I look at him. “You weren’t?”
He shakes his head. “I want to stay. With you.”
Something warm and frightening blooms in my chest. The kind of feeling that makes you aware of how much you have to lose.
“This would be our first real Thanksgiving,” he continues. “Not borrowed time. Not squeezed in around other people’s plans. Just us.”
I think about my parents’ house, about expectations and questions and the version of myself I become there. I think about this apartment, about the couch we’re sinking into, about the way it feels to have him here without counting the hours.
“You should see them,” I say, even though I don’t want him to leave. “You haven’t been home in a while.” I don’t mention the visit that happened and I wasn’t around to see them.
“I know,” he says gently. “But I want this more.”
I swallow. “I can’t cook.”
He smiles. “Neither can I.”
“We’ll probably poison ourselves.”
“It’ll be worth it,” he says without hesitation.
I laugh, the sound easing something tight in my chest, and lean back into him. “Okay.”
“Okay?” he asks.
“Okay,” I repeat. “We’ll stay.”
He grins and pulls me closer, arm tightening around my shoulders like he’s staking a claim he has no intention of relinquishing. “We’ll make a disaster of it.”
“We will absolutely make a disaster of it,” I agree. “But it’ll be ours.”
The thought settles between us, warm and heavy. Another choice made. Another line crossed quietly.
I know what this costs. I feel it every time I think about my parents, about the lies by omission, about the future pressing closer with each decision we make. I know the world doesn’tbend just because we want it to, and that every small act of choosing each other carries a price we don’t always see right away.
But right now, on this couch, in our apartment, with him warm and real at my side, the cost feels worth paying.
8
“Hey, Marshall,”Kirk says from across the room. “Your rock star friend’s everywhere lately, huh?”
I don’t look up right away. I tell myself it’s strategy. That I’m choosing not to engage. That I’m protecting something.
It still feels like freezing.
“What rock star friend?” someone asks.
Kirk snorts. “You know, the one with the eyeliner and the crowds full of screaming dudes.”
A few guys laugh. While it’s not super loud or even malicious, it’s enough to let the comment land and linger.
I keep my hands moving. Lace. Pull. Tie. My jaw tightens until it aches.
“Steel Saints,” Kirk continues, like he’s doing everyone a favor. “Saw them all over my feed last night. Guess being… artsy really brings out the freaks and enthusiasm.” He makes a vague gesture with his hands that doesn’t mean anything specific and still manages to mean exactly what he wants it to.
The wordqueerhangs there without being said. My lungs feel smaller. I should say something. I know I should. Every instinct in me knows it. This isn’t subtle. This isn’t ambiguous.This is someone testing a boundary and expecting no one to push back.
Including me.
