Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63174 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63174 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
He returned my ID and went to get our drinks, and Devon glanced at it and said, “I assumed Kit was short for something.”
“My dad originally planned to name me Cristobal after his father, and Kit was going to be my nickname. But then he decided I should have a name that was all mine, so that’s what he went with.”
It’s cute, and it suits you.”
“Thanks.”
Apparently he’d done some math during that quick glance. As I slipped the card back in my wallet, he said, “You don’t look like you’re twenty-eight. I would have guessed you were a few years younger than me, but we’re almost the same age. I’m twenty-nine.”
“I look younger because I’m short. I’ll probably still get carded when I’m fifty.”
“There are worse things.”
“I know.” I started fidgeting with a cocktail napkin as I attempted to make small talk. “So, how many times have you been to this restaurant?”
“Just that one time, six days ago.”
“You certainly bonded with the owner.”
“He’s a great guy. It was slow, like today, so we had a long talk and he told me all about his kids. He’s very proud of them.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just nodded. When he realized I was about to let the conversation die a painful death, he prompted me with, “Tell me about yourself, Kit Cortez.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Anything and everything. Have you always lived in San Francisco?”
“No. I grew up in San Diego and moved here after I won a national design competition. The prize was a scholarship to a local art college, and I graduated with my degree in fashion design this past June.” Why did I tell him all of that? It sounded like I was bragging.
“Nice! So, is it your dream to see something you designed at a star-studded red carpet event?”
“Not exactly. I make clothes for drag queens, and I guess my dream is to break out of the local market. It would be amazing to see one of my designs on the main stage of RuPaul’s Drag Race, or something along those lines.”
“Very cool. I love drag.”
“You should check out the club where I work,” I said. “It’s one of the oldest drag venues in town, and it’s really fun and welcoming.”
“I will for sure. Do you have a funny drag name, like Barbara Black Sheep or Patty O’Furniture?”
“Did you just make those up?” He nodded, and I said, “Those are excellent names, but no. I don’t perform. Design doesn’t pay the bills, so I work at the club as a bar back, restocking glasses and that kind of thing.”
“But you’ve performed before, right? It’s obvious you’re totally into drag. You light up when you talk about it.”
“I absolutely love it,” I said, “but I’m not a performer. The thought of setting foot on a stage makes me physically ill.”
“If you decide to face your fears, I’ll do it with you. We can put together a sister act or something. It’ll be a blast.” He seemed excited about this, but there was no way it was happening. A lot of my friends in the drag community had tried to get me to perform over the years, but my stage fright ran deep.
A moment later, Eduardo swooped in with our order, along with complementary chips and salsa, and a bowl of guacamole. “The guac is on the house, and I think you’re going to like it,” he told us, before launching into a story about his mother’s famous recipe. I was secretly relieved when he got called away to the kitchen after a minute or two, because I had a feeling that guac story had just been getting started.
Devon raised a toast and said, “To new friends.”
I clinked my glass to his and took a sip of my icy drink before asking, “So, what brought you to San Francisco?”
“I visited a few months ago, during a road trip from Baja to British Columbia. It seemed like an interesting place, so I decided to come back and spend some time here.”
“That must have been an amazing trip.”
“It really was. I love to travel, so I made it my main focus over the last three years.”
“What do you do for a living?”
He shrugged. “I’ve mostly been picking up odd jobs here and there.”
“Is that what you’ll do while you’re here?”
“No. I’m planning to live off my savings.” Devon took a sip of his margarita and added, as casually as if he was talking about the weather, “I want to enjoy the time I have left, since I’ll be dead in less than three months.”
2
Devon
I shouldn’t have dropped that like a grenade into the middle of our conversation. All the color drained from Kit’s face, and he sounded slightly choked when he whispered, “My god. You’re dying?”
“No, sorry. I’m perfectly fine.”