TODAY I WAS RUNNING TO forget.
Sure, maybe it was fun to have a crush. But her hair, and the standing close, and god, we almost kissed. This was real. Not a crush. I knew if things went much further, I’d have to tell her I’m trans—not even for her sake, really, but for mine. It hurts too much to be in relationships where you can only show one part of yourself—I have seventeen years’ worth of proof stockpiled on that. But it would also hurt too much if she decided she didn’t like me if she knew the rest of me.
I picked up my pace, focused on my breathing. In breath. Out breath. In breath. Out breath. Left. Right. Left. Right. My footfalls, light on the pavement, tapping out the beat like a bass line.
I was running to forget about the scent of oranges on her hair and the way our fingers touching sent a jolt through my whole body. I needed to forget because where I was in my life, who I was, I did not have the luxury to be entertaining those thoughts. All that stuff—girls and sex and relationships—could wait. It had to wait. Between Mom and Dad not being able to reach an agreement about me going back to school this year, and Mom still not being able to forgive Dad and me for steamrolling her into signing the stupid paperwork so I could start on hormones, and not to mention the fact that I could barely manage a long-distance friendship with Coleton at the moment, romance—or whatever these feelings were—was the last thing I needed to be thinking about.
Things were too hard right now, too complicated. Judging from my phone call with Dad this morning, I didn’t see things becoming less complicated anytime soon.
Dad: “Are you having a good time there?”
Me: “Yeah. I’ve been driving around a lot. Yesterday I helped Isobel’s neighbor change her bike tires.” (I was careful not to call her by name, or to even call her a friend.)
Dad: “You knew how to do that?”
Me: “Yeah. Besides, her father helped.”
Dad: “Oh.” (Awkward silence.) “How’s that station wagon holding up?”
Me: “Good, I guess.”
Dad: “Good. Do you have enough money left?”
Me: “Yeah. Thanks.”
Dad: “Well, do you want to say hello to your mother? She’s right here.”
Me: “Um.”
Background: (Mom whispers “No,” repeats “I said no,” then silence.)
Dad: “Chris? You know what, you just missed her.”
Me: “Oh.”
Dad: “Listen, why don’t we give you a call later?”
Me: “All right.”
Dad: “Wait, Chris? Are you there?”
Me:
I was running to forget not only this crush on Maia, but a whole array of other things: like me being in Carson, me being the thing that was driving my parents apart—me being stuck in between who I was and who I wanted to be.
I didn’t want temporary anything; I didn’t want something in between. I didn’t want casual. I didn’t want any more lies or hiding.
The toe of my sneaker caught on a loose chunk of pavement. I tripped and stumbled forward but caught myself. I tried to keep moving, but it was too late, I’d lost my balance.
I was going down.
In slow motion.
Falling.
I put my hands out just in time and came down hard on my wrists.
I saw the blood on the pavement before I felt the searing pain igniting different parts of my body at once. The palm of my left hand, my right elbow. Both of my knees.
“Shit,” I hissed.
“Fuck!” I yelled.
I limped home. I wasn’t hurt too bad, I knew that. It was all superficial. I’d be fine in a couple of days, but damn it stung.