“Yes,” he pleads. “We’ve already wasted a year. I haven’t slept in six days because I can’t stop thinking about you. I freaked out when Gwen called me. I must have cleaned my house from top to bottom at least twenty times, I was so fuckin’ nervous.”
“Um, why were you nervous?” I ask.
“Because,” he says, “I haven’t seen you since last summer. You never respond to any of my texts, or messages on Snapchat. I feel like an asshole. What…what if you found a sexy, super-smart college boyfriend? What…what if you didn’t want anything to do with me anymore because I’m trailer trash?”
The ridiculousness of his thinking forces me into a fit of hellish laughter.
“Hey, it’s not funny.” I’ve never seen Arthur like this, so vulnerable and timid. “I’m being serious here,” he says.
“What do you want me to say?” I reply, wondering how I can stop the torrid sensation now roaring in between my legs. “Do you want me to give you an answer right now? Like right this second?”
Arthur slides a hand slowly across my chest and tilts my chin up to meet his.
It’s the first time I’ve allowed anyone this close to my scars. His mouth finds mine and wages war against the space separating our bodies. I’m the first to seek relief.
“Do I want you to be my boyfriend, as corny as it sounds?” he asks. “Hell yes. A fucking-thousand-times yes. Am I capable of waiting until you’re ready for me to call you that? Yes.” He pauses and sighs. “I can wait a little longer, I suppose.”
Before I’m able to respond to Arthur’s admission, two fists rain down on the hood of the truck, and a slightly-but-not-quite-intoxicated Gwen dances her way around the front of the vehicle, doing her best Stevie Nicks impression. Or at least that’s what I call it.
“Are you planning on staying in there for the whole party?” she wails, and I can feel her eyes seeking answers to unasked questions as they wander across Arthur’s hands, which are now hugging my chest. “Because we’re getting ready to burn a whole bunch of shit and release some negative energy. If not,” she says, scrunching her nose, “well, then there’s a big bag of condoms sitting on the kitchen counter, and you can help yourself to them. But be advised, the strawberry ones straight-up taste like chalk.”
“You are a huge asshole,” I say, while lights in the old farmhouse behind Gwen flicker on and off like someone is tinkering with the breaker. She must see my mouth twitch, because within seconds she yanks on the door handle of Arthur’s truck, and I fall forward into her hands after it opens.
“What are you doing?” I ask, catching myself on the side door. “Gwen!”
“Why, stealing my precious Lancelot from his King Arthur.” She locks our arms together and takes two steps forward without waiting for me to catch up. “Come with me, little knight. We have much to discuss.”
“You are three sheets to the wind, girl.” I hear Arthur say as we hobble around a couple making out on the paved part of the driveway. “I hope you ain’t drivin’ tonight.”
Gwen dismisses his comment with a languid wave of her hand.
“Are you two fucking? Because you sure took a long time getting here, and then he was practically in your cervix when I saved you from his clutches.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, pulling my arm from her now-loose grip. “We were just talking about stuff.”
“Not even a hand job? He looks like he could use one. I bet he’s ready to burst.”
“Stop it,” I say, clenching my side bag and doing my best not to step on fingers splayed out in the grass. “That’s Arthur you’re talking about.”
“Young, dumb and full of cum!” Gwen laughs, and stumbles up a set of stairs that are in desperate need of repair. Her sandal catches the splintered wood and she stumbles forward. The wrap-around porch is crowded, and we have to push our way through a sea of red Solo cups and plumes of clove smoke.
“You are drunk,” I say. It sounds like an accusation, even though I don’t mean it that way. “It’s only nine o’clock. How are you going to make it until midnight? Who is going to lead the séance?”
Hip-hop music, which grows louder each time we walk through a room, is making it difficult to hear Gwen’s drunken ramblings. When she ducks her head and disappears into a herd of intoxicated teenagers, my pulse quickens and I hopelessly search for a way out of the room. The lights flicker on and off again, and girls start grinding on one another like they’re at a rave. I have to get the fuck outta here. The stale scent of gas station incense and cheap weed is giving me a headache.
I turn around to head back out the way we came in, and my eyes accidentally land on two guys who are leaning up against a couch. Both men have a joint in one hand and a beer in the other. We lock eyes, and one of the men recognizes me and straightens up immediately. Todd. Todd Butcher. I avert my gaze and try to push my way through two girls who are standing in the doorway. I’m sure I’ve just wandered into another part of the house, but I don’t care.
“Linda!” Todd’s deep baritone voice booms over the music. “Linda, wait!”
His voice triggers several unpleasant memories. Todd was my boyfriend during ninth and tenth grades. He and I broke up the summer before I started eleventh grade, after I told him I was transgender. Of all the people I expected to run into at this stupid séance, he was the last. Hell, he hadn’t even been on the list, because I had purposely forgotten about him.
A firm grip finds my wrist and I turn around. Todd is drunk and smells like bourbon. I wriggle my hand, trying to break free from his hold. We haven’t spoken in over a year and a half. I don’t know what he could possibly want.
“I thought that was you. How the hell are ya?” His words are slurred, and spit flies from his mouth onto my cheek. A girl pushes us together, trying to make her way to the kitchen, and our faces are now an inch or so apart. “Gwen told me you’d be here, but I told her I’d believe it when I saw it. I thought you hated parties,” he says, and plants his hand on the wall just above my head. “So you’re a man now, huh? No more Linda? You weren’t kidding.” I can feel his eyes raking across my chest.
Every time someone says the name Linda, indentations form on the hard-earned armor that I’ve worn with pride for the past two years. Talking to Todd about my gender is the last thing I want to do at this party.
“Do you remember that time I fingered you on Jackie Thompson’s porch swing? Her parents were gone for the weekend, and she had the whole house to herself, just like this.” He bends forward and brushes his lip against my ear. “We had just smoked a blunt and were sitting on the porch. You gave me head afterward. Do you want to go outside for a little bit?”
“Fuck off, asshole,” I say. “And move your hand.” I shove his chest as hard as I can. Things like this always happen at these parties. I always run into assholes from my past.
“Your pussy was wet then and I bet it’s wet now.” Todd slides his hand down the wall and rests it on my shoulder, then places his other hand on my hip. “Come on, just the tip.”