He pulled the front door open to find Izzy standing there.
“Hey,” Wyatt said, and then froze as Izzy’s gaze lingered on his hair.
Shit. He’d forgotten about his hair.
“You look like a girl,” Izzy blurted out.
Wyatt froze.
Izzy stared at him intently, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Pretty like a girl,” he said at last.
Somehow that was more ominous than anything else he could have said, because Wyatt didn’t know what hemeant. Was pretty like a girl a good thing, or wasn’t it?
“I…” he said, his heart racing and his tongue thick and clumsy with nerves. “I was—Lettie. She was practicing. On me.” He swallowed. “For her hair.”
Izzy’s stare was no less intent.
“What are you doing here?” Wyatt managed.
“I came to say thanks,” Izzy said, his brows tugging together. “To your dad, for feeding me last night.”
“He’s not here,” Wyatt said. He was still clutching the doorknob, and it was slippery under his damp palm. Wyatt’s throat felt as dry as a gravel pit, but the rest of him was sweating like crazy.
Izzy took a step forward. His gaze slid up and down Wyatt again and then he reached out and touched Wyatt’s hair. He held a tress of it between his thumb and forefinger, and rubbed it gently to separate the strands. He was standing so close, and Wyatt felt like a prey animal trapped under the gaze of a predator. Wyatt’s mouth was dry too. He licked his lips quickly, and froze again when Izzy’s gaze was drawn to his mouth. Hardly daring to believe what was happening—whatwashappening though?—Wyatt lifted his gaze to meet Izzy’s.
And suddenly Izzy’s mouth was on his, and the kiss was shocking, intense, and Wyatt’s knees almost buckled when he felt Izzy’s tongue touch his. One of Izzy’s hands tangled in his hair, and the other one slid down his side and rested on his hip. Izzy pulled him tightly against him, and Wyatt went willingly. Izzy’s hand found its way under his shirt. His fingers were as hot as brands on the skin of his waist, and Wyatt shuddered. He was hard and aching in his jeans already.
And then as quickly as the kiss had begun it was over, and Izzy was pushing him back. His eyes were wide now and his mouth, which had felt so good against Wyatt’s, so full and soft when they’d been kissing, was pressed into a thin, harsh line that turned down at the edges.
“Shit,” Izzy said, his voice gruff. His gaze dropped to Wyatt’s crotch. “Thought for a second you…” He trailed off.
Wyatt’s face burned as he realized. Izzy had thought Wyatt was pretty like a girl, and kissed him because of it, and then Wyatt’s erection had fucked the illusion up for him.
He opened his mouth to say something, and the words that spilled out of him were wrong. So wrong. “I could be,” he said, his voice cracking. “A girl. I might be. Sometimes.”
Izzy stared at him like he’d sprouted a second head. “The fuck are you talking about?”
“Nothing,” Wyatt said. His eyes stung with tears, and his stomach lurched. He wanted to be sick. “Nothing.”
Izzy stared at him a moment longer. “Sorry,” he said at last, and turned and left.
Wyatt closed the door behind him, and then sagged against it and sobbed.
* * * *
Wyatt sat on the shower floor, untwisting the waterfall braid roughly, and tugging his hair straight again. He leaned his head forward, half wishing the water would run cold so he’d have more of a reason to be miserable. He hated himself. He hated this body that didn’tfit, at least not today. His chest was too flat, his hips were too straight, and there was a dick between his legs, and it was wrong. It was allwrong. Wyatt closed his eyes so he didn’t have to look at himself. Wyatt didn’t want this body, and neither did Izzy. Neither would anyone, once they realized how fucked up the brain inside it was.
Because now, on a not-boy day, this body didn’t fit. But maybe it would tomorrow, or the next day, and Wyatt would happily be a boy until the whole shitty cycle started again. Wyatt fucking Abbot. Couldn’t make a decision to save his life, couldn’t pick a career, couldn’t even settle on a fuckinggender.
He could be a girl, he’d said to Izzy. He might be a girl.
Why the hell would he even say something like that? He’d never even said that to himself. He’d made concessions. He called them not-boy days. He didn’t call them girl days, because that was too big a step. Too big a step to come back from, maybe, and he’d gone and blurted it out to Izzy like he was talking about the fucking weather.
Why would hedothat?
Wyatt hugged his torso and cried, letting the noise of the shower carry the sounds away.
* * * *
