by Emery Lee
I’m more relieved than I can put into words when I run into Devin carrying two more cups of coffee.
“You still have coupons?” I ask.
Devin rolls his eyes. “It’s a special, not a coupon.”
“Whatever. I hope it lasts all summer.”
Devin smiles as he hands me the cup, and I toss it back, quickly scalding my mouth but also waking up.
And as the energy floods through me, I think about yesterday—about the movie with Drew and how it was the steel coating over our bond. And then I think about Devin, and the way we left things. He doesn’t seem bothered at all, but as we hit the rehearsal hall, I say, “Sorry about yesterday.”
He turns to me, head cocked to the side. “What about yesterday?”
“Things got a little awkward near the end,” I say. “I obviously talk too much.”
He smiles, and it really lights up his face and brings out his blue eyes. “You were fine. I just—well, I got a little caught up in my head, I guess.”
I don’t ask him about the rest because it seems kind of unfair. Instead, we go about setting up for the kids, and sure enough, fifteen minutes later, they’re racing into the room like a herd of cows ready for grazing.
Actually, I don’t know if cows are fast. I’ve never really interacted with a cow.
Devin gets all the kids as organized as possible, then starts handing out the craft supplies. They eat it up, screaming and shrieking and laughing as they get their paper and start drawing nonsensical shapes detailing their “perfect summer” on it.
“They’ve got some real talent,” I say sarcastically, and Devin laughs.
He hands me a sheet of paper and a notepad to rest it on, and we share a box of colored pencils between us.
“Who sets the curriculum?” I ask.
He smiles. “Not me. Otherwise we’d be doing some slow jams and a dance contest.”
I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t want to see that.”
He laughs again.
I don’t even know what I’m going to draw until I find myself sketching out a horrible rendition of the bookstore. There’s a rectangle for the little counter and a bunch of smaller squares for the stacks of books lining the floor that I really hope Drew has managed to pick up by now. Another, longer rectangle for the back door and then some weird polygon that’s supposed to resemble the cash register.
“What’s that?” Devin asks, and I quickly cover my paper with my hand.
“Rude. No peeking.”
Devin chuckles, returning to his own little nature display on his sheet. Little mountains, a field of flowers, a wide-sweeping river. I’m kind of mad because it’s actually pretty good, like he’s drawing from reference or something.
“I didn’t know you could draw,” I say.
He smiles, adding a layer of shading to the sweeping waves of his river. “Well, you don’t really know anything about me, do you?”
And actually, he’s right about that. I mean, I know he’s trans—nonbinary, but no idea where he falls on the spectrum. He’s from Miami, we used to go to the same school, but other than that, I can’t really say a whole lot. Hell, I don’t even know what his last name is.
“So, what are you working on?” he asks again.
I sigh. “It’s the bookstore where I met my boyfriend,” I say.
“Was that this summer?” he asks.
And honestly, it sounds like an accusation. You’re that attached to a guy you’ve known a few weeks?
But Devin’s voice is soft and bright and his eyes are about as nonjudgmental as blue eyes can ever really be. He’s probably just curious, and it’s only my insecurity that makes me feel like he’s casting judgment down on me.
“Yeah, it was this summer,” I say. The sound of our colored pencils fills the ensuing silence between us.
Once the kids get bored, we play heads up, seven up, and four corners, then sit them all down to watch another movie. I don’t know how many DVDs Devin’s got stockpiled, but we’re burning through them pretty fast.
Then lunch comes around, and all the kids rush to get their little sandwiches and Rice Krispies out of their little lunch boxes, and Devin taps me on the shoulder and says, “Can you watch them for a bit? I’m going to the bathroom.”
I nod because what else am I supposed to say? No, jackass, go piss on the floor? But really, I don’t want him to go. There are two scheduled bathroom breaks a day for the kids, so I never actually expected to be left alone with all of them. It’s like overseeing a rabid dog and deciding to take it off its leash. He’s all I’ve got keeping these kids in line.
I try to focus on getting through the moment. It’s just lunch, which I soon learn is a lot harder than it sounds. Over the course of twenty minutes, one kid sticks his sandwich in his pants, one smears applesauce on the mirror, and one just starts crying for no discernible reason. The other seven manage to stay alive, though I guess I’m a little too caught up to notice if they’re actually eating their lunch or just painting their faces with it.
I’m trying to pull applesauce kid away from the mirror and stop him from touching anything else when one of the coordinators comes in to take them to their afternoon activities. She rolls her eyes at me, which, okay, I know I’m bad with kids. And then she rounds them all up and they rush out happily like I’m the one misbehaving.
My hands are sticky, and Devin’s still not back yet, which, come on, who takes a half hour in the fucking bathroom? So I head over to wash my hands and see what kind of casual midday vacation Devin’s decided to take for himself.
When I reach the men’s bathroom, it looks pretty empty. I make my way to the sink and turn the water on, scrubbing the appley remains from my skin. The bathroom’s actually really clean for a summer camp, and I’m slightly amazed. It’s not a bad place to run if I need to escape the kid swarm.
And then I turn the faucet off and pull some paper towels from the nearest dispenser. As I toss them in the trash, I make out a soft, gasping sound that I first thought was the AC but soon realize is another person in the bathroom.
There are only two stalls, and the doors for both of them are closed, but I don’t see any feet underneath. “Hello?” I say, and yeah, it’s probably a ghost, which makes me the soon-to-die white woman in this situation.
I’m about to bolt from the bathroom before Satan’s wrath can be brought down on me when one of the stall doors opens up and Devin steps out.
“Where the hell have you been?” I ask. “I had to deal with those little demons alone.”
“Sorry,” he says, but it comes out on a little puff of air, and it’s only then that I realize how pale he looks.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
And he nods, but let’s be real, he’s pretty clearly not okay. He kind of hobbles out of the stall and leans on the counter, but his arms are shaking even as he holds himself up.
My first thought is that maybe he has a fever, but when I touch his arm, he feels more cold than he does hot. He doesn’t jerk away from me, but lets me guide him down to a sitting position on the bathroom floor, and for a moment, I’m not even worried about how dirty the place would probably look if I had a UV light and how gross my pants will probably be when I stand up.
His breathing comes out in short, ragged breaths, and I wonder if maybe he has asthma or if he’s having an allergic reaction to someone’s peanut butter sandwich, but other than the sharp inhales and the sweat along his forehead, there doesn’t seem to be anything else wrong with him—no hives, no swollen lips, no purpling face as he takes his last breath.
So I’m basically left with two options—I can go get help, or I can just sit with him and hope he gets better. I’m about to stand and go call for a coordinator, but there’s something in his eyes that looks like fear, and I don’t know if that’s something he wants to keep to himself. Hell, if he wanted me to get help, he would’ve said something when I asked if he was okay, right?
“Devin,” I say, my voice low. “I want to
help you, but you have to tell me what to do.”
He laughs, but it comes out more like a cough. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m okay.”
“You don’t look okay.”
He takes my hand in his, his palms clammy, and he just sits there staring at it like it’s some manual on how to breathe Earth air.
And I just sit there because I don’t know what else to do. Pulling away from him and going to get help sounds like a shitty thing to do, and I don’t even know the Heimlich maneuver, so I just kind of feel like a worthless sack of potatoes.
Finally, his breathing starts to even out and he lets go of my hand, wiping tears out of his eyes.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He nods, but it’s not really that reassuring since he’s been saying he was okay the whole time. He clears his throat and spares me a small smile. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay,” I say. His voice is still a little bit shaky, but he looks mostly okay, so I stand up and hold my hand out to him, and he takes it, pulling himself to his feet. “What happened?”
He shrugs. “Panic attack.”
And I’ve heard of panic attacks before, but I’ve never seen one in action. They were just supposed to be in someone’s head. I hadn’t thought they’d feel so scary.
“Did something—did something get to you?” I ask, but it sounds off even to my own ears. I’m trying to be suave about it. No awkward I don’t know how to handle mentally ill people jargon, but I also have no idea what I’m doing.
He smiles and says, “No, not really. Sometimes they just happen, but I’m okay.”
And I know the respectful thing to do is say that I totally get it and tell him he can talk to me if he needs anything and then walk away, but I kind of just stare at him for a moment because I’m not really sure what to say. Or, well, how to say it. And I feel like shit about it, but my body’s not really listening to me.
Devin walks to the bathroom door, but then he pauses, turning back to look at me, and I’m half expecting him to call me out on my staring. Then he says, “This is gonna sound weird, but do you mind doing me a favor?”
And I nod, because it’s not like there’s another appropriate response.
He stares down at his shoes for a moment, then says, “I’ve been thinking about my pronouns, and I kind of want to try out some new ones.”
“Like she/her?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Maybe not those either. I don’t know. I was thinking about using something more neutral.” He pauses, his eyes roving the floor again like the perfect pronoun is just waiting in the grout. “I don’t want to make things too complicated, though. I just—I’m not sure how comfortable I feel with he/him anymore.”
“Devin, they’re your pronouns. You don’t have to consider anyone else before you pick them.”
His eyes widen, and then I don’t know what changes, but he smiles like all his problems have melted away, and it really is a beautiful smile.
“Thanks, Noah. Do you mind using they/them for me from now on?”
I roll my eyes. “No, I don’t mind. They’re your pronouns.”
And they smile again, and for a moment, my heart feels heavy. Then they say, “I hope things weren’t too bad while I was gone.”
And the smell of applesauce washes over me, and my whole body tightens up. I groan, pushing past them to head back down the hall. “We’re gonna be cleaning up all afternoon.”
Seriously, Becca, I know you’re busy, but come on! What about our spa date???
Delivered
On the way home, Brian stops to pick up Maggie from some friend’s house or something. I haven’t seen them together as much recently, but if that was supposed to give me any hope they’d be breaking up soon, it’s completely crushed the moment Brian hops out of the car and runs to hug her. Gross.
Brian kicks me out of the passenger seat so Maggie can hop in up front, and I just roll my eyes before slipping into the back. It’s fine. I’m trying to pretend to be invisible instead of being their third wheel.
I’ve noticed that Maggie hasn’t invited me to anything since trivia, and I don’t know if that’s a reflection on how badly we lost or the fact that I didn’t get the bookstore job and, by extension, her discount. Brian claims she just hasn’t been doing anything Noah-worthy recently, but then, he’s also been more Maggie-fixated than before. It’s like every recipe he tries just further convinces him he needs to be the perfect chef of Maggie’s dreams, which is also gross.
Maggie goes on about watching this gay movie because she has a gay friend, and my eyes roll back into my head at the absurdity. I mean, really, who acts like they know something about being gay just because they have a gay friend?
And Brian laughs along like she’s the single funniest person he’s ever met, and I’m going to have to wash my ears out with soap. He never would’ve thought her jokes were funny before. Hell, a year ago, we’d both be making fun of how ridiculous she sounds, and yet I’m strapped down for fifteen minutes of utter torture before we finally get home.
When Brian unlocks the door to the apartment, I beeline for my closet. He shouts something about dinner after me, but I just ignore him as I close the door. This is the part where I call Becca just to get some voicemail box is full message, and before I can even think about my next move, I’m calling Drew. I tell him about work and he talks about his brother, and really, neither of us is saying much of anything important, but it doesn’t matter.
Somehow, I feel like he knows exactly what I need.
Drew gets off work just after five, so he swings by the apartment so we can get some more photos for the Diary. I don’t bother telling Brian I’m heading downstairs since he and Maggie are so caught up in each other, they won’t even notice I’m gone.
Drew sits out on the curb, his phone in his hands and his eyes glued to it. And really, there’s a lot to admire—the arch of his back, the way his dark hair reflects the sunlight, the perfect line of his jaw.
He turns, his eyes widening as they catch on me. “Oh, hey.”
“Hey,” I say, sitting down on the curb next to him.
“Everything good?” he asks.
I shrug. “Besides having to take care of Devin? Yeah, it’s fine, I guess.”
Drew raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t that the coworker who threw up on you? I thought you hated him.”
“Devin uses they/them pronouns,” I say. “And I don’t know. I guess they’re not so bad. How’re things with you?”
He stares down at the ground. “Work’s a pain in the ass. We’re getting ready for an author event, so we have to keep track of all their books like someone’s actually gonna show up to buy them.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You don’t think they will?”
“Please, these authors might as well write fan fiction. Their work is garbage.”
That’s a little harsh considering my work isn’t exactly “literary,” but I know he doesn’t actually mean me. I’m just being insecure because my meet cute stories have been too flat to post lately, like I can’t find inspiration now that I can’t just hit on any guy I come in contact with, and more than anything, I want to be cuddled up with him even though he’s only here so we can take some selfies.
“Anyway,” Drew says as if exactly on cue, “let’s get these shots done so I can get home. I’ve got a date tonight.”
I freeze, my blood running cold. “A—a date?”
He laughs, clapping a hand against my shoulder. “Not that kind of date. I wouldn’t betray the Diary like that. Those comments are like the only way I get serotonin anymore.” Which makes me feel both better and worse at the same time. He stands up, a holding out a hand for me. “Some buddies are coming over for a D and D campaign, you know.”
Which, frankly, I know nothing about D&D, but that sounds a hell of a lot better than the idea of Drew wrapped up in somebody else. I push the thought out of my head, reminding myself that we aren’t actually dating and his loyalty to me is really all about t
he Diary anyway, but a part of me is still a little on edge, like I’d never considered the possibility of him moving on to something better, and now that it’s there, I have no way to escape it.
We pose the shot, one arm around his neck, and the other holding my phone up so I can actually take the picture. And then he presses his lips to mine, and as the camera flashes, I can pretend that this is all we’ll ever need, the two of us wrapped up in each other.
He pulls away almost immediately, asking me to pass the phone over so he can take a look. Then he laughs, throwing his head back. “You’re way too short to get a shot like this. Let me do it.”
So I agree because all this means is that we have to take the shot again, and this is a moment in time I have no problem reliving forever.
Step 8: The Fall
The moment love takes over.
Inbox (1,292)
Bbybby33 asked: Sup, Noah! Are you not answering asks anymore? I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks, and my friend told me she sent you an ask and never got a response either?
“Wait, what happened?”
I sigh. I’m trying to catch my mom up on what I’ve been doing for the past week, but she chose just about the worst possible time to call. Drew and I are at this little swim spot called Paradise Cove and between the loud-ass couple that finally seems to be packing up to go and the little rush of the springs through a break in the rock formation, it’s pretty loud out here.
Ordinarily, we’d never have been able to make it out on a Tuesday, but we actually got pretty lucky. I got the week off since I agreed to do a sleepaway camp from Friday through Monday, and Amy decided to close the shop for the day to do inventory. I’m not exactly eager to spend a whole weekend with a bunch of squealing monsters and the rugged outdoors, but it pays about as much as I’d make in three weeks combined, so I couldn’t say no. All in all, it ended up being the perfect chance for us to do something cool without an onslaught of people crowding the public space.
