I would never have had a chance, because Dream is the most glamorous femme I’ve ever laid eyes on. I don’t know what perfume she wears, but she always smells amazing. Her thick brown hair is styled in a bob so sharp it could cut someone, and her social media is perfectly curated. For work, she does cosmetic tattoos, somehow making the swollen bold eyebrows,reconstructed fake nipples, and bloody lips she just finished tattooing look perfect.
The other two shut-ins—Stella and Kelsey—I don’t know as well. I’m not sure where Dream found them, but they’re cool, I guess. Stella is quiet, but they say really profound shit on the rare occasion they do talk. Kelsey’s blunt eagerness to devour drama and gossip reminds me of Allie’s bitchy twin sister, so I haven’t really gotten to know her; small talk fills our silences.
Unlike the other shut-in Dream has collected, Eris, who greets me with a “Sup” when I sit down across from zim. Ze seems incapable of polite conversation.
“Hey.” I eagerly grab the mimosa pitcher Adrienne passes me, filling my empty flute. The cheap champagne with a spritz of orange juice is a relief, washing down the anxiety building like bile in my throat.
Really, Eris is a perfectly… Well, not average, or normal, or any other polite descriptors. Eris is Dream’s former coworker at the tattoo studio, until ze got a job at a dispensary instead. I think what bothers me most about Eris is that I don’t like zim. Because I work very hard at being nice to everyone, and I especially want to befriend the few non-binary and genderqueer people I know.
But Eris is a dick, and I can’t stand zim, because I always want to be a dick right back, and I can’t. Because then everyone will know I’m not actually that nice, and I’ll lose the only friends I have.
The second time we met, I asked, very politely and purely out of curiosity, why ze uses ze/zim/zis pronouns. Eris must have taken it as a criticism, because ze told me to mind my own fucking business. With all of these potential new friends looking at me, waiting for my reaction—just like everyone back in Solberg, desperate for something to gossip about—I swallowed all of my retorts and muttered a “sorry” instead.
Since then, I’ve minded my own fucking business when it comes to Eris, but our rapport has not improved in the least. Ze gets under my skin no matter how hard I try to be polite, and I hate it. Eris must see through my nice facade because ze works relentlessly to bring out all the bitchy replies in my mind, like ze’s determined to break me.
The part of me that sees the best in people recognizes that Eris is probably attractive. Ze is just as buff as Adrienne—if shorter, thicker, and hairier—with lots of piercings and tattoos. Like many tattoo artists, who practice on each other and themselves, most of Eris’s are either poorly done or just strange. Such as the rose in the crook of zis elbow, which is actually a poorly-disguised vulva. In addition to big brown eyes with unfairly long lashes, ze has nice hair, long and thick and a lovely chestnut brown color. On the rare occasions when zis undercut is fresh, the geometric patterns tattooed into zis scalp blend into the fade.
I’ll grant that Eris is interesting to look at, but ze is just unkempt enough that it bothers me. Not that I’m particularly kempt, but I don’t want to like zim, so I focus on the faults. Little imperfections draw my eye: two divots below zis lip where ze used to have snakebite piercings, a scar interrupting zis eyebrow when the barbell got yanked out, the wisps of mustache curling over zis lip in desperate need of a trim. Zis clothes are pretty, but they never quite fit well. A lot of florals, beads, and lace, paired with leather accessories. Like if a grandma was a biker.
“The fuck you lookin’ at?” Eris asks, because I’m glaring at zim as I chug my mimosa.
Cheeks burning, I pant as I empty the glass and immediately refill it. I mutter a, “Nothing, sorry,” instead of any of the snappy comebacks I’ll come up with when I replay this conversation again and again over the next few days.
“You okay there, Blake?” Dream asks, an amused smile on her face.
“Never better,” I smile, but based on everyone’s concerned looks, I’m grimacing.
Well, mostly concerned; Kelsey practically lights up. “What’s wrong?”
I wave her off. “Nothing! How’s everyone else?”
“Don’t do that, babe,” Dream reaches across the table to pat my hand. “You look like someone put chili powder in your panties. Let it out.”
“How about I keep it in?” I mutter into my mimosa, hoping it sounds like a joke. But only Eris laughs, which adds insult to injury.
I shouldn’t have opened that damn envelope.
It was supposed to be easy. Impersonal. They were supposed to be dotting their I’s and crossing their T’s, would be secretly relieved when I declined their invitation.
But no. Allie had to include a damn handwritten note in her annoyingly legible script. A heartfelt, personalized missive about how she should have mailed the invitations herself, instead of letting Jessica, her bitchy (my word, not hers) twin sister and maid of honor, do it. How it would mean the world for me to attend, so much so that they already booked a hotel room for me. How both she and Matt have been overthinking if they should have talked to me after I didn’t respond to the invite. That they really hope I come, and I should invite the person I’m seeing to come as a plus-one. Even if it’s not serious, they want to get to know whoever is in my life, because I never talk about myself enough, and they want to know what my life is like now from an outside source. Because they love me and miss me and want to stay involved in my life. And I’m always welcome in theirs.
So now Ihaveto go to the damn wedding. But Matt, Allie, all of their friends, and his parents, they all expect me to be someone I’m not. Matt’s parents expect the worst of me, and I can’t let them win on principle, so I have to go out of spite.They expected me to come crawling back to Solberg with my tail between my legs, that pursuing a JD was a waste of time. Just like they thought Matt going to college was a waste, so he didn’t. But even if Matt always bent to their pressure, I refuse to let the Jacobsons dictate my future. Partially why they never liked me.
Matt’s friends, all of whom are heteronormatively coupled up, expect me to move on, leave Matt and Allie alone, and have no feelings but distant happiness for them. As if my life hasn’t been entwined with Matt’s for our whole lives, as if Allie and I didn’t live together for four years. Because Iamhappy for Matt and Allie, though I’m also hurt and jealous. I should be more over it than I am after almost two years, but I’m not.
I’m better off in Chicago than trapped in Solberg. Matt’s happier with Allie. She’s happy with him; the small town that stifled me provides solace for her. She never could have built a life with us, because Matt never wanted an “us” that was all three of us, and Allie never wanted me. I get it. I have other feelings besides acceptance and compersion. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be happy for them. They’re still my best friends.
Most importantly, Matt and Allie think I’m happy. That I’m living my best life, thriving in the big city, and spreading my gay little wings. All of the things Matt said I needed to do when he broke up with me. Because that’s what I’ve told them.
Yeah, I’m going on dates. Yeah, I’m seeing someone, but I’m not sure if it’s going to work out yet, so I don’t want to share too much. Yeah, I have a ton of friends, we go to drag brunch all the time! Yeah, my apartment is great, too bad it’s so small, otherwise I’d invite you to visit. Yeah, classes are amazing! Yeah, I’m confident I’m going to pass the bar on the first try.
But I’m not doing any of those things, unless this pity invite to drag brunch counts as having friends. No, I’m having an existential crisis and chugging a mimosa, sitting across from adickhead currently flicking me off. Because, for the second time in five minutes, I’m glaring at zim while chugging a mimosa.
Dream swats Eris’s hand away. “Bitch, be nice. Blake is obviously going through something.”
“Can they go through something without making that stank-ass face at me?” Eris flicks me off with zis other hand, holding it out so Dream can’t reach.
“Sorry.” I screw my eyes shut because that’s easier than smiling at zim.
