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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.
Hopeless Romantic
Copyright © 2017 by Francis Gideon
Cover art: Vivan Ng, viivus.tumblr.com
Editor: May Peterson
Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at [email protected].
ISBN: 978-1-62649-556-2
First edition
April, 2017
Also available in paperback:
ISBN: 978-1-62649-557-9
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Nick Fraser is a true romantic. He wants the guy instead of the girl, but other than that, he wants everything his favourite rom-coms depict: the courtship, the passionate first kiss, the fairy-tale wedding. But after breaking up with the love of his life, Nick wonders if anything fairy-tale will ever happen for him.
Then he meets Katie, who’s just like a rom-com heroine. She’s sharp, funny, sweet, and as into music and punk culture as Nick is. What’s more, he’s incredibly attracted to her—even though she’s a woman. Nick has never considered that he might be bisexual, but his feelings for Katie are definitely real.
When Katie reveals that she’s transgender, Nick starts to see how much he doesn’t understand about the world, queer identity, and himself. He is hopelessly in love with Katie, but this isn’t a fairy tale, and Nick’s friends and family may not accept his new relationship. If he wants it all, he has to have the courage to make his fantasy a reality.
For Travis, as always.
Also for Carl and Emily. Thanks for letting me crash your wedding.
About Hopeless Romantic
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Dear Reader
Also by Francis Gideon
About the Author
More like this
“Fuck.”
Nick furrowed his brow at the tangled insides of his 2006 Mazda 3. He nervously ran his finger along the propped hood before glancing over to his roommate. Tucker stood in skinny jeans and with one of his long grey cardigans over an un-tucked collared shirt: Tucker’s day-off wear. His dark hair was showered and combed, but not styled, though it was already afternoon. He pushed his glasses up his nose and nervously glanced around, probably to see if any neighbours were watching the display in the open parking lot of their apartment building.
“You look fine, Tucker. No one’s watching us.”
“Perhaps. But you did have a tantrum that I heard from my desk.”
“Ugh. It’s the car. That’s why I’m freaking out. I have no idea what I’m doing.”
With a groan, Nick closed the hood and then slid back into the driver’s-side door. When the car hadn’t started fifteen minutes earlier, Nick had descended into every single swear word combination imaginable as if they’d been a chant to fix his engine. Since Nick and Tucker’s shared fourth-floor apartment looked directly down on Nick’s reserved parking space, it was a matter of time before Tucker found Nick the way he was now: frustrated, panicky, and utterly late for a class meeting. The way Tucker hunched as he watched Nick flail over the car was overwhelming, but Nick had learned to brush it off. Invasive, all-encompassing, and overwhelming is how Tucker always was. When his dark eyes fixated on something—be it a stain on their kitchen floor or an obscure German word in a book he was studying—he didn’t stop staring until he figured it out. If anything, Nick began to feel comforted having him around, even if he probably knew less about cars than Nick did.
“Nobody knows what they’re doing until they try again,” Tucker said. “So try the car again.”
With another sigh, Nick turned the key in the ignition and the car hummed. He was about to celebrate his victory when the engine failed to turn over. The car went silent. “Shit, shit, shit. What does that sound like to you?”
“Sounds like it won’t start.”
“Thanks, Tucker. That’s all I know too. Real insightful.”
“That’s a pretty definitive problem. You don’t really need to know the why of the problem, only that it is.”
Nick stared at Tucker with disdain. Fucking German philosophy PhDs. He loved Tucker with all his heart, but he wanted to hug him at the same time as push him over when he got too esoteric for his own good.
When Nick tried starting the car again, the engine wouldn’t even hum to life. A bright light near his odometer spat out a red symbol that made no sense. He consulted Tucker about it, but all Tucker could do was push his thick-rimmed glasses to the end of his nose and speculate with a wave of his hands. When Tucker folded his arms over his chest and began pacing, his attention now diverted, Nick knew there was no hope left. His car was now officially fried.
“Well, that’s it,” Nick said. “I think I’m done. That’s all I know how to do.”
“Recognizing limitations is a good quality, especially in our modern era.”
When Nick was silent, Tucker continued glancing around at the spring blooms by their walkway and the nice weather outside, as if he hadn’t been beyond their apartment door in days. Which was probably true for both of them, really.
Nick struggled to remember the last time he’d driven his car for any length of time. The grocery store they shopped at was around the corner, so there was no need for driving there and back. He’d finished his course work for his English PhD six months earlier too, so there was only dissertation writing (which could be done at home) and sometimes teaching on campus (which he needed to drive to). For the spring term, he was teachi
ng an online course called Introduction to Business Writing and didn’t need to be present in a classroom. That course did have meetings with his supervisor and a bunch of other PhD students teaching the class, though, and Nick definitely needed to be on campus for that.
The thought of the course material made him want to roll his eyes. But now that his car wouldn’t start and Professor Anatol was probably already taking attendance, teaching business English to a bunch of students through an outdated technical online interface wasn’t even the worst thing that was happening to him.
Nick groaned as his stomach lurched. He hit his steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “Well, fuck. I wish I was good at cars. I’ve clearly made the wrong career move.”
“No, you haven’t. And no, you don’t.”
“Okay, I don’t. But I have no idea what to do or how to fix this. It could be as simple as forgetting to change the fucking oil or leaving my lights on and now needing a jump. Or it could be something I don’t even know the name for and now I need a new engine.”
“Huh.” Tucker sighed. “I almost forgot that time you left your lights on all night. You’re really not good with cars. You know, Kant used to walk a lot. Maybe you should walk more?”
“Tucker. Not. Helping.”
“Well, I can tell you one thing for sure: us pedestrians usually take the bus to campus. And there’s a stop just around the corner that probably comes by in ten minutes or so.” Tucker squinted as he looked down through his glasses at his watch. “Or eight minutes. Better hurry and you won’t be late.”
“Fuck.” Nick reached into the backseat of his car for his backpack and tossed his keys into his front pocket. Nick cast a glance over his shoulder as he rounded the corner of their apartment building. “You’ll be here later tonight, right? I need your help with that thing.”
“Yes, that thing. Of course I’ll be here. Where the hell else am I gonna go? You’re welcome, by the way.”
If Nick hadn’t already been running, he probably would have laughed.
The bus over to the school was hot and cramped. Considering this was the first day where it actually felt like spring, complete with picturesque blue skies and yellow sun shining, after a long winter in Waterloo, everyone else on the bus seemed happy to be suddenly overdressed and overheated. Many passengers had their coats off and taking up the seats next to them. The front windows were open, allowing a breeze to cool the seating area as much as it could. Nick was wearing a black collared shirt over a band T-shirt, along with a pair of tight blue jeans. After rolling up his sleeves and unbuttoning the collared shirt so it acted more like a jacket, the heat seemed manageable—and so did the time.
University of Waterloo was only a fifteen-minute drive away from their two-bedroom apartment. Nick figured it would take at least twenty-five minutes for the bus to arrive on campus. He checked his phone for the meeting’s room number and was relieved to see it scheduled for 2:30 p.m. and not 2 p.m. like he’d thought. From the landmarks outside, they were over halfway to campus, and it was 2:20 p.m. He’d have to run to the meeting room, but he’d make it. Finally, Professor Anatol wouldn’t think he was a fuckup who was always late.
Nick cringed when he remembered his car. How do you take a car to a mechanic when it won’t start? And why don’t I have CAA? His mother had been nagging him to get CAA since he bought the car used from a woman he’d met off Craigslist three years ago. He’d thought his mother was being paranoid, and put off getting anything beyond insurance. But of course cars eventually break down. And that means you have to get a tow truck and pay for it all yourself. Nick groaned as he pushed the thought away. That was not the thing to worry about right now.
After fiddling around on his phone to find music, Nick realized the bus was already at the station stop for the university. With another belabored sigh, he slipped his phone back into his pocket and ran out the back of the bus without so much as a thank-you to the driver. Darting across the campus was a nightmare—why were four people insisting on walking in a line together, effectively blocking the whole sidewalk?—but the more he ran, the more he felt in control of something. His car might have broken down, he might have had no money, but he had run track for six months when he was fourteen and still super skinny. He’d been a natural sprinter that year—until a growth spurt over the summer had made him fill out in his shoulders and some in his stomach. He’d gone from needing two meals to satisfy his grandmother to being teased for being “husky” almost overnight, and lost his edge on the track team. His weight had scaled down from being broke in university and living off ramen, and now his five-foot-ten frame had settled on a nice middle ground. He was soft in some places and would never, ever be a gym rat, but he could still sprint when he needed to.
As Nick rounded the corner to the humanities building, he was sure that he’d make it on time—until a woman came out of the set of double doors at the exact same time, and clocked him right in the stomach with the door handle.
Nick doubled over in pain. Oomph and yet another long string of curses left his mouth.
“Oh my God.” The woman gasped, her voice pitched low with horror. “Are you okay?”
Nick rubbed a hand over the tender area of his stomach. He winced, but his pride was more wounded than anything. His legs throbbed from running and his breath had been knocked out of his lungs, but that was his own fault.
“I’m fine. I’m fine. Just not my day today.”
The woman seemed about to say something else when a group of guys dressed in polo shirts came through the second door. They swerved around the two of them, but knocked over the book bag she’d set on the ground. They didn’t seem to notice and kept walking as nearly a dozen titles scattered over the front steps.
“Assholes,” she mumbled. Her sympathetic tone disappeared in one word, and Nick was struck by her sudden fragility. She’d seemed like an utter brick wall when she’d rammed the door handle into him, composed of superhuman strength and power, but now he noticed her heart-shaped face and the soft brown hair that hung loosely at the sides. She tucked her hair behind her ears in a nervous gesture, revealing brightly painted purple nails.
“Hey, I’m sure those guys didn’t mean it. Some people are accident prone, you know?” Nick wanted the words to come out as a jest, but his panting breath made them sound harsh, as if he were still mad at the woman for running into him. When she examined him with her pointed stare, a familiar yet uncanny feeling of familiarity flowed through him. Do I know her? Have I taught her before in a first-year class? No, too old for that. She seems like my age. Is she a grad student from another department, then? Nick ran over the options he could think of as to why this girl was pinging on all his radars, until she looked away. She began to gather her books with stiff movements.
“I guess I’m just lucky that way,” she mumbled again. “Always accident prone.”
“Hey. That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry.” Nick started to pick up the books that had scattered on the ground. He furrowed his brow at some of the titles—most of them were about printmaking in Russia in the Modernist period—and worked on piling them back into her bag again.
“Hey, thanks.” The woman met his gaze again, her smile small but genuine. “Are you feeling okay? I didn’t break a rib? Wouldn’t be the first time, if I’m honest.”
“No, no.” Nick looked down at his stomach, pulling his T-shirt taut as he did. “I’m perfectly fine. Definitely late now, but fine.”
“Well, that’s good. Not that you’re late, but that you’re fine. I like your T-shirt, by the way.”
When the woman laughed, Nick’s cheeks flamed. He was wearing his old Bouncing Souls T-shirt, the one with the holes in the armpits from constant use. Tucker had made fun of him for the shirt (calling it his “security blanket”) at least a dozen times, and he was so not willing to hear the same kind of flak from a random stranger who probably had cracked his rib.
Before Nick could argue with her, the woman undid her white leather
jacket and pulled it open to reveal the exact same Bouncing Souls shirt underneath. Nick swore his smile took up his entire face.
“No way! How cool!”
The woman shrugged as she buttoned up her jacket again. She hiked her book bag over her arm and then gestured behind Nick. “I better get going, and it sounds like you should too.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. I promise I won’t run like a maniac next time I’m here.”
“Running can be fun, as long as it’s for a good reason. But maybe look a little more, okay?”
When the woman smiled, butterflies swarmed in Nick’s stomach. He pushed the reaction away and focused on what he needed to do: get to the meeting before Professor Anatol gave him the worst section of this class to grade. He jogged the rest of the way, making sure to look around corners as he went. By the time he arrived, he was only five minutes late—and Anatol was nowhere to be seen.
Nick slunk into a spot at the back, right next to his casual friend Sam from his earlier PhD classes. “Where’s Anatol?”
“Late,” Sam said. “He sent an email five minutes ago that he was caught in a meeting across campus, but he’d be here soon. So I guess you didn’t have to book it here as much as you thought, huh?”
“Maybe,” Nick said. “But I’m kind of glad I did.”
“I never thought I’d see you again,” Greg said.
Nick grinned nonchalantly as he leaned against the mechanic’s doorway. His ex-boyfriend Greg was behind the counter, filling out some reports, while Greg’s bosses, John and Ray, had taken Nick’s car around the other side. After the class meeting, Nick had swallowed his pride and called a tow truck and told them to drop it off at the closest mechanic. When the driver had informed him that’d be Davis’s Car and Auto Repair, Nick hadn’t been surprised.
“How could I never see your face again? Please,” Nick said. “I knew this would happen one day. I’ve been in Waterloo so long I have memories around every corner. Most of them good.”
Greg chuckled. “Well, I think you should make a scrapbook. Save up for when you finally defend that damn degree of yours.”
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