by JD Chambers
When I get home, I change into my flannel pjs and a hoodie, first thing. Double socks. I sync my phone to my speakers in the kitchen and pull up my upbeat cooking playlist, causing Panic! At The Disco to blare throughout my apartment. Comfort and music are the two most important things to consider when cooking – true fact.
I’m so glad I decided to cook. There’s nothing in a bad day that a little music and good food won’t cure. I set out my huge cooking pot and start to cut up carrots, greens, potatoes, onions, and celery, sliding each into the pot from the cutting board in time to the music. After I add the broth, drained beans, and spices, I put the lid in place and set the timer. In an hour and a half, I’m going to have a tasty soup. And enough leftovers to eat soup every day for a month, but that’s totally beside the point.
Of course, I could invite someone over to join me. A formerly, probably mostly, straight boy who likely misses the home cooking his wife used to provide. But that would just seem desperate.
Deliciousness scents the air and I kick back onto my couch to browse my social media while I wait. The rock climbing group I used to belong to back in high school has a few new posts, some from just last weekend when they took a group ice climbing. It looks so fucking cool; I’m insanely jealous. I scroll past, wishing I had the time to join them. The Gender Center in Denver has a post for a New Year’s event, which I missed. It’s obviously been a while since I logged in.
My breath catches in my throat at an older post, a picture from around Christmas. My aunt Lila, the aunt that still talks to me and kept me as a friend online, posted it. It’s my father’s whole family gathered around my stepbrother and the woman who apparently became his wife on December 23.
When my parents divorced, my dad moved across the country with his replacement family. Stephen, my stepbrother, embodied everything I didn’t – manly, good at sports, at least the ones that counted, straight. I removed them from my social media feed so that I didn’t have to watch my father being a father to someone else growing up. I saw enough through Lila’s posts to have a general idea of what I was missing.
The post starts me down a rabbit hole, first her pictures of the wedding, then links to Dad’s pictures of the happy couple, and finally Stephen’s own account. There are silly pictures of Stephen with his groomsmen. Sweet pictures with his bride. And the very worst – the picture of Stephen with Dad’s arm wrapped around him in a proud embrace.
The timer on the stove goes off, but I’ve lost my appetite. All that work and deliciousness to waste. And here I thought there wasn’t anything good food couldn’t fix.
“Mal, could I see you in my office?”
Ryan Miller, my boss, stands beside my desk on Friday afternoon. I share the room with four other graphics designers. The lead designer is my direct boss, but “Ry,” as he insists we call him because Metro is a “cool” place to work, is the owner and president of the company.
It’s never a good thing when Ryan, because mentally I refuse to call him Ry, has to get involved. Our account execs and designers work directly with the customers, and we have great relationships with most of them. Ryan comes off like such a smarmy businessman that he tends to put them off when he inserts himself into their business, with the exception, of course, of Jackson Daugherty. Jackson rivals Ryan in smarm and insincerity.
“Take a seat.” Ryan signals the opposite side of his desk after I’ve followed him back to his office.
As I sit on the posh leather and metal chair that Ryan reserves for his office alone, I rack my brain trying to think of what this could be about, what I could have done, but I come up with nothing. I’ve met all of my deadlines lately and haven’t had any complaints about the quality of my work.
“Mal, I know that since you’ve been with us at Metro, you’ve been sort of in flux personally.”
My forehead wrinkles downward to match my frown.
“You mentioned it to me when I hired you, and I was okay with you taking some time to find yourself. You creative types, that’s the kind of thing you all do.”
I force a smile on my face and hope it doesn’t look too pained. This is the same thing I’ve found with so many other marketing firms in the area. Owners and operators with a disdain for creativity. Why start a creative business if you hate creative people so much?
“But now we’ve had a customer complaint. And I can’t have your flights of fancy disrupt my business.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not following,” I say, even though I’ve been here before. I’ve heard this song so many times it’s guaranteed a top spot on my greatest hits album. It will be an angsty ballad titled something like Man Up, and will be followed by the pop hit Really? You’re Outdoorsy? “All of my work has received excellent feedback. I haven’t been notified of any complaints.”
“The issue isn’t your work, Mal, it’s you. Or I guess I should say, it’s your silly insistence to wear girl clothes and use strange pronouns. We might be in Colorado, but we’re still in ag country, and a lot of farmers and ranchers and businessmen who grew up in those areas don’t appreciate a boy running around acting like a girl.”
And here I didn’t think Ryan could ever be worse than my previous boss, who advised me to “Just pick one.”
“If I do my work, sir, and they like it, then I don’t see why how I dress or what I am called is any of their business.”
“Because if they pull their business from us, then it becomes my business. Go by Mal if you want. But stop it with the dresses and heels and silly pronouns.”
My throat is dry. Parched. My eyes are so dry they burn when I blink. I’m so dry I’m going to crumble into nothing. I vaguely wonder how many times I’m going to have to put myself back together. In my short life, it feels like it’s already been too many.
My fingernails dig into the leather of the chair. I call on all the fury I can muster to burn away that self-pity and redirect it to its rightful target. I grit my teeth at Ryan fucking Miller.
“And if I refuse?”
Nicole chases after me in the parking lot.
“What the fuck just happened?” she asks with arms waving wide back toward the building.
Ryan stood guard as I emptied my desk, and though Nicole watched with wide eyes from the doorway, she wasn’t able to confront me until now.
I check the back door and see Ryan through the glass. “You’d better go back in. I don’t want you to get shit too.”
“Please,” she says with an eye roll. “Ryan wouldn’t have a company if it weren’t for me. I’ll risk it.”
“Still, he’s watching. And it’s cold out here.”
“Then you and I are going for margaritas. I’m going to get my coat and I’ll meet you there.”
I don’t even need to ask where we’re going. There’s only one restaurant in Fort Collins that we go to for margaritas. The only one that has drinks so strong, they actually have a limit to the number they will serve you. The Juarez.
It’s early enough on a Friday to snag a small cocktail table in the bar area. I claim it and set my coat on the other chair to prevent anyone from grabbing it. Nicole shows up less than a minute later, making the gesture unnecessary. She heads straight to the bar, then comes back with two icy drinks balanced in her hands. They’re so big, you almost need both hands to hold one.
“Okay, now what happened? Ryan shut the door to his office after you left.”
“Apparently one of our clients threatened to pull their business if I didn’t stop dressing like a girl and using weird pronouns.”
I take a sip and wince at the alcohol and at the cold. Frozen margaritas to match the frozen outside. Hopefully the alcohol will kick in soon and warm me up. And if I trust anyone to let go and drink with in public, it’s Nicole. Anyone who can go toe to toe with Jackson Daugherty and come out the winner is a badass in my book.
“Fucking Jackson Daugherty.”
I nod and shift my eyebrows in agreement. “Ryan didn’t say who, but yeah, you can guess.”
>
“Fucking Ryan Miller,” she says and slurps the straw into her mouth with her tongue. It’s a move I bet most guys would thoroughly appreciate. I might have to practice it.
“Did you put our name down for a table?”
“No, I wasn’t sure,” I say, and look around. People file into the restaurant as Friday afternoon quickly turns into Friday evening. The Juarez is a favorite place to unwind after a shitty workweek for many a resident. “We might be too late.” Ugh. Uncertainty is not a trait I’m intimate with. I need to turn this attitude around, but I’m all out of gumption at the moment.
“Never fear.” Nicole winks at me and saunters back to the bar. A minute later she returns with one of the cocktail waiters in tow. “Are nachos good for you, Mal? I’m thinking a double order.”
I agree and Nicole thanks the waiter profusely for the help.
“Stop flirting or you’ll put me off dinner entirely,” I say, but with no heat to my words.
Nicole laughs. “You’re just jealous I got to him first.”
I shake my head with a smile. Nicole has taken over my persona this evening, leaving me a boring, mopey mess. “Not everything is about sex, you know. Some of us now have to think about jobs and resumes and fucking bank accounts.” I got serious way too fast, wiping the smile off my own face.
“That’s why tonight is my treat. So wallow away, my friend. And I’ll do whatever I can to help you find a new job. I’ve got a few friends in Longmont. Might be farther than what you’re looking for, but it’s a start. And I’ll write you a glowing reference, so be sure to mention me.”
“Thanks, Nicole. You’re a good friend.”
“Damn straight,” she says before hooking the straw back in her mouth.
“Nope. That’s Jackson Daugherty you’re thinking of,” I say, because joking about it is all I have. “Which I’m sure he’d only be too happy to prove to you.”
She manages not to choke on her drink, still sipping while she flips me the bird.
6
Parker
“What happened to Fun Parker? The guy who came to us last summer? Who wanted to remember what life was like before his boring, stick-in-the-mud wife?”
Ben stretches across my bed, tossing the apple-shaped stress ball that he swiped from my desk into the air and catching it.
“Fun Parker remembered that he’s getting older and that after a night of drinking he feels like Dead Parker the morning after,” I say, turning my nice leather swivel chair to face him.
“But you really haven’t gotten the whole Ben roommate slash wingman experience yet.”
“We’ve been to plenty of bars together.”
“Not to the gay bar. It’s a whole new level of togetherness that I think we’ve been missing.” Ben tosses the apple to me and I catch it with my right hand and squeeze. It’s not working. “You won’t even have to drink. Think of it as another new experience. Carpe the life-after-Shelby.”
“Please tell me Zach never fell for your bullshit lines. I’ll have so much less respect for him if he did.”
“Do I have to break out the pout? ‘Cause I’ll break out the pout.” Ben sits up and hits me with the most pathetic look he can muster.
“Oh my god. If you can manage to leave me alone for another solid hour, then fine, I will go be your designated driver. Since I know that’s really what you’re after.”
Ben clambers off the bed. “I’ll go set the timer,” he says before closing my door behind him.
My employers allow us to work from home if we have a big project due. Sometimes they let us work at home on Fridays, just because. This Friday, it is both. If negotiating with Ben gets me one more hour of no distractions so I can enjoy my weekend without a pile of work looming over my head – worth it.
It doesn’t feel that long, but soon Ben sticks his hand through a crack in my door and waves the digital timer. “Time’s up.”
While I shut down my computer, Ben helps himself to my closet.
“I think if you wear your usual jeans and a sweater or a button-down, you’ll be fine. You’ve got that straight jock-ish vibe going for you. Ha! Jock-ish sounds like a disease.”
“Um, thanks?”
Ben, I notice, has changed into tight jeans and an even tighter light blue v-neck. He throws his brown leather jacket on top and shoos me out the door.
“You could have at least let me fix my hair?”
Ben gives me a funny look. “Because you’re worried you won’t pull someone tonight?”
I roll my eyes at him, but leave it alone. Actually, I won’t tell Ben this, but I figure this is as good a time as any to see if last Friday was a weird fluke or not. Was it just Mal or would other people of the no-vagina persuasion elicit a similar reaction?
I’m not sure what I was expecting as we walk into In Toto, but it’s basically like every other club in Fort Collins that I’ve been to, except this one has more men on the dance floor. Ben leads me to the bar and orders a beer for himself and a water for me.
“Actually, I’ll take Fat Tire as well,” I correct my order with the bartender.
“I thought you were going to be the designated driver tonight?”
“And I thought you wanted me to have the full Ben gay-bar experience? That’s going to require copious amounts of alcohol and brain bleach for you tomorrow morning. ‘Cause I’mma get my dance on.”
My ridiculous hip waggle that accompanied my goofy statement makes Ben roll his eyes. Good. Nice indication of what’s to come this evening. I grab both beers in one hand and Ben with the other, leading him out onto the dance floor. Pretty sure he thought I was going to sit passively in the corner while he prowled around. Fuck that. He was right before. There hasn’t been a new experience yet that I haven’t jumped into with both feet first, and hell if this is any different.
Ben grabs his beer and toasts against mine, then raises his head to the ceiling and lets out a whoop. He throws an arm around my neck and we get our groove on.
“You’re a pretty decent dancer,” a voice says behind me while long fingers slip around my waist.
If that’s a pick-up line, I think he needs practice. Ben’s eyebrows rise and I know he’s wondering how I’m going to handle this. The answer, for now, is keep dancing. Ben isn’t close enough to make me feel sandwiched in, or to notice that my dick has started to plump.
I still have my beer, and raise it to my lips. I used to hate club music, but right now the thumping beats are pulsing through me, heating my blood, making everything more intense, every throb more erotic.
Ben’s eye snags on something, or someone, over my shoulder. I turn my head to see a guy with dark purple hair swaying seductively, his eyes never leaving Ben’s.
“Go for it,” I yell in Ben’s ear, nodding in the direction he’s still staring.
Finally his gaze swings back to me. “Are you sure? I can handle this for you if you need me to,” he says, referencing my other dance partner, who now has a sizeable bulge pressed against my ass.
“Nah, I got it.”
Ben hesitates all of, who am I kidding – Ben doesn’t hesitate. I turn as he walks past until I can finally see the guy who has been behind me for a brief second before he’s plastered against my front. Still, I can tell with my hands that he’s long and thin, and his straight blond hair tickles my cheek as we no longer leave room for Jesus.
He jerks his head toward the bathroom and I spare a glance for Ben. He’s totally absorbed in the guy with purple hair, and won’t notice my disappearance. I let those slender hands pull me away from the dance floor and through the bathroom door. His hands weave into my hair and his mouth finds mine, sloppy and hot, as he backs me into a bathroom stall.
He kicks the door behind him closed, then leans back against it. My hands palm the cold door to steady myself as his movements throw me off balance. The difference of the cool bathroom from the muggy dance floor clears the lusty fog in my brain, and I begin to notice subtleties that make this suddenly feel wr
ong.
His eyes don’t notice me. Not really. They don’t look into mine to try to read what I want or need. The strong hands are nice, but they’re too rushed. They lack Mal’s slow confidence. And that’s when it hits me. I’m not comparing this guy to Shelby, but Mal. And even though it may have only been a one-time thing, I suddenly feel like I’m betraying that moment we shared by chasing after it again with some strange guy in a club.
“Is something wrong?”
I must have stopped kissing him when my mind started to reel. I’m sure I look like a fish, mouth gaping open and closed as I try to figure out how to get out of this situation I’ve so stupidly gotten myself into.
“This isn’t happening, is it?” He looks totally put out.
“Sorry,” I say, scrubbing the heels of my hands against my eyes. “Why can’t I get them out of my head?”
His annoyance turns to pity. “Oh honey, trying to fuck someone out of your system never works. The only thing you get rid of is a little jizz.”
I burst out laughing, and he pats my cheek before leaving me alone in the stall. “Good luck,” he says on his way out the door.
“You too.”
7
Mal
I can’t believe I let myself get talked into this dinner party tonight. I was already dreading seeing Parker and Ben, but now I have to put on a happy face when all I want to do is stay in bed. After catching a cab home from The Juarez last night, I slept until noon. That only gave me five hours of proper moping time, which I used to my advantage to catch up on Netflix binging. Now I have to endure nauseating couples, straight boys in denial, and total lushes.
I haven’t heard from Parker in the week since our encounter. Not that I expected him to reach out. I know I was just an experiment, and his radio silence confirmed it. He could have gotten my number from Ben or Craig, or even Zach, if he’d wanted to contact me.