Avalon's Last Knight

by Jackson C. Garton

  “Oh, huh?” I ask, placing my glass in the sink, my back now turned toward him. “What was that? I’m sorry, I spaced out. I didn’t get enough sleep last night.”

  Arthur laces up his other boot and says, “I asked if you were seeing anyone at the moment.”

  The question slithers its way up my neck and squeezes at my throat, cutting off my oxygen. Arthur has a way of doing this to me, and I know by the way he asked the question that it’s been on his mind for some time now.

  “I don’t really have time to do much other than study, you know?” I say, taking a seat on the black futon in the living room. “I’m kind of boring.”

  Arthur straightens his back and unbuttons his pants, then tucks in his shirt. “Well,” he replies, “I don’t plan on doing anything this summer other than working, and trying to spend as much time with you as I can. How does that sound?”

  My phone buzzes and I pull it out of my pocket. Gwen has finally responded, but instead of an apology, she’s texted a picture of two men dressed in black leather, kissing. I roll my eyes and shove the phone back into my pocket. Ass. When I raise my head, I see Arthur staring at me.

  “What?” I ask, hoping that he didn’t see Gwen’s text. “What is it?”

  He sits down beside me on the futon and fixes my shirt collar.

  “I’m just waitin’ for you to ask me if I’m seeing anyone,” he says, not meeting my eyes.

  Arthur hasn’t always been so forward, but in the year that I’ve been away, he’s become a proper man. Working a full-time job, living by himself, driving his own car and paying all of his bills—a truly admirable thing for a man who’s not quite nineteen years old. I don’t know how he does it.

  I swallow and look down at the relatively fresh tattoos on my knuckles. They’re not peeling anymore, but they have started itching, and I silently chide myself for not keeping lotion in my bag. The moon on my thumb is the worst offender.

  “Are you seeing anyone?” My question is barely audible.

  “Nope,” he says, buttoning and unbuttoning my collar. “I’m as single as it gets.”

  “That’s not what your Instagram suggests,” I say, catching his hands mid-buttoning. Our eyes finally meet. “Looks like you have a different girl every week.”

  Arthur bites his bottom lip and wags his head. “You know everythin’ posted on the Internet ain’t real life. And besides, I wouldn’t lie to ya.”

  Arthur has asked me out twice now, and both times I have turned him down because I’m not ready for a relationship. Or rather, I’m not ready to have my heart broken by this man. It’s one of the reasons why I didn’t come home this past year. Actually, he’s the main reason, if I’m being completely honest with myself.

  The moment I first laid eyes on Arthur, I knew he would be my undoing. I can’t resist a man with blond hair and brown eyes—they make for a deadly concoction when combined.

  At first I told myself to resist his charms because of our age difference—he was in the ninth grade when we met—but then last year he texted me on his birthday at midnight, an image of a pack of cigarettes and two porno mags. An announcement to me—and the world, I guess, as the image later popped up on Instagram—that he was of consenting age. I never saw so many people like an image of a Playgirl in all my life.

  “I didn’t call you a liar,” I reply. “But you ain’t exactly some sweet, innocent boy no more.”

  Arthur exhales loudly and sinks into the futon cushion. “Lance,” he says. “I don’t want to be turned down a third time.”

  “So then don’t ask me if you think you already know the answer.”

  We sit in silence until Arthur reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lighter. The sound of the spark catching fills the small room. I turn around and see a joint in his hand.

  “God, see how far you’ve fallen? When did you start smoking weed?” I ask.

  Arthur answers, but hesitates at first. “September, I guess. Do you want some?”

  I know my body—smoking weed will only act as an aphrodisiac, and I’m already at my limit.

  “No,” I say. “But it doesn’t bother me. What time does the party start?”

  “Are you that eager to get away from me?” Arthur asks, then starts coughing.

  “No,” I lie. “I was just wondering.”

  Arthur leans forward, puts the joint into an ashtray on the coffee table and slides his arms around my waist.

  “Arthur,” I protest. “What are you doing?”

  “Can I hold you?”

  Being in love with your best friend is literal torture, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. It doesn’t hurt that Arthur is the world’s biggest flirt, and that he doesn’t always understand the necessity of boundaries.

  “Yes,” I say, cautiously. He wraps his arms around me, and I can feel his heart thumping through his shirt.

  The last time I let him hold me like this, we fell asleep on his bed and awoke to his father bursting into his room like the mattress was on fire. We hadn’t even been doing anything other than sleeping—we’ve only ever slept together on a bed. Hell, the door hadn’t even been locked.

  When his father had put his hand on my arm, I’d thought the night was going to end with Arthur going to jail. Arthur’s parents’ constant invasion of his privacy has been a sore spot for the past five years, and has further solidified my fears that no one will ever accept us as a couple. No one wants their son dating a trans man, at least not in this part of Kentucky.

  Arthur is a fiercely loyal friend, but I hadn’t expected him to respond to the incident by moving out of his parents’ house the day after his eighteenth birthday and cutting all ties with his family, except for his mamaw. I never asked him to do that, and I refuse to believe that I’m the sole reason for his moving out of that hellhole.

  “Is this okay?” he asks, sliding his hands under my shirt, keeping them carefully planted on my waist. He hasn’t seen me since I had top surgery, and should know from past conversations with Gwen just how uncomfortable I am talking about it. Gwen can be an absolute dipshit at times, but she’s my confidant and closest ally. A lovable dipshit, if you will.

  “Yes,” I whisper, and allow myself to lean into his warm body. He pulls me closer and rests his chin on top of my head, making me thankful that I washed my hair this morning before work.

  “You smell good. Real good,” Arthur says. “If you don’t want to go to the party, we don’t have to. There’s this new Netflix documentary about the Salem Witch Trials if you wanna watch that instead. I could order us a pizza.”

  Just knowing that Arthur might be into me at this point in time is enough to keep me sane—to keep me going. For the past year he’s texted me regularly, despite my inability to respond at times, and interacted with me on Facebook and Instagram, sometimes even sending me stupid messages on Snapchat. We still haven’t discussed the text he sent me, the one where he said he loved me, and I’m not brave enough to bring it up while I’m in his arms.

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I reply. “I mean, I’m sure Gwen wants us there for moral support. Besides, you know she can’t start a fire to save her life.”

  “I didn’t think you were into that kind of magick anymore,” he says, running a finger over my fresh undercut. “Your hair is cute.” He pauses, letting his hand rest on the back of my head. “Wait,” he says. “I thought you were exploring your roots anyway, Mexican witchcraft or whatever.”

  “It’s called brujería, and when you call it Mexican witchcraft like that, you sound ignorant as hell. Very white and very country.”

  “I’ve never been very good at hiding my flaws, you know that. Why don’t you come home with me after the party then?” he asks. “I can drive you to work in the morning if you need me to.”

  Arthur isn’t trying to be pushy—I know. Gwen is staying with her girlfriend while she’s in town for the summer, and I hate going home because everyone still calls me Linda. But there’s no way that I can s
pend the night here, because having sex with Arthur is always at the back of my mind when we’re alone together, an ever-present reminder of the one and only time someone’s tried making love to me.

  The details are still fresh in my mind. I hadn’t started medically transitioning yet, and despite his reassurance that he didn’t mind my binder, we didn’t go through with it. We couldn’t. I couldn’t.

  Because I’m mental, and incapable of sharing any part of myself with anyone.

  It had started out innocently enough, a simple game of tickling on his bed during some TV commercial, then before I’d had time to react he’d had me pinned to the bed, his mouth on mine in a matter of seconds, and I’d unleashed four years’ worth of bottled-up, neatly packed desire. I’d torn at his clothes like they were made of paper, and he’d done the same. The botched attempt had ended with me bawling myself to sleep in his arms. Waking up to his father shouting about diablo and the eternal pits of hell had been an added bonus—the sour cherry on top of an already melted sundae.

  “Arthur, I’m only going to say this once, so please listen to me.” I pull away from him and slightly twist my torso so that we’re facing each other. “I have missed you—a lot. You mean the world to me, and I want to spend as much time with you as I can.” He nods and reaches out to touch my face, but I catch his hand before it lands on my cheek. “But you’re super busy at the moment with work and everything, and I do not want to be in anyone’s way. I want this to be a chill summer.”

  “You won’t be in the way,” Arthur protests. “Goddamn, I haven’t seen you since August. You’ve been gone for almost ten months. Almost a whole fuckin’ year. I followed you online like some creepy stalker guy because you weren’t returning my texts, and I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. I was in a pretty dark place for a while there.”

  “You could have texted me. You could have called me. I know you hate talkin’ on the phone, but fuck, I missed your voice. Your laugh. I wasn’t even allowed to be there for your surgery. Do you know how much that hurt?” he asks, his voice cracking. “Gwen had to tell me everything, every minute detail, every update. Then I nearly had a breakdown when I saw your post-op pictures on Instagram because I was so relieved—you have no fuckin’ idea.”

  I want to touch him, to tell him everything is going to be all right, but everything I touch turns to ash, so I can’t. I won’t. I have wanted to be with Arthur ever since I could remember, but our story, the legend of King Arthur and Lancelot, has prevented me from telling him how I really feel.

  Everyone knows Lancelot betrays Arthur in the end. It doesn’t matter that Gwen is my sister—something bad will come from our relationship. I can feel the wrongness of it all deep inside, lurking in my bone marrow. No one is fast enough to outrun fate.

  “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.