Page 94 of Okay, Cupid

I let him step past me. It feels like Huy’s the kind of person you could never win an argument against, even when he’s in the wrong. Which is probably the most dangerous superpower of all. He walks through the door, peeking around the weird hallway that leads into my actual bedroom. He stares at the bed, at the dresser, the photos that sit on top of it, the rows and rows of makeup and nail supplies, my tall mirror, and the postcards and prints that decorate my wall.

“Everything you expected?” I ask him.

“And more.”

“So, you’ve been dreaming of my bedroom?”

I’ll admit, it’s nice to see him flustered for a moment. “No! That’s not what I—” He turns, finally seeing the smile on my face, and he realizes that I’m messing with him. “You’re not funny.”

“Not liking how the tables have turned?”

“How are you liking it?” he asks, ignoring me and picking up the Walkman from the floor.

“It’s depressing,” I tell him. “And it’s hard to remember which songs I like.”

“I’m gonna guess …” He hesitates. “MUNA is a favorite?”

“Which one is that?”

“ ‘Runner’s High’ on this tape. And ‘What I Want.’ ”

“Yeah.” I recognize the titles. “I like those.”

“I’ll let you borrow the full album.”

“Only if it’s on tape.”

He smiles. “Deal.”

Huy sets the Walkman down, going back to the dresser, his eyes gliding over the brands that I’ve collected. I’m grateful that my nerves forced me to clean my room just to give myself something to do.

“You have a lot here.” He hovers over all the bottles and palettes and brushes. “Do you really use all of this stuff?”

“Not all the time,” I say. “My skin would be terrible if I did that. And some days I just can’t handle a lot on my face.”

“I guess it’s like a comfort for you, though?”

“Kind of.” I pause. “I don’t know, I guess it makes me feel more like myself. It feels natural. And it’s a skill that I’ve spent years working on, so I feel really proud of myself when I can make something out of an idea in my head. And I like feeling pretty, like I look good.” I stop myself. “That probably sounds stupid.”

“No,” he says almost immediately. “It doesn’t.”

I don’t say anything.

He keeps talking. “Before I came out, my mom tried to teach me how to put everything on. But I hated it, and I fought her like every step of the way, wiping off anything she put on me. Eventually she got frustrated, called me wasteful, and stopped trying.”

“Really?”

“Oh, I was a dramatic child,” he tells me. “Like I’d pull off my church dresses the second my parents turned their backs because I hated wearing them. But the makeup … sometimes I miss it, actually.”

“You do?”

He nods. “I tried it again at some point. I watched these videos from trans guys and drag kings. I thought I could figure out how to shape my face better.”

“I’m going to guess it didn’t go well?”

“My mom laughed when I showed her. She said I looked like a clown—she wasn’t too off base on that one. She helped me clean my face off and look a little more presentable.”

“Oh my God …” I can’t help laughing.