“I love you,” he says. “And I have been in love with you since God knows when.” The ice inside has started to thaw, and I can feel water pooling at the corners of my eyes. “But you keep me at a safe distance, and I don’t know why. I won’t hurt you, I promise.”
His confession, the words I have waited so long to hear, confound and thrill me, and remind me that no matter what happens, Arthur is a dependable friend, someone I will have by my side regardless of how we define our relationship in five years, in ten years, or even in fifty years.
Looking thoroughly agitated, and seemingly not wanting to explore or discuss these feelings any further, Arthur leaves my side and saunters off to the back of the trailer. We don’t normally fight, so I’m not sure how to handle the situation. I’ve never had a serious boyfriend, for obvious reasons—I believe that my best friend is a reincarnation of a legendary British monarch, I have horrible body dysphoria and I’m an amateur brujo, a half-white, half-Mexican witch.
I get up from the futon and walk to the bathroom. It still smells like pot everywhere, but I remain surprised by how spruce Arthur keeps his house. The man can clean. I fish around in my side bag until I snag a container of liquid eyeliner, hoping that I remembered to switch it out, since the last container was almost empty.
When I’m finished applying eye makeup and fashioning my freshly dyed black hair into a bun, I pull the necklace I’ve been wearing out of my shirt and let it dangle from my neck. A black Magic 8-Ball charm attached to a simple steel chain—an old Christmas gift from Arthur—my most prized possession. After I’ve fastened a black choker around my neck and slid several black jelly bracelets down my arm, I emerge from the bathroom, only to find Arthur leaning up against the cabinet, drinking a glass of water.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have unloaded all of my shit on you. You didn’t deserve it. It’s not your fault I’m clingy and insane.”
Then my phone buzzes as if in response, and I pull it out of my back pocket.
“Gwen says she wants us to pick up some orange soda on our way to the fire,” I say, thankful for the change of subject. “Do you mind? She says you owe her any way.”
“Ah,” Arthur replies. “She must have scored some vodka. Ask her what kind she wants. Caffeine-free or…?”
I walk over and join him, forgetting about the stupid gay-biker-leather image that Gwen sent earlier.
“If that’s supposed to be us,” Arthur says, peering over my shoulder, “you can tell her that it’s inaccurate, because I prefer latex.”
I tear my face away from the text messages and look up at his big, toothy grin.
It’s going to be a long summer, and I’m not sure I came fully prepared.
Chapter Two
The Invite
“You absolute slut!” Gwen sails across the dirt road to meet Arthur’s truck as we pull up to the house, her long white skirt billowing in the wind. “Did you bring me anything to smoke, Art?” she asks in a high-pitched, childlike voice. “Did ya?”
Arthur pops his head out the window sideways. “Dammit, Queenie, I brought you soda. Now you want my smoke? I thought you got a job last month.”
I ignore their playful back-and-forth and survey the scene.
There are people everywhere. People I’ve never seen, and people I’ve known since I was first adopted by the Lotte family. Most are recent high school graduates, and a few are my age or older. I spot a small group of people I graduated with and sink into my seat. Shit.
“Hey,” Arthur says, shifting the manual transmission into first gear. It makes a short, faint grinding sound and he laughs, then turns his eyes on me. “I’m still getting the hang of driving this thing. Sorry.”
I instinctively pull my black hoodie over my head and groan. Coming to this party was an outright mistake. Fuck.
“Um, are you okay?” he asks.
No, I am not okay. There are several people here that know me as Linda, or rather, knew me as Linda, and it doesn’t matter that I legally changed my name to Lance as soon as I graduated from high school. I don’t want to put up with the stares, or the questions. I just want to eat some Doritos and maybe drink a Pepsi. And I certainly do not want to be dead-named by people who are otherwise nice, thoughtful folks, because honestly, that’s the worst part—their ignorance of just how much it hurts.
When I don’t answer right away, Arthur unbuckles his seat belt and slides across the torn leather seats. He puts his arm around my neck and whispers, “If you wanna leave, I’ll take you anywhere you wanna go. We don’t have to stay. We don’t even have to get out of this truck if you don’t want to.”
I pull on my hoodie strings, and tighten them to the point where only my nose is exposed. Something in the air tells me that I’m going to regret coming back to Avalon. Then Arthur kisses the tip of my nose, thoroughly unraveling any defenses I’ve knitted for protection, and I let him pry open my hood.
“But don’t let a few dumbasses spoil your night. You have a right to be here. We all do.”
“That’s easy enough for you to say,” I reply. “You never went by another name. You’ve always been Arthur.”
“And you’ve always been Lance. Look, you’re like a superhero, only you got rid of your alter ego, and we all know who you are now.”
Arthur’s support is like an ever-flowing fountain—crystal clear, everlasting, and always there—a tall glass of water whenever I’m feeling parched.
“How many tranny superheroes are there in the Marvel Universe?” I grumble. “Right.”
“Hey,” he says. “Don’t call yourself that.”
His tone is serious, and the frown on his face tells me that he’s not joking.
“I’m kidding.” I nudge him with my shoulder. “You know I’m allowed to call myself that if I want,” I say. “It’s you who isn’t allowed to use that word.”
“But I read this thing on HuffPo, and they were like, don’t use it, like ever. How the fuck am I supposed to know what to say, or what to do when there’s so much conflicting info out there?”
Arthur is so close to me now that I’m practically sitting on his lap. I reach up and run my index finger along his prominent jawline. He is perfect in nearly every way—even his naïvety is endearing and charming, a flower to water and watch grow.
“I’m right here,” I say. “Your very own trans man. You can ask me anything.”
“Anything?” he replies. I move my finger and he catches it, then turns it over. I feel like we’ve been sitting in the truck forever. “Do your finger tattoos still hurt?”
I shake my head, my attention too focused on his gentle touch. When he kisses each individual finger, I’m certain that I’m going to dissolve into the shitty leather interior.
“Arthur,” I say, “we’d better head inside.”
“You said I could ask you anything,” he says, his lips lightly brushing my cheek. “What will happen if I ask you out again? Are you gonna break my heart?”
The insides of my thighs suddenly burn, and I can barely breathe. But I’m trapped in between the car door and his massive chest, so I lay a hand on his stomach and reply, “Do we really have to rush into this? I’ve been here for less than a week. We have the entire summer.” I’ll need the entire summer to prepare for this, for Arthur’s body—for any consequences we may face.