it’s for walking between this kid and the things he’s afraid of, his fist gripping the back of my shirt like a lifeline, and that’s more than enough for me.
“The wire on the fence was bent; you would have fallen too.” Flopping back in his seat, he glares at his sneakers. I can’t tell if he’s more pissed at me or himself. “I get it. I hate when they put a fence in the middle of the convenience store I’m trying to clean.”
“The kid’s gonna be fine,” Alex ventures, like he’s trying to talk someone off a ledge. He thinks for a minute. “We could all build him a bike.” “Alex,” Pascal warns. “Pull over.” I pull off my seatbelt and grab the door handle. “Beck, I–” “Pull over, ‘Lex, before I punch you in the face.”
I’m just the boy who was stupid enough to let himself be lured in by a fucking bike, who can’t do anything but watch it happens all over again because I was never brave enough to save myself.
Scout doesn’t pressure me to talk about it. He just cranks up “Call Me Maybe”, my favorite Kidz Bop track, and does all the motions while he sings along and I stare wearily at the road.
“I adopted Roman, you adopted Dallas. Maybe it’s their turn to adopt someone. Like little birdies leaving the nest. Except no one leaves our nest because we’re too codependent to function apart. Someone should probably warn the new kids about that.”
“So if you think I’m lazy and weak, tell me how I’m supposed to keep him warm and fed, take care of his damn cat, steer him away from trouble, help him transition, and make sure he doesn’t get raped or murdered all at the same time.”
I bake when I’m stressed, when I’m uncertain, and when I’m horny and I can’t do anything about it. So pretty much all the time.
“You want to know why Beck isn’t baking? Because he’s scared of the oven and thinks recipes are witchcraft.”
“Dallas said you’re scared of baking.” Beck glances at me again, with the ghost of a tired smile. “He’s right. The directions are weird, and everything’s made of powder and goop.”
When I rest my palm against his cheek, he closes his eyes and leans into it. “I love you so much,” I murmur. “And I’m so proud of you. You’re still the best man I know.”
I cross my arms and lean on the door frame. “You want me to stay.” “You don’t have to,” he sighs mournfully, grabbing a blanket and pulling it all the way up to his nose. “I can die alone, it’s fine.” “Jesus. One second.”
Crouching down, I rest the back of my hand against his forehead. “You don’t feel like you have a fever.” “I do.” He raises his eyebrows, a grin tugging at his lips. “A fever only you can satisfy.” “Quarantine it is.” Huffing indignantly, he rolls over so his face is just an inch from mine. “I got us ninety minutes alone in this house, Beckham. Do with that what you will. And you’d better fucking do something, because you have kept. me. waiting.”
The tone of his voice reminds me that he has no idea either, that he’s never had his cock sucked because I’m his first everything. I could come in my pants just thinking about that.
As I sit back and wipe my mouth, he cracks one eye open and peers at me. “You killed me. I’m dead,” he complains hoarsely. When he tries to move, he grimaces and goes limp again. “You’ll have blue balls forever because you’re not allowed to sleep with anyone else for the rest of your life. Sorry.”
“What exactly are you saying, Beckham Alexander?” He searches my face, trying to read my mind before he answers. “What do you think I’m saying?” “Okay, don’t get all coy with me.”
“Any more complaints?” Beck asks, straightening up. I can’t take my eyes off the dildo. “No.” My voice comes out kind of squeaky. “A lot of questions, but no complaints.”
“I think I’d rather go weed the driveway–” My last word turns into a yelp when he scoops me up and slings me over his shoulder on his way back to the couch. “Let me go, you fucking caveman.”
“Make me come without touching me. I know you can, pretty boy, come on. Please. I need it.”
Just like in the forest, he prays my name as he comes like it’s the first and last and only thought in his head.
My boy never cries half-assed. It’s something to do with the hormones, how they stifle his emotions until they’re big enough to explode. I’m not surprised when he breaks down; I just pull him onto my lap and let him cry against my shoulder for five minutes. It’s a rough one, tearing his body apart with violent, wrenching sobs, but all I can do is hold him and hum one of my mom’s old lullabies into his hair while he rides it out.
“Everything’s gonna be okay, pretty boy.” I slide my hand into his pocket and pull out the clean tissue he always carries. “Clean yourself up so the airport employees don’t think we’re kidnapping you.”
I enjoyed packing both our stuff into one bag, a reminder that he belongs to me now. It’s a moment of euphoria I can hold onto later when he discovers everything I forgot to bring and what a shitty job I did trying to pick outfits for him.
I grab his hand and squeeze gently. He doesn’t squeeze back, but over the next ten minutes his grip tightens and tightens until his fingernails feel permanently embedded into my skin and I’m fighting not to grimace. When we turn off the highway into a residential neighborhood full of a million samey-looking nice houses, he squeezes his eyes shut. My thumb can feel his pulse fluttering frantically in his wrist. I have no idea what to do for him, so I just sit there and let him mangle my hand.
“I wish I could hug my mom.” His grip tightens. “I know.” He rubs his thumb soothingly along the back of my hand for a minute, then says, “Hey, maybe this lady has always wanted to adopt a giant, ugly, white son.”
When she finally smiles, her solemn eyes brighten and the gentle kindness pouring out of her takes my breath away. “We’ve spoken a little bit. You’re the one who brought my son back to me.” Not sure what to say, I just nod.
When she opens her arms, I don’t react because I’m too busy staring in confusion. She must take that as an invitation, because she steps forward and wraps me in the tightest hug I’ve ever had in my life. I look breathlessly over at Dal, who nods at me with a shaky smile. So I hug her back. I have almost no memories of my mom, beyond vague impressions and half-obscured dreams. But as Anjali Santra squeezes the life out of me, I get a sudden, razor-sharp picture of the blonde woman from my picture kneeling down and holding out her arms. Every time I staggered into them, she’d envelop me
...more
“Do you like lamb samosas?” Blinking in the brutal California sun, I frown in confusion. “Huh?” I thought only millionaires ate lamb. “Mom, he doesn’t even know what paprika is.”
“I forgive you. I’ve changed a lot, and so have you. I want to make up for lost time and erase that fucker from our lives.”
“The day you were born,” she says slowly, “I thought I could never love you more. But when I met my son, that love felt small by comparison. Seeing you today, everything you’ve become…I didn’t know this much love was possible. Getting to know each other again may not always be easy, but I just want you to know that.”
"Are you alright?" Maybe it's because he ate twice his body weight in samosas.
And I just met my, like, mother-in-law. So I'm trashed. Come here." His big hands wrap around my waist and haul me into bed next to him. He rolls half on top of me and crushes me to his chest like he does when he's having a bad dream. "I love you more than I love lamb," he mumbles into my hair. "And I love you more than you hate flying."
I knew he loved me enough to pursue me and own me. But I guess I didn’t know that he also loved me enough to let me go, even when it tears him apart and goes against his deepest urges.
