Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 101168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
It had happened before. Cute, sweet, cis gay guys who thought Jamie was hot but turned out not to want a relationship with a nonbinary person. It stung, but not as much as it would after two or three dates.
The bartender slid a ginger ale and Moscow mule across the bar top and only charged them for the cocktail. Jamie thanked her, tipped for both drinks, and made their way back to Edgar.
It was a warm night, and the cold drinks felt good in their hands.
Edgar had chosen a table in the farthest corner, next to a small fountain and half-hidden by huge potted ferns. Careful not to startle him, Jamie approached by skirting the edge of the patio. They needn’t have bothered though, because Edgar had his chair pushed so tight against the fountain that nothing could sneak up on him except a shower.
They handed him the ginger ale and sat down.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
They sat quietly for a minute, sipping their drinks.
Jamie said, “So. This thing that you don’t wanna talk about.”
Edgar tensed.
“Are you physically safe? Like, do you need medical assistance or anything?”
Edgar shook his head, looking mortified. He was quiet so long that Jamie thought he wasn’t going to respond. They decided they had about five minutes, or the time it’d take to drink one drink, before they needed to bounce and nurse their disappointment.
But then Edgar said, “I’m not trying to be mysterious. It’s just…I can’t really explain.”
“Well, you are,” Jamie said. They were hit with a wave of exhaustion as disappointment replaced excitement. “Listen, Edgar, I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you tonight. But if you’re not interested, please tell me. It’s… I get that it can be awkward to let someone down, but it’s so much kinder, honestly, than—”
Edgar grabbed Jamie’s hand in both of his. His fingertips were cold from the icy glass, and a shiver ran through Jamie despite the heat.
“I’m interested,” Edgar said quickly. “I had a really good time. Before the…anyway. But I don’t know if…I’m just not sure I’m any good for you.”
Jamie sighed. That was such a classic cop-out.
“What about you do you think would be bad for me?” they asked.
Edgar blinked. “I…can’t tell you?”
Jamie got up. “Okay, I get it.” They didn’t know what they got precisely, but they knew this move. This was the I-don’t-want-to-be-the-bad-guy-so-I’m-going-to-make-you-do-it move.
The scrape of a chair, and then Edgar’s hand closed on their elbow.
“Wait, please,” he said, eyes darting around anxiously.
“Dude. This is officially not feeling good to me. You get, like, one more sentence, and then I’m gonna go.”
The part of Jamie that was crushing on Edgar hoped that he would find the one perfect sentence that would convince them to stay.
And for a moment, Edgar looked like he was going to oblige. He opened his mouth, his eyes wide and panicked, as if he too were searching for that one perfect sentence. Jamie waited, their heart poised on the precipice, ready to be scooped into Edgar’s arms or tumble over into the free fall of disappointment.
“I’m sorry,” Edgar whispered.
9
Edgar
Edgar’s best friend died when he was twelve, and it was all Edgar’s fault.
No one would admit it. Quite the contrary, in fact. They all insisted it was a terrible, tragic accident. They said it when the paramedics came and at the hospital, when Edgar wouldn’t let go of Antoine’s hand. They said it at his funeral and the wake that followed. All these brokenhearted adults, unable to see the truth.
But Edgar knew. He knew it was his fault the same way he knew that he was in love with Antoine—a bone-deep feeling that no adult logic could shake.
Antoine and his older sister, Cameron, had always been there, two doors down. Cameron was Allie’s age, Antoine was his, and Poe toddled around after them, generally happy to be included, even when they ordered him around. The five of them had been inseparable.
Somewhere along the way, Edgar realized he felt differently about Antoine than Allie seemed to feel about Cameron. He loved the way Antoine’s clever hands turned dandelions to flower crowns as they sat sprawled lazily in the summer grass, reading comic books and planning their own. The way his warm brown skin drank in the sun and his thick lashes fluttered as he drifted off to sleep. That he moved worms off the sidewalk after it rained to keep them from being stepped on.
How he never—not one time—made Edgar feel like a freak.
Antoine and Cameron had understood that the Lovejoys would always rather hang out at their house than at their own. They’d been privy to enough fights between Edgar’s parents to understand why. Analytical Cameron had applied her belief in scientific principles to the matter, but Antoine accepted ghosts the way he did a retconned plot in a comic book—it was just the new normal, and he didn’t want to waste any time dwelling on what used to be.