Lonely Hearts (18 page)

“You know it
wasn't
your fault, Elijah. None of it.”

Elijah cocked an eyebrow at him. “I wasn't a saint, Pastor.”

“You were a child.” He paused, then added carefully, “You were grieving.”

Elijah averted his gaze again and gripped his arms, hugging them to his body.

They'd never talked about Mark before, Elijah's brother who had been killed in action in Afghanistan. A minute ago Elijah would have declared he didn't want to talk about Mark. He wasn't sure he wanted to now, but he did anyway.

“They told me it was my fault he died.”

Elijah felt like he'd been electrified, admitting that. Hot, cold, naked, sick. The way Pastor's body language became tense and angry didn't help, even though intellectually he knew Schulz was about to get angry on Elijah's behalf.

“Elijah.” Pastor's voice was tight, tense, like he was trying to be neutral but couldn't quite make it. “Elijah, there's absolutely no way that's true. It was utterly cruel and abusive of your parents to say such things to you. It would be at any age, but at
ten
, it's criminal.”

They hadn't said it when Elijah was ten. They'd said it later, when he came out. But then, he supposed they
had
blamed him indirectly when Mark was killed. They blamed the gays for everything starting from that moment. And at that moment, Elijah had known he was gay.

It was all abruptly too much, and Elijah shook his head as he shrank into the chair. “I don't want to talk about this anymore.”

“That's perfectly fine. If I may, though, I'd like to keep pressing you on the issue of feeling unworthy. Do you feel that way with Sebastian?”

“Sort of. He confuses me. I mean, I know I push people away, hurting them first so they can't hurt me. I'm trying not to do that with most people, but I can't stop with him. I want—” He stopped, shut his eyes and swallowed before he could continue. “I want…him. A lot. I maybe get a few good tries at not preemptively attacking him, and I fail…but he actually gets
more
aggressive then. The more I try to run, the more he wants me. I feel like he's led me way out into the deep water where I can't swim, and any second he'll leave me to drown.”

“What in the deep water makes you so scared?”

It was a raging sea of terrible darkness in his mind. Huge, black, stormy. The emotion shafted him like cold light. “Loneliness. The water is full of loneliness.”

“And yet you keep telling me you deliberately keep yourself lonely so people can't hurt you. You say you fear being alone, but the practical effect of Baz leaving you, given what you admit to doing to people close to you, is that he would only make your heart aware of a state you actively court.”

Pastor's observation rang in Elijah's brain all the rest of the day. He'd grown accustomed to feeling like a peeled grape after therapy, but this time was particularly bad. He'd cried at the end of his appointment, and Pastor had encouraged him to call in to work. He'd dropped heavy hints Liz would be happy to accept his help with the baking and would feed him dinner. Elijah refused, not because he didn't want to snuggle on Liz's oh-so-comfortable shoulder, but because he wasn't calling in sick because
sad pants
. He did chain-smoke up and down the block past the campus no-smoking zone, in the hour between his appointment and the start of his shift. When he came in the service door to the cafeteria, he smelled like a stale bar and had to drink three glasses of water to repair his throat.

Lewis, punching into the time clock ahead of him, gave Elijah a small smile and a wave.

He'd gotten to know Lewis a little bit more after the chicken-can day. They weren't exactly besties or anything, but they'd come to a comfortable companionship at work. Smoking together, helping each other when they got stuck with a shit job. A few times Elijah had considered asking him if he wanted to do something after their shift, but he'd always chickened out.

That day they ended up both assigned to the front end, which Elijah thought was a lovely kick in the ass from the gods. He and Lewis were both runners, in charge of making sure the servers had adequate stock and the salad bars and do-it-yourself stir-fry had sufficient ingredients. This meant bobbing and weaving around chatting sorority sisters and head-butting
bros
from the football team, and from the latter especially, occasional under-breath murmurs about his orientation. Elijah had long practice ignoring this flavor of bullshit, staving most of it off with his not simply resting but
fucking active
bitch face.

What he had no defenses for was what happened when that commentary was directed at Lewis.

It would
help
if Lewis didn't hang a sign around his neck. Elijah hadn't figured out yet if it was legit gender dysphoria or part of a fucked-over attention/martyr complex, but whatever Lewis was working, it came with a spotlight. Today it was a
Kiki's Delivery Service
“I Can Fly On My Own” raglan tee, which was feminine enough, but then Lewis had sewed goddamned lace around the neckline. Why the hell he was wearing lace to work in food service was anybody's guess, but that's the choice he'd made when getting dressed today. Probably he'd felt the pink polka-dotted hair bow and girls Hello Kitty shoes needed company. Oh, and pink lipstick and magenta eyeliner. Let's not forget that.

Elijah didn't give a shit what Lewis wanted to wear, but the guy might as well have put himself on a golf tee and handed the
bros
a bag of clubs. He dressed so no one would ignore him, and so nobody did. He didn't simply parade his fabulous, either. Twice Elijah had caught him deliberately lingering over a tray of olives, crossing his ankles and sliding a shoe up his shin. It was half ballet, half Lolita, and it fucking worked.
Elijah
tripped at the genderfuck. Whatever game Lewis was playing, he was bringing it.

The rest of the dining hall felt otherwise. Girls at best exchanged knowing looks or giggled at Elijah, but for Lewis, they'd turn on the bitch and be cruel. The guys all but got their dicks out to piss on him.
Faggot
got tossed a few times, but it was clear they felt this dagger wasn't enough. They quickly shifted to
fucking freak
instead. It got to the point Elijah was queasy every time he went out to the salad bar because the atmosphere was electrically charged. It might or might not have been a real risk, but it
felt
as if the dining hall patrons were ready and willing to riot.

In hindsight, Elijah should have seen it coming. It was right out of an 80s teen flick, after all. But Elijah didn't realize what the blunt-nosed football player intended to do with the tray of pickled beets until the dick hefted it out of the salad bar, and even if he'd stood next to Lewis instead of behind the serving counter, at best Elijah could have taken the hit with him. He could only watch the fuchsia-tinted water and sand-dollar-sized slices of purple vegetable rain over Lewis's head.

The hair bow bent and sagged to the side. His carefully arranged hair went flat and covered his face. The robin's-egg-blue shirt and ivory lace dripped hot pink, and Elijah's brain helpfully supplied a memory of helping his mother can beets, running upstairs to change his shirt after she scolded him, saying the shirt was new, and she wasn't having him wreck it with a stain.

Beet juice never comes out.

Lewis's clothes were ruined. But the stain Elijah knew he'd never wash out of his own brain was the laughter. The
applause
. The whole fucking cafeteria—patrons, serving staff, the
goddamned student manager
—standing in a ring around bedraggled, humiliated Lewis.

Elijah's heartbeat pulsed in his ears. Or maybe it wasn't his heart. Maybe
he
pulsed like a nuclear sub, about to explode. His therapy appointment tickled the edge of his consciousness again, and he imagined Lewis dog-paddling in his own black water, fearing not only loneliness but
sharks
. Standing in a circle, watching him bleed out, in no hurry to move in for the kill.

The pulse in Elijah's head broke, spraying no innocent beet juice but
blood-red rage
over him.

Fuck this. Fuck this in the fucking face.

Tearing off his apron, he chucked it at the student manager. He shoved his way past the serving station, put an arm around Lewis and aimed him hard and fast for the exit.

“Bye, faggots,” somebody called.

Without turning around, Elijah aimed a middle finger in the general direction of the cafeteria as he slammed open the door to the outside patio with his shoulder.

Chapter Fourteen

Elijah got about five steps before he discovered the fatal flaw in his impulsive act to rescue Lewis. Now that he'd tossed a buoy to a drowning victim, he needed to get them both to shore.

Lewis's hazel eyes brimmed with tears, but not one of them fell. The cords in his neck throbbed with tension, and the veins of his arms bulged as if the beet bucket had been laced with steroids. Below a trim, pert nose stained with splotches of hot pink, Lewis's nostrils flared, then contracted. His hands clenched into fists. His jaw trembled, a tremulous fault set to blow. But Lewis held the line, all the way around the union to the street leading away from campus.

Elijah didn't know where to take him. What to ask. What to do. What to fucking
say
.

Since waiting for Lewis to initiate something was clearly not an option, and everywhere Elijah looked was a possible land mine, he decided he'd call in reinforcements. Except when he pulled out his phone and opened the texting app, he had no idea who to aim the bat signal at. He'd call Mina, but she'd gone last-minute shopping with her parents. Aaron and Giles were doing music camp.

Elijah's options dwindled to one.

His finger hovered over Baz's name, but he couldn't press the touchscreen. Putting the phone away, he rationalized his cold feet. Baz couldn't come pick them up anyway. Elijah would walk Lewis to the White House, and if Baz happened to be there…

Stomach lurching, he fumbled for his cigarettes which, as had become his new rule-breaking habit, he'd “forgotten” to take out of his pocket and leave in his locker. Lighting two, he passed one over to Lewis.

Lewis accepted it. The juice on his arms had faded to pink streaks. His jaw trembled as he started to smoke, but it gentled slightly as he took a second hit.

Elijah smoked beside him in silence for half a block. He felt like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs, both for the situation he'd saddled himself with and for the Baz-bomb waiting for him at the White House. He wasn't sure what he thought about God, but in that moment he prayed mostly there was someone,
something
up there willing to help.

Please.
He shut his eyes as long as he dared without tripping over the uneven sidewalk.
Please, please tell me what to do. Help me figure out what to say. How to help. How to help him feel less alone.

Maybe there really was a god or goddess listening—or Elijah was a hell of a lot smarter than he knew. He didn't plan the words. They formed in his mind, accompanied by a great white wave of peace and certainty. Because every time he thought
him
in reference to Lewis, it felt wrong. Lewis as a name felt wrong. The person performing gender
fuck-you
wasn't making a social statement. The bow and the lace and the pink were as personal as the can of beets that had ruined them. Those feminine movements hadn't been taunts. They'd been tentative steps. Territory staked and claimed.

The last whispers of doubt died as Elijah pieced together what he'd grown to know, what he'd witnessed, what he'd observed. “What's your name? Your real name?”

It wasn't the question he'd planned to ask, but it worked. It made Lewis pause, almost tripping on the sidewalk. He took a long, slow drag as he recovered, staring straight ahead as a few tears escaped. “I was…thinking…Layla.”

Elijah tried it out.
Lay-la.
“It's a good one.”

“I'd spell it L-E-J-L-A. The Bosnian version. Inspired by the supermodel Andreja Pejic. She's Serbian, but it's close enough it feels right.” A glance, a sigh, some of the tension cracking away to reveal tenderness. “Because I'm trans. Like she is.”

Elijah thanked whatever deity was guiding him for also inspiring Mina to have left a pile of GLAAD pamphlets on the kitchen table. “What pronoun should I use for you?”

More tears, and a quivering lip. But fucking hell, Lewis or Lejla or whoever this was—they were strong. “I…I don't know. Sh—she, but not…” Steel returned with a jerked thumb toward the dining hall. “I want to be out. But I think I suck at it.”

Funny. In the cafeteria, Elijah would have agreed. But walking here, now, he couldn't. How the fuck
did
somebody come out as trans, anyway? It wasn't about who you flirted with on the dance floor or walked down the aisle with. It was about who you fucking
were
. It wasn't putting on drag. It was God putting it on
you
without your consent. Elijah had never understood being trans, had frankly been glad to keep his distance because he had his own shit.

But he'd never wash out those beets.

When Lewis/Lejla ground out a butt into the sidewalk, Elijah passed over the pack and the lighter. The White House loomed a few blocks away, but Elijah could see the roof, the window of his own room. Was Baz there? What would he do? How should Elijah explain this?

He motioned for the cigarettes.

They both finished their second one as they crossed the street, but as Elijah aimed his charge at the front door, he met resistance. “What—? The
White House
? Why are you taking me here?”

“I thought you'd like to clean up. This is my— I live here.”

Elijah might as well have asked his guest to strip naked and go back to the cafeteria. “I can't go in
there
!”

Help. Mina. Aaron. Giles. Anybody.
“Why not? Nobody's home.” Except maybe Baz.

“Are you fucking insane? The cool kids live in the White House. You want them to see me like this?”

Cool kids? Elijah stood there, mouth opening and closing as Lewis/Lejla backed into a bush, ready to run. Elijah covered the sidewalk, trying to cut off the path to campus, but that left the way past the garage and into a depressed housing development wide open. Elijah tried to think of something reassuring to say, but he had nothing. All he could do was watch as his friend broke away from the shrubbery and bolted the other direction.

But the gods were still with Elijah because a new figure stepped onto the path. As Baz cried out, “Whoa, there,” and steadied the escapee, speaking calmly and soothingly, Elijah felt foolish for thinking Baz would ever have done anything but.

Baz didn't know what was going on, but he knew he was determined to make whatever had upset Elijah go away.

“Hey—slow down. It's okay. Everything's going to be okay.” Whoever had run into him was shaking, almost crying. To Elijah, Baz asked, “What's going on?”
Please toss me a bone here, baby.

Elijah wrapped his arms around himself. “This is Lejla. She—”

“
Lewis.
” The individual in Baz's grip tensed like a cork ready to pop before glancing away, face burning with shame. “Not…here.”

Elijah recoiled as if slapped, and he tossed Baz a begging glance.

Okay. So they were both out of their depth.

“Let's go inside. Get you cleaned up.”
And while you're in the shower, I'm getting an earful from Elijah.

Eyes sealing shut, Lejla/Lewis shuddered. “I just want to go home.”

“Where's home, sugar?”

“Titus. Third floor.” Nostrils flared. “Fuck, I can't go there like this. They've probably heard. They'll all laugh.”

“Come inside and clean up first. Take a long shower. We'll find you some new clothes.”

For reasons unknown, Lejla/Lewis did
not
want to go into the White House, but once Elijah played wingman, the two of them got their guest into the house, up the stairs and into the shower, with Baz's robe hanging on the wall to wear after until they sorted out the clothes thing. As soon as the water began running, Baz caught Elijah's elbow and pulled him into the hall. He didn't have to prompt Elijah for a thing, because as soon as he closed the door, his lover sang like a canary.

“Oh my
fucking God
, Baz, I didn't—” Elijah wore a wild, injured-pissed look as he gestured toward campus. “They dumped
fucking beets on his head
.” He stopped, faltering. “I mean—
her
head.” He wilted. “I don't know what to call him. Her. Them. He was always Lewis, but today he came all girled up, more than usual, and I had this weird religious thing on the way here, and I asked his name, and he said Lejla, and I asked what pronoun, and…” He sagged down the wall. “I don't know. I probably fucked up.”

Baz crouched in front of Elijah, taking his hand. “Baby,
who
dumped beets on Lejla?”

Elijah stared off in the distance, gaze going hard. “Asshole in the cafeteria. Football fuckwad. Everybody laughed.
Everybody.
”

“Not you.”

Elijah slumped forward. “I had to help. But I don't know what to do. I don't know. I suck.”

“You're doing fine. More than fine.” He cupped Elijah's shoulder and ran a hand down his back. “You did good.”

“I didn't do anything.”

“Something tells me Lejla would argue otherwise.”

Elijah tensed. “Baz,
what do I call her?
”

“Your friend.” Baz kissed his forehead. “Come on. Let's find some clothes.”

Elijah resumed his freakout because he didn't know what clothes to find, girl or guy clothes. Baz wanted to hug him and point out
that
kind of detail orientation
was doing something
. He'd figured out praising Elijah wasn't calming him down, though, so he redirected to the task.

“Let's start with something unisex, like sweats and a T-shirt.”

“But what about underwear?
What about underwear?
”

Baz ducked into the room long enough to scoop his key ring off his dresser and tossed it at Elijah. “Go to Target. Buy guy's underwear size medium. Girl's underwear size…” He paused, shrugged. “Get something that would fit you if you were a bit taller, with some room to eat a big lunch. Lean on sweats and yoga pants.” He passed over a fifty from his wallet, added another couple more for good measure.

Elijah stared at the money for several seconds, still half-crazed. Then he let the air out of his lungs in a rush, took the money and wrapped his arms around Baz.

Baz returned the embrace hesitantly. It was, despite living together and fucking at least twice a day, possibly their most intimate moment yet. Elijah's most honest, vulnerable offering of affection.

So why did Baz feel awkward about it?

He accepted the kiss a lot more easily, moving past the hump of awkward into wanting to linger and enjoy the feeling of holding his boyfriend more. But Elijah murmured “I better go” against his cheek, and Baz had to relinquish him so he could disappear down the stairs.

Alone in his bedroom, Baz lounged on the bed, browsing social media without reading it, perking up only when Elijah arrived at the store and began lobbing questions at him. Long after the shower stopped, the bathroom door stayed closed. Baz passed the time fielding panicked Elijah texts and photos about what shirt was better and how girly should the underwear be. When the bathroom door creaked open, Baz turned to see his guest framed by the doorway to his bedroom.

While Baz wasn't exactly awash in trans acquaintances, he knew enough people who identified as other than their birth sex to understand there was no look or identifying feminine or masculine tendency making somebody obvious. Gender identity was way too personal. That said, he'd be damned if Lewis-Lejla wasn't the most androgynous figure he'd seen in some time, especially sporting shower-slick hair. Even the Adam's apple wasn't much of anything to write home about. Passing wouldn't be terribly difficult, with the right accessories. The eyebrows could use some shaping. Longer hair would go a long way toward increasing a feminine appearance. The shoulders would always be broad. But overall? He could see Lejla. Maybe it was the suggestion, maybe it was her projecting through.

The question was, what did the person inside that body see?

Baz tried to strike the balance between overeager and disinterested. He saluted instead of shook hands, not wanting to crowd. “Baz Acker. Nice to meet you.”

The Adam's apple shifted on a hard swallow. “I—I'm…Lewis.” Lewis made a brief face, as if tasting something bad. “I…I don't know what Elijah told you, but I'm…Lewis. At least to the outside. What I told him, about Lejla…he took me off-guard.”

“I'm fine either way, for the record. Fine with one identity in one place, a different one in another.” When red-rimmed eyes teared up, Baz winced and held up a hand. “Or not. Lewis is fine, if that's what you want.”

Lewis put a hand in his hair, face turned away in mortification. “I can't believe this is happening. I walk by and wish I were cool enough to live here, and now I'm standing in your bathrobe wondering if I got all the beet juice out of my hair.”

“For the record, the dickwad who gave you the beet bath would be happy to do the same to me. I get out of it because people know I have a closet full of lawyers and the money to pay them.” He pulled out a chair and gestured to it as he perched on the footboard of the bed. “Sit. Tell me your story. Or, if you'd rather rest, I'll bug out of here.”

“You can…stay.” The chair was accepted, hesitantly. Legs were tucked up, revealing them to be clean-shaven. “I don't have a story. I'm a girl, but I have a dick. I know I'm trans, but…” Lip in teeth, gaze averted. “I've never come out to anyone before Elijah. I feel weird. I'm happy and sick at the same time.”

“You can be out or in. You can bob and weave. I don't think there are any rules except for what you make them.”

His guest said nothing, and Baz let the silence build, unconcerned. It took another full minute, almost, but eventually Lewis/Lejla spoke. “There
are
rules, because I'm always breaking them. Everybody laughs at the way I dress, unless I dress boring or like a guy.
Then
guys tease me for being a fag. Which sucks, because I'm not gay. But it's a double slap, because first I have to wear things that feel wrong, and I have to be teased for being what I'm not at the same time.”