Shaawan francis keahna
shadowboxing, or, all this and more in less than a year
Shame fell away from me in onion sheafs. Underneath was more shame, more anger, more bitterness. I bit back tears. I would not cry, not to Wolves in the Throne Room, not here, not in public. I don’t know where I got the idea that Ryan didn’t love me anymore. It had gone from an insecurity to an inevitable truth. In my head, I railed against it. I spat, argued, swore, and I said irredeemable things, things no one could come back from. My eyes shut tight as I let the fits run their course. When I opened them, his—what? —girlfriend? Boyfriend? My replacement? Or just Lee. Pretty little Lee. Was staring right at me like a dog who’d shit the carpet and now waited for punishment. They did not smile at me. Their bottom lip trembled. Ryan wrapped his arms around them, squeezed one of their breasts and let go. My inferiority superiority complex curled in the hollow of my chest and hardened me to their endless bountiful youth, their abundant possibilities. You’re braver than I ever was, I thought. You’re better than me in every possible way.
For a moment, I recalled a time before everything. When I’d told Ryan who he was and how I saw him, and he said he’d reciprocate my words if the romantic kernel hadn’t hardened and died within him. Kernel. Mine felt the same. Those pieces of microwave popcorn that don’t ever, will never pop. Useless to try, you’ll just burn the whole bag. All of this was so stupid. I knew he wasn’t mine to keep. I knew I didn’t want to keep him, not like that. Or did I? Hadn’t I been the one to follow him to Baltimore, start my life over in his orbit? Done what I never would have done as a woman, done it all in a heartbeat as a man. Because I could. Because I can. Because I’m entitled, because I want what I want, and I’ll have it.
When we got back to his place, he told me Wolves in the Throne Room had forced him to confront his thoughts, too. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s not, but you know.” I knew. His disdain for pity was irreproachable to me. I had the same hatred. That’s what drew me to love him in the first place. I could tell him about the worst thing in the world happened to me and trust he wouldn’t make it worse by whining, “oh, Fran…” the way everyone else seemed to. He would sit with me in silence or hold me if it was extra bad, but not too tight. Or he’d laugh; we both would.
In bed, we didn’t fit. We didn’t really reach for each other. A wall built itself between us when we weren’t looking. I pretended not to care. I tossed and turned and tried to sleep. His quiet voice chastised me, “You need to get better at sleeping.” I almost shot back, “I can’t sleep alone,” but I stopped. Just because something is true doesn’t mean you should say it. Instead, I reached over the wall and through the miasma of my own discomfort and squeezed him. I thought about how many times I’d telepathically promised to always protect him. I’ll never let anything happen to you.
The moment I stopped struggling, sleep took me. I woke to Ryan above me, fully clothed, readying himself to do what he always does: lowering onto me for one last kiss and cuddle before he goes to work. This time, he tripped and fell and missed my face completely. The surprised O of his mouth would have been cute if not for the wall, the ghosts of all unsaid. He tried to laugh. Though it was Monday, and they lived in the County, I was suddenly frightened--was Lee out there? Were they the source of Ryan’s sheepish grin? But no, he scrambled to his feet, told me to lock the door behind me when I leave.
That had been Lee and I’s first encounter. Summer’s end, my eyes swollen shut, my body stifled with inflammation, I’d awoken to Ryan on top of me, coaxing me awake. Despite my illness, I roused to him, and he shook his head. His hot breath in my ear, “Lee’s here.” Nothing more. No preparation. Just, hey, the pretty theyfab I’ve been fucking raw while you’re away in the living room. See you out there, champ.
We’d texted on occasion, Lee and I. I’d wanted to like them, maybe. Maybe I wanted to be good at this whole non-monogamy thing, maybe I wanted to be the best, but they seemed so young and fragile, by Ryan’s account. I’ve never been good at walking on eggshells, and this was what Ryan wished of me. Be nice to them, he’d said. Be gentle. This was how I came to know myself, to know Lee through myself. I was a monstrous, intimidating male, loping and violent in my huge, brown body, and they were a pretty little femme, delicate. Prone to hysterics. Nearly a foot shorter than me, and upwardly mobile—they worked for Johns Hopkins. I was unemployed, uneducated, and unambitious. Basically, everything Ryan hated, though God knew he loved me. How much longer I remained in his grace depended on this first impression. On how I treated Lee. Not how Lee treated me. My comfort didn’t matter. It hadn’t mattered in the past, not with the other girls he fucked and discarded the moment I reached for him. They were non-entities. This Lee character was different. Ryan adored them.
Out on the couch curled five feet and three inches of firm, freckled flesh. In the midday light, they glowed, their pixie cut a halo of crimson. They didn’t meet my eyes, not initially. I filled the room, broad shoulders, slow, heavy steps. I breathed carefully, raking my eyes up and down their tiny form. Something stirred in me then, angry and insistent. A short huff through my flared nostrils and I turned it over, sickened. I’d never been good at hiding my feelings, Ryan had always known, and he watched my lips twist into a sneer before I forced a more neutral frown.
I caught the look of devastation in Ryan’s eyes before he contained himself. This is gonna suck. Ryan sat on one couch, far from Lee, who finally looked at me with a nervous smile. “Right, so,” Ryan started, “what we’re working on right now is our character sheets—” Ryan’s home was a mess. Lee had a pile of books on their lap and colored with markers --like a child, I thought, sanctimonious and defensive—where they sat on a fuzzy blue throw absolutely covered in cat hair. No amount of natural light could fix the haphazard energy of the space. I need to get the hell out of here. Ryan murmured something to Lee, and they snorted, but we still hadn’t said a word to each other. Was that my fault or theirs?
In the kitchen, we finally sort of interacted, but Lee smiled at Ryan when I made them laugh, not me. They were on their tippy toes, the oversized sweater I’d always begged Ryan to let me borrow hanging off of their tiny frame. He’d never let me have it, told me it was totally off limits. Yet here Lee stood, vibrant and happy and wearing what I’d never been allowed. I quirked my lips in an imitation grin, then, huffing again. I knew everything about me signaled mean girl, the old prom queen I’d been before the amnesia, before the testosterone and the celibacy and the top surgery and—
Ryan walked me to my car.
“I live here now,” I said, as much to fill the space as to keep my heart from breaking.
“You live here now,” Ryan repeated. “Come over, uh, yeah. Come over anytime.”
And I knew I wouldn’t. I had been kicked from my own nest.
We argued over text a few days later. Ryan’s mother was in town, and he wanted to bring her and I to the State Fair at Lutherville Timonium, which sounded to me like a lost circle of Hell. He’d gone the day prior with Lee.
And is Lee going with you and your mom?
Yeah.
I blew up at him. Told him I can’t keep hanging out with him if Lee’s also going to be there, hanging off his hip, being beautiful and socially acceptable. Being the partner, he’d never allow me to be to him. Being the girl. Told him if he expected me to have some kind of intimacy with Lee, he had another thing coming.
I didn’t, he texted back, shocked. I don’t expect you to be with Lee.
All the wind left me, then, and I buried my face in my lumpy pillow. Apartment hunting had left me the guest room in my Auntie’s home in Silver Spring, with its creaky mattress and feather pillows poking me in the face all night. I knew I was being unreasonable. But that stir remained, this sense of ungrounding whenever I thought of Lee. I hated it. I hated the feeling, whatever it was, and I needed to push it out on all sides, to keep it at bay in any and every way. And no threesome bullshit, I shot off, throwing my phone.
Summer turned to autumn. Sometimes Lee told Ryan they couldn’t sleep with him anymore, and Ryan would relay this information to me with the same irritation a frat boy might tell his brothers about a particularly prudish girl, as if I’d sympathize with him. During these dry spells, he’d run and bury himself in me. Hope welled up in my chest. Drowned out my jealousy.
Rueful over my outburst, I agreed to accompany the happy couple to Fells Point Fun Fest. We’d arrive early so Ryan could go to Goodwill, and I could emotionally regulate in anticipation of Lee’s company. We grabbed a few things for the house and spilled out onto Broadway. Soon, the entire neighborhood crowded around pop country sensation and Baltimore local Brittney Spencer as she debuted a few singles off her upcoming album, My Stupid Life. Lee was among them—I spotted their fresh burgundy buzzcut and that fucking sweater, pink and pilled from too many washes. I was wearing my favorite sweater at the time, too, a bright orange Tide Pod parody that said “Native Vibes” I’d bought at a powwow two summers prior.
“There,” I said, pointing with my lips at where Lee danced with a beautiful older woman. She stared at them, enamored, her highlights glimmering in the sun as she spun them round and round. They threw their head back and laughed bigger than I’d ever seen, their cherubic lips split open to reveal a wet, pink tongue, which they passed over their sharp teeth once. They still hadn’t spotted us. I began to wonder if this was who they really were, outside of our dysfunction. Bright and magnetic.
“You’re so good,” Ryan said. “You’ve got laser eyes for that little bald head.” I shivered. No. I was just tall, with perfect vision. He could have asked me to find anyone, and I would have found them. Lee wasn’t special.
“I’ll go get them,” I murmured, pushing Ryan’s cloying grip from my arm. Brittney Spencer’s voice was bombastic, her body gorgeous clad in a modern country star’s getup—cowgirl boots, sure, but also a flattering tank top and short skirt. She shook her hair and wailed into the microphone about how she’s got time today. Lee danced in the very front, cordoned off from the rest of the crowd by a rapt audience and a few traffic cones. When they saw me, their smile faltered, but their feet stayed true. Stomp, kick, spin. Facing me again, they broke out in a wild smile and grabbed me by the wrist, pulling me in. The woman they’d been dancing with before returned to her husband and cheered.
“This next song is the title of my new album,” Brittney Spencer announced. “It’s called ‘My Stupid Life.’ Here we go. One, two—”
Swept up in the beat, the lyrics, the sunshine and the adoring gazes of the audience, I let Lee guide my footfalls. My heart hammered hard in my chest, slammed against the box I’d been shoving all my strange feelings into, everything that didn’t fit in hatred but led me to scathe Lee’s existence anyways. Every kick, spin, wherever our feet met and fell apart, our hands in midair, their eyes on the ground, then on me, everything threatened to open the box. I smiled despite myself and saw a flash—one of the event photographers had caught us mid-flight.
We returned to Ryan as Brittney’s set came to a close. He’d met up with a few of our other friends. It was time to find food and beverages. My high shattered as I watched Lee press a quick kiss to Ryan’s shoulder before they scampered away, off on another side-quest. I couldn’t tell if I wanted them to stay close or go farther. Uncertainty put me off balance and I spent the rest of the day seething, clinging to Ryan until he pushed me away, too.
Come October, I had a beautiful home in Bolton Hill and what felt like an endless capacity for shallow hedonism. Lee’s place at Ryan’s side seemingly secured, I swiped on Tinder with renewed fervor. Looking for a replacement or at least a Band-Aid. We still went out together, the three of us plus Gretchen, the socially inept Millennial nurse Ryan had been banging for the two miserable months before Lee came to town. Sometimes I stayed the night. Very seldom Lee,
though Ryan often wished they would. When Lee and I formed what felt like an alliance, uneasy, silent, and colder than anything I’d ever held for anyone, Gretchen stopped attending shows. Good riddance. If it ever came down to a toss-up between Gretchen and Lee for Ryan’s frigid little heart, I would have picked Lee a thousand times over. Regardless of my feelings for (against) them, they were exuberant, joyful, present and a good listener, all things Gretchen seemed to be allergic to.
Dyke Nite was a regular themed event held at the Ottobar in Charles Village. On Ryan’s couch, I got a text from Lee inviting me. They’d cover my ticket. It had been a long time since I thought of myself as a lesbian, but I still femmed up for the hell of it, pouring all six plus feet of me into a leather top and short shorts while I rouged and smoldered my face into submission. We were tangled up, Ryan and I, and his hazel eyes scrutinized me, unblinking, while I considered my response.
“They don’t talk,” I said.
“You have to ask them questions,” said Ryan. “They’re not like us, they won’t just start rambling out of nowhere.”
“I’m not good at asking questions,” I pouted.
“Me neither,” said Ryan. “But… try?”
Sure, I texted back, I’d love to :)
I didn’t spend the night with Ryan, still sore from when he’d forgotten to tell me he and Lee were back on again. At the door, I traced the curve of his cheek with my hand, leaned in, kissed him goodnight and thought about all the Tinder matches I was ignoring.
The short drive from Ryan’s apartment in Fells to mine in Bolton Hill felt so cinematic and peaceful this late. Our city’s lights glittered as I rose onto the interstate, skimming over empty concrete and asphalt, the night breeze imbued with sweetness. I’d always put on Graveyard Club, murmuring along with the faux-British lilt as I pled with my lover to understand the full extent of my unspoken grief.
In my four-poster canopy bed, I worked myself, trying hard not to picture anyone at all. I slept in well past noon and woke to a text from Lee I’d received at around eight in the morning--this is the second time you’ve entered my dreams!
My stomach flipped and I put my phone down. We’re not dealing with that anytime soon. But after coffee and a meager “breakfast,” I couldn’t hold back.
It was probably not me, I texted, feeling cruel and ungrateful.
We made an appearance at Ryan’s Halloween party, which he’d scheduled the same night as Dyke Nite. I’d decided to dress as Laurel Hell, the Mitski album Ryan always put on my tape player whenever he visited. “The Only Heartbreaker” became synonymous with him, with us, with this horrible all-take no-give thing we kept corralled and well-fed.
I hated Ryan’s friends. Well, not really. I hated being around Ryan’s friends. I hated being what I was to him in their presence. How I was the odd one out, and wouldn’t it make more sense just to call us what we were, so they’d quit looking at me like that? Everybody else was Hopkins—master's students, PhD candidates, lab techs and researchers. Hopkins squares and their equally square partners, smiles plastered on their faces whenever I walk in. My insecurities filled in the blanks. Here comes the guy Ryan won’t let go of, everybody. Here comes his emotional support flunky, the forgotten actor with the failed modeling career who does God knows-what all day. It didn’t help my case, Lee clocking in alongside them from nine to five. And it certainly didn’t help me any whenever Ryan would say, grimacing like a chimpanzee, “No, no, this is Frankie. He’s my… friend.”
“Frankie!” Callie, one of the people I actually loved seeing, flagged me down. She was with her partner, an engineer who owned their beautiful Butcher’s Hill rowhome. “God, you look fabulous. I wish I could pull that off.”
I preened the acceptable amount and handed Callie my phone so she could take a picture for me, but I rankled watching Lee take their place on Ryan’s couch. They rarely spoke, which Ryan informed me was part and parcel with their autism, and though everyone greeted them with the standard social niceties, only Ryan sat next to them. Only Ryan could light them up. Across the room, I stood, hands viselike around my red solo cup, as he leaned in to whisper something in Lee’s ear. They looked almost perfect. Ryan was only a few inches taller than Lee. Pretty in a girl way how Lee was pretty in a boy way. Would I be so angry if they stayed together? Maybe the blow would soften if Ryan were a girl. I shook my head. We’d had those conversations before plenty. I’d buttressed any hope of Ryan accepting his queerness, his femininity, the moment he called me his “bro.” Trying to reassure me, I guess, trying to assert my perennial place in his life, he’d settled on “bro” as our word.
Lee met my eyes across the room, and I froze. Their expression was unreadable. It hit me then I had no idea what color Lee’s eyes were. Green or blue maybe. They were predominantly Irish, and paler than anyone I’d met, save Ryan’s ex-girlfriend.
One of the younger Hopkins students grabbed my hand on his way out. “Hey, thank you so much for hosting. You have a lovely home.”
“Thanks!” I said, which made more sense than saying I don’t live here.
On cue, Lee joined me, squeezing my other hand once to indicate it was time to go. In a blur of goodbyes—into the Lyft—onto the road. Walking together. All in silence, ambiguously companionable.
We stood in line with a bunch of other queers and idled. Lee had heels on, but they were still shorter than me by a lot. I cleared my throat and grit my teeth, tipping back and forth on the balls of my feet.
“So, uh,” I said, faux gregarious, “you tryna have me wingman you, or what?” Lee laughed once, sharp and ironic. They smirked at me, their pupils dilated, and shook their head. “No, I think I’m good for the night.”
I fucking knew it, I thought. I fucking knew they were banking on keeping Ryan. “You sure?” I shifted from foot to foot. “I’m like, a really good wingman.” They tilted their head at me but said nothing. We flashed our IDs at the door and then we were inside, besieged by beautiful dykes and their pet fags. Some were in costume. Most weren’t, but expressed appreciation for mine. Lee wasn’t in costume—unless you count being hotas the costume, which many others in attendance clearly did—and we made our way to the dance floor, avoiding eye contact with each other.
The inside of the Ottobar is heavily graffitied, with posters for shows past lining the black walls floor to ceiling. Aluminum HVAC hangs over the dance floor, silver and visible, the only real bright spot in the venue, while a reddish loft forms the stage. There’s a small set of stairs or a ramp leading up to the cash-only bar, where a sticker-covered orange water cooler sits by a cluster of stacked barstools and folding tables. It reminded me of the Bronze from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, another childhood wish come true since my move to Baltimore. I cruised but there was no intent behind it. I was still unsure of my place in the city—I’d been warned at a Ketel One Vodka commercial shoot I’d done with a bunch of other locals, “You can’t get away with big city bullshit here. Baltimore really is Smalltimore. Remember that.” For this reason, I needed to be on my best behavior. In the back of my mind, Ryan was still my world. My “not-boyfriend,” as Singer called us, my lover and my best friend and my confidante. I couldn’t imagine bringing another person into our chaos, not without some kind of primer. Poor Lee. Suddenly aware of our proximity, the heat of their hard little body, I watched them dance. Their eyes were shut, their brow furrowed, their head bowed as though in prayer. Curved here, planar there. A broad, sculpted nose unlike any I’d seen before. Their lips weren’t full, really, but they were beautiful, shaped like a ribbon tied into a bow.
I was resolute in my refusal to touch them. If I closed my eyes, too, we’d brush against each other, but neither one of us deepened the contact. I saw the roundness of their belly undulate against mine exactly once before they shied away, and I matched this estrangement. All the air between us was charged with negative particles. We repelled.
After a spell, we went to grab drinks and sit awhile, waiting for the main event.
“So, like,” I began, “what’s, um. What’s your deal? Gender-wise?”
That laugh again. A surprised little shriek, so at odds with their taciturn demeanor. I wanted so badly to hate it, to hate every shocking new thing about them, but I couldn’t. I wanted to hear that shriek more. I leaned in, putting my listening face on.
“I’m,” they began, their voice pinched from disuse. They took a swig of their drink and coughed. “I mean. I’m not sure. I definitely, you know, I definitely resonate with ‘they’ and ‘he’ pronouns. Me and ‘she’ have… well let’s just say ‘she’ and I have had some difficulties.” They widened their eyes at me for emphasis. In the dim light of the bar, they were the grey of a coming storm.
I cleared my throat heavily.
“Would you ever,” I started, “I mean, like, would you ever want to medically transition?”
“Definitely,” Lee said. “I’ve definitely thought about it.” A pause. “What about you? What’s your deal?”
Upstairs, there was an entirely different party going on, one with straight people. We lingered there for a minute, bored and restless. I’d brought my tarot cards and dice with me. “Want a reading?” I could feel my biases rear their heads, the way my subconscious tried to will the cards to tell whoever I read for what I was too chicken to say. It never worked. Lee nodded. I rolled the dice and pulled a few cards. I pursed my lips.
“This says you need to play,” I said. “Chase what gives you joy, even if it’s childish or whatever. Remember what you were like as a toddler and do things to feed into that newness, that excitable way of being.”
We looked at each other. Lee smiled at me, expression impenetrable otherwise. Across the room, a much older man caught them in his line of sight. He fixated on them, following their body with his eyes as we walked back downstairs.
After the main event—which involved a lot of simulated cannibalism and what looked like a crucifixion—we lost each other in the crowd. This sudden ache in my chest, was it relief at finally being away from them? Or did I want them to come back? I was a torn page. On the edge of the dance floor, a pretty girl in a tiara stared off into space. I coaxed her out into the center of the floor without much effort. She smiled shyly up at me. We danced, touching shamelessly, and
I broke my tension with her, feeling new flesh on mine, feeling blood, muscle, skin, the hard bone of her wrists and finally, the soft, pliant give of her mouth.
We pulled apart after a single, chaste kiss. I saw Lee in the balcony, watching. It was past two in the morning. We waited out front for our Lyft, looking past each other. The man upstairs reappeared outside, dancing at Lee, trying to get their attention. Soon, he was on us, his hands passing over their bare shoulders. I glared at him, trying to shoo him away. Didn’t he know it was Dyke Nite? We’re not for you.
“Oh, my bad,” he said. “Y’all are together.”
A long, tense moment. One of us said “no, we’re not,” and the other one agreed. The man looked between us, gaping, lingering on the swell of Lee’s ass in their tight black dress. He grabbed me by the neck and pressed his lips to my ear.
“You gay?” He leaned back to assess my response.
I blinked at him. “Excuse me?”
He pulled himself into me again. “You gay, man?”
I maintained my composure. “Sometimes!”
“Oh,” the man said, drawing out the O. “Bisexual!”
“Sure.”
To Lee: “You coming home with me, now, right?”
Lee forced himself to giggle, friendly as ever. “I don’t think so! We’re going to bed!”
For the first time all night, I looped a protective arm over their body. God, I was so much bigger than them. My bicep pressed into their right breast and my hand came to rest on the curve of their left cheek without so much as a stretch.
“We’re all good,” said the man, holding his hands up to me. “I see you, you just wanna make sure your girl’s alright. But we’re good. I’m just tryna be friendly, you know. Give me your Instagram.”
Lee gave the man their Instagram. Our Lyft arrived shortly after. We tumbled in. Space returned between us. Lee laughed, mirthless and annoyed.
“Can’t believe I went to fucking Dyke Nite and got a man’s number.”
I said nothing. Kept replaying the scene in my head. The guy had been attractive, sure, but old. Pushing forty old. Smooth talking, handsome, tragically straight, and a tiny bit musty. Not for the first time, I wondered if Lee was ever bothered by the reality of their body—being a guy in the skin of a beautiful girl. What was worse, the entire exchange never would have happened if I’d been brave enough to just say, “Yes. Yes, ‘she’s’ mine. And you can’t have ‘her.’” But I hadn’t even touched them. I wouldn’t touch them.
Life passed. On Tinder, I met a nerdy cis guy who called me the hottest guy he’d ever matched with. You’ll do, I thought, and we started dating in November, just as Lee started testosterone. All the suffocation of Ryan, Lee and I’s malaise trois seemed to dissipate now that I had my own goofy redhead to match Ryan’s. Ryan and I still slept together—it was hard not to, what with the way our bodies fit—but pretty soon, Sam was in the rotation. Sam, who shoplifted even though he didn’t have to and panted like a dog whenever I kissed him. Sam, who wasn’t my type except for his rugby player body, but smelled amazing and made me cum every time we had sex, who demanded aftercare and told me “No” whenever he didn’t want something so I could always trust his “yes.”
Sam made it easier, being around Lee and Ryan. One night, I broke down over this, staring across the table at him, shaking.
“I feel like… like I’m using you.”
Big, sharp nose. Eyes like sapphires. A thin, articulate mouth. Sam looked at me, then, searching for the words. Searching me.
“Isn’t that just beautiful?” he settled on. “I mean, what a beautiful thing it is. To be used.”
Despite my aversion to them, I found myself spending more and more time with Lee and Ryan. Sam was there, too, often, because we all got along really well. Every now and again I’d find myself up late on a deadline, or trying to finish a commission, and there Lee was. Just Lee. Sitting at my feet like a puppy. I’d reach down on instinct and scratch their head or rub his back before returning to my work.
Winter was hard and exhausting. Towards Lee, I oscillated between tolerance and outright hostility. With Sam, I could tell he loved me, and I didn’t love him. It frightened me. Still, all of us, plus some of Ryan’s friends from high school and one of my friends from Pennsylvania, spent New Year’s Eve together. I perched in the corner as the seconds ticked closer to midnight. Unsure about Sam, angry at Ryan, afraid of Lee, I knew this would be my first midnight without a kiss.
I watched as Lee approached Ryan, then, sinuous and supple in the tungsten warmth of Ryan’s apartment. Envy burned in the hollow of my heart, though once again, I wondered who it was for.
February came. Both Sam and Ryan confronted me. I’d been avoiding Sam for all of January, while I’d been cruel about Lee to Ryan’s face for about the same amount of time. “I know what you’re doing,” Sam said. “And you’re not getting away with it, I’m sorry. Not here. If you actually want to, you know. End things. Move on. You can do that. I’m not stopping you. But you don’t get to ice me out and have me make the decision for you. That’s not okay.”
And Ryan said, “I love you. But you need to be nicer to Lee. The things you say—the way you talk about them. They’re not just some person I’m fucking. They’re my friend. And they’re so, so good to me. So kind. And the way you look at them sometimes, it’s like you hate them. Like you really hate them, and it’s not a joke, it's real life, and it hurts them. It hurts me.” And I said I was sorry. And I said I would work on it. And I did.
In Ryan’s apartment in April, Lee burst through the front door with a bag of thrifted goods from an estate sale they’d gone to on a date that morning. There was a hat with a plush shark sewn to it, some art, and a green leather halter top. Sam and I had just returned from a romantic trip to Niagara Falls. I was in love with Sam, secure in my relationship with Ryan, and happy to see Lee, genuinely happy. They pulled their shirt off and I averted my eyes. The rustle of the leather top over their skin made me flush. It all intensified when they backed into me, leather straps between their fingertips, their arms outstretched behind them.
“Can you tie this, please?”
I bit my bottom lip and nodded. Kneeling down, I tried not to imagine what it would be like to trace their back tattoo, the horned skull of some ungulate staring me down as I fumbled with the straps. My knuckles grazed the pink dip of their lower back. I pulled the straps tight and tied a neat bow. Then I tapped them on the arm, still holding the bow with my other hand as I stood.
“There you go,” I said. “The, uh. The leather’s kind of coming apart from the silk here. Maybe I could, I dunno. Maybe I could fix it for you sometime.”
Lee looked up at me. “I’d like that.”
“Okay,” Ryan interrupted, appearing suddenly from the hallway. “I’m ready to go.”
At Lee’s apartment in the County, we watched Crimes of the Future. Lee sat between Ryan and me, their dog at our feet. As the movie drew to an ambiguous end, Lee opened the door to their dewy backyard. A cool night breeze drifted through the basement suite. Lee ran outside with the dog, leaving Ryan and I alone.
Shadows fell over Ryan’s face, but I knew he was staring at me. His enormous eyes shone in the dark. Tears. He was holding back tears.
“What?”
He inhaled once, sharply. “I love you,” he whispered. “So much.”
I leaned my head against the wall and watched Lee chase the dog, the dog chase Lee. I looked back at Ryan evenly, earnestly. “I love you, too.”
Lee returned with the dog, who promptly jumped on Ryan, much to his distress. As he tried to push her off, Lee swung one brave thigh over my lap, then the other, straddling me. They shot a petulant look at Ryan, who wore the face he saved for when he had something to complain about, but didn’t know where to start. Nausea spiked in the pit of my stomach, and I gripped Lee’s shoulders—broader and stronger now from the T—to steady myself. Even in the dark, I could see their pulse trembling in their jugular. The heat between their legs was palpable.
Their eyes were blue, I realized then. Blue as the sky with yellow around the pupils like sunflowers in full bloom.
Enough was enough. I pressed my ear to the soft plane of Lee’s chest and listened.
For a moment, I recalled a time before everything. When I’d told Ryan who he was and how I saw him, and he said he’d reciprocate my words if the romantic kernel hadn’t hardened and died within him. Kernel. Mine felt the same. Those pieces of microwave popcorn that don’t ever, will never pop. Useless to try, you’ll just burn the whole bag. All of this was so stupid. I knew he wasn’t mine to keep. I knew I didn’t want to keep him, not like that. Or did I? Hadn’t I been the one to follow him to Baltimore, start my life over in his orbit? Done what I never would have done as a woman, done it all in a heartbeat as a man. Because I could. Because I can. Because I’m entitled, because I want what I want, and I’ll have it.
When we got back to his place, he told me Wolves in the Throne Room had forced him to confront his thoughts, too. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s not, but you know.” I knew. His disdain for pity was irreproachable to me. I had the same hatred. That’s what drew me to love him in the first place. I could tell him about the worst thing in the world happened to me and trust he wouldn’t make it worse by whining, “oh, Fran…” the way everyone else seemed to. He would sit with me in silence or hold me if it was extra bad, but not too tight. Or he’d laugh; we both would.
In bed, we didn’t fit. We didn’t really reach for each other. A wall built itself between us when we weren’t looking. I pretended not to care. I tossed and turned and tried to sleep. His quiet voice chastised me, “You need to get better at sleeping.” I almost shot back, “I can’t sleep alone,” but I stopped. Just because something is true doesn’t mean you should say it. Instead, I reached over the wall and through the miasma of my own discomfort and squeezed him. I thought about how many times I’d telepathically promised to always protect him. I’ll never let anything happen to you.
The moment I stopped struggling, sleep took me. I woke to Ryan above me, fully clothed, readying himself to do what he always does: lowering onto me for one last kiss and cuddle before he goes to work. This time, he tripped and fell and missed my face completely. The surprised O of his mouth would have been cute if not for the wall, the ghosts of all unsaid. He tried to laugh. Though it was Monday, and they lived in the County, I was suddenly frightened--was Lee out there? Were they the source of Ryan’s sheepish grin? But no, he scrambled to his feet, told me to lock the door behind me when I leave.
That had been Lee and I’s first encounter. Summer’s end, my eyes swollen shut, my body stifled with inflammation, I’d awoken to Ryan on top of me, coaxing me awake. Despite my illness, I roused to him, and he shook his head. His hot breath in my ear, “Lee’s here.” Nothing more. No preparation. Just, hey, the pretty theyfab I’ve been fucking raw while you’re away in the living room. See you out there, champ.
We’d texted on occasion, Lee and I. I’d wanted to like them, maybe. Maybe I wanted to be good at this whole non-monogamy thing, maybe I wanted to be the best, but they seemed so young and fragile, by Ryan’s account. I’ve never been good at walking on eggshells, and this was what Ryan wished of me. Be nice to them, he’d said. Be gentle. This was how I came to know myself, to know Lee through myself. I was a monstrous, intimidating male, loping and violent in my huge, brown body, and they were a pretty little femme, delicate. Prone to hysterics. Nearly a foot shorter than me, and upwardly mobile—they worked for Johns Hopkins. I was unemployed, uneducated, and unambitious. Basically, everything Ryan hated, though God knew he loved me. How much longer I remained in his grace depended on this first impression. On how I treated Lee. Not how Lee treated me. My comfort didn’t matter. It hadn’t mattered in the past, not with the other girls he fucked and discarded the moment I reached for him. They were non-entities. This Lee character was different. Ryan adored them.
Out on the couch curled five feet and three inches of firm, freckled flesh. In the midday light, they glowed, their pixie cut a halo of crimson. They didn’t meet my eyes, not initially. I filled the room, broad shoulders, slow, heavy steps. I breathed carefully, raking my eyes up and down their tiny form. Something stirred in me then, angry and insistent. A short huff through my flared nostrils and I turned it over, sickened. I’d never been good at hiding my feelings, Ryan had always known, and he watched my lips twist into a sneer before I forced a more neutral frown.
I caught the look of devastation in Ryan’s eyes before he contained himself. This is gonna suck. Ryan sat on one couch, far from Lee, who finally looked at me with a nervous smile. “Right, so,” Ryan started, “what we’re working on right now is our character sheets—” Ryan’s home was a mess. Lee had a pile of books on their lap and colored with markers --like a child, I thought, sanctimonious and defensive—where they sat on a fuzzy blue throw absolutely covered in cat hair. No amount of natural light could fix the haphazard energy of the space. I need to get the hell out of here. Ryan murmured something to Lee, and they snorted, but we still hadn’t said a word to each other. Was that my fault or theirs?
In the kitchen, we finally sort of interacted, but Lee smiled at Ryan when I made them laugh, not me. They were on their tippy toes, the oversized sweater I’d always begged Ryan to let me borrow hanging off of their tiny frame. He’d never let me have it, told me it was totally off limits. Yet here Lee stood, vibrant and happy and wearing what I’d never been allowed. I quirked my lips in an imitation grin, then, huffing again. I knew everything about me signaled mean girl, the old prom queen I’d been before the amnesia, before the testosterone and the celibacy and the top surgery and—
Ryan walked me to my car.
“I live here now,” I said, as much to fill the space as to keep my heart from breaking.
“You live here now,” Ryan repeated. “Come over, uh, yeah. Come over anytime.”
And I knew I wouldn’t. I had been kicked from my own nest.
We argued over text a few days later. Ryan’s mother was in town, and he wanted to bring her and I to the State Fair at Lutherville Timonium, which sounded to me like a lost circle of Hell. He’d gone the day prior with Lee.
And is Lee going with you and your mom?
Yeah.
I blew up at him. Told him I can’t keep hanging out with him if Lee’s also going to be there, hanging off his hip, being beautiful and socially acceptable. Being the partner, he’d never allow me to be to him. Being the girl. Told him if he expected me to have some kind of intimacy with Lee, he had another thing coming.
I didn’t, he texted back, shocked. I don’t expect you to be with Lee.
All the wind left me, then, and I buried my face in my lumpy pillow. Apartment hunting had left me the guest room in my Auntie’s home in Silver Spring, with its creaky mattress and feather pillows poking me in the face all night. I knew I was being unreasonable. But that stir remained, this sense of ungrounding whenever I thought of Lee. I hated it. I hated the feeling, whatever it was, and I needed to push it out on all sides, to keep it at bay in any and every way. And no threesome bullshit, I shot off, throwing my phone.
Summer turned to autumn. Sometimes Lee told Ryan they couldn’t sleep with him anymore, and Ryan would relay this information to me with the same irritation a frat boy might tell his brothers about a particularly prudish girl, as if I’d sympathize with him. During these dry spells, he’d run and bury himself in me. Hope welled up in my chest. Drowned out my jealousy.
Rueful over my outburst, I agreed to accompany the happy couple to Fells Point Fun Fest. We’d arrive early so Ryan could go to Goodwill, and I could emotionally regulate in anticipation of Lee’s company. We grabbed a few things for the house and spilled out onto Broadway. Soon, the entire neighborhood crowded around pop country sensation and Baltimore local Brittney Spencer as she debuted a few singles off her upcoming album, My Stupid Life. Lee was among them—I spotted their fresh burgundy buzzcut and that fucking sweater, pink and pilled from too many washes. I was wearing my favorite sweater at the time, too, a bright orange Tide Pod parody that said “Native Vibes” I’d bought at a powwow two summers prior.
“There,” I said, pointing with my lips at where Lee danced with a beautiful older woman. She stared at them, enamored, her highlights glimmering in the sun as she spun them round and round. They threw their head back and laughed bigger than I’d ever seen, their cherubic lips split open to reveal a wet, pink tongue, which they passed over their sharp teeth once. They still hadn’t spotted us. I began to wonder if this was who they really were, outside of our dysfunction. Bright and magnetic.
“You’re so good,” Ryan said. “You’ve got laser eyes for that little bald head.” I shivered. No. I was just tall, with perfect vision. He could have asked me to find anyone, and I would have found them. Lee wasn’t special.
“I’ll go get them,” I murmured, pushing Ryan’s cloying grip from my arm. Brittney Spencer’s voice was bombastic, her body gorgeous clad in a modern country star’s getup—cowgirl boots, sure, but also a flattering tank top and short skirt. She shook her hair and wailed into the microphone about how she’s got time today. Lee danced in the very front, cordoned off from the rest of the crowd by a rapt audience and a few traffic cones. When they saw me, their smile faltered, but their feet stayed true. Stomp, kick, spin. Facing me again, they broke out in a wild smile and grabbed me by the wrist, pulling me in. The woman they’d been dancing with before returned to her husband and cheered.
“This next song is the title of my new album,” Brittney Spencer announced. “It’s called ‘My Stupid Life.’ Here we go. One, two—”
Swept up in the beat, the lyrics, the sunshine and the adoring gazes of the audience, I let Lee guide my footfalls. My heart hammered hard in my chest, slammed against the box I’d been shoving all my strange feelings into, everything that didn’t fit in hatred but led me to scathe Lee’s existence anyways. Every kick, spin, wherever our feet met and fell apart, our hands in midair, their eyes on the ground, then on me, everything threatened to open the box. I smiled despite myself and saw a flash—one of the event photographers had caught us mid-flight.
We returned to Ryan as Brittney’s set came to a close. He’d met up with a few of our other friends. It was time to find food and beverages. My high shattered as I watched Lee press a quick kiss to Ryan’s shoulder before they scampered away, off on another side-quest. I couldn’t tell if I wanted them to stay close or go farther. Uncertainty put me off balance and I spent the rest of the day seething, clinging to Ryan until he pushed me away, too.
Come October, I had a beautiful home in Bolton Hill and what felt like an endless capacity for shallow hedonism. Lee’s place at Ryan’s side seemingly secured, I swiped on Tinder with renewed fervor. Looking for a replacement or at least a Band-Aid. We still went out together, the three of us plus Gretchen, the socially inept Millennial nurse Ryan had been banging for the two miserable months before Lee came to town. Sometimes I stayed the night. Very seldom Lee,
though Ryan often wished they would. When Lee and I formed what felt like an alliance, uneasy, silent, and colder than anything I’d ever held for anyone, Gretchen stopped attending shows. Good riddance. If it ever came down to a toss-up between Gretchen and Lee for Ryan’s frigid little heart, I would have picked Lee a thousand times over. Regardless of my feelings for (against) them, they were exuberant, joyful, present and a good listener, all things Gretchen seemed to be allergic to.
Dyke Nite was a regular themed event held at the Ottobar in Charles Village. On Ryan’s couch, I got a text from Lee inviting me. They’d cover my ticket. It had been a long time since I thought of myself as a lesbian, but I still femmed up for the hell of it, pouring all six plus feet of me into a leather top and short shorts while I rouged and smoldered my face into submission. We were tangled up, Ryan and I, and his hazel eyes scrutinized me, unblinking, while I considered my response.
“They don’t talk,” I said.
“You have to ask them questions,” said Ryan. “They’re not like us, they won’t just start rambling out of nowhere.”
“I’m not good at asking questions,” I pouted.
“Me neither,” said Ryan. “But… try?”
Sure, I texted back, I’d love to :)
I didn’t spend the night with Ryan, still sore from when he’d forgotten to tell me he and Lee were back on again. At the door, I traced the curve of his cheek with my hand, leaned in, kissed him goodnight and thought about all the Tinder matches I was ignoring.
The short drive from Ryan’s apartment in Fells to mine in Bolton Hill felt so cinematic and peaceful this late. Our city’s lights glittered as I rose onto the interstate, skimming over empty concrete and asphalt, the night breeze imbued with sweetness. I’d always put on Graveyard Club, murmuring along with the faux-British lilt as I pled with my lover to understand the full extent of my unspoken grief.
In my four-poster canopy bed, I worked myself, trying hard not to picture anyone at all. I slept in well past noon and woke to a text from Lee I’d received at around eight in the morning--this is the second time you’ve entered my dreams!
My stomach flipped and I put my phone down. We’re not dealing with that anytime soon. But after coffee and a meager “breakfast,” I couldn’t hold back.
It was probably not me, I texted, feeling cruel and ungrateful.
We made an appearance at Ryan’s Halloween party, which he’d scheduled the same night as Dyke Nite. I’d decided to dress as Laurel Hell, the Mitski album Ryan always put on my tape player whenever he visited. “The Only Heartbreaker” became synonymous with him, with us, with this horrible all-take no-give thing we kept corralled and well-fed.
I hated Ryan’s friends. Well, not really. I hated being around Ryan’s friends. I hated being what I was to him in their presence. How I was the odd one out, and wouldn’t it make more sense just to call us what we were, so they’d quit looking at me like that? Everybody else was Hopkins—master's students, PhD candidates, lab techs and researchers. Hopkins squares and their equally square partners, smiles plastered on their faces whenever I walk in. My insecurities filled in the blanks. Here comes the guy Ryan won’t let go of, everybody. Here comes his emotional support flunky, the forgotten actor with the failed modeling career who does God knows-what all day. It didn’t help my case, Lee clocking in alongside them from nine to five. And it certainly didn’t help me any whenever Ryan would say, grimacing like a chimpanzee, “No, no, this is Frankie. He’s my… friend.”
“Frankie!” Callie, one of the people I actually loved seeing, flagged me down. She was with her partner, an engineer who owned their beautiful Butcher’s Hill rowhome. “God, you look fabulous. I wish I could pull that off.”
I preened the acceptable amount and handed Callie my phone so she could take a picture for me, but I rankled watching Lee take their place on Ryan’s couch. They rarely spoke, which Ryan informed me was part and parcel with their autism, and though everyone greeted them with the standard social niceties, only Ryan sat next to them. Only Ryan could light them up. Across the room, I stood, hands viselike around my red solo cup, as he leaned in to whisper something in Lee’s ear. They looked almost perfect. Ryan was only a few inches taller than Lee. Pretty in a girl way how Lee was pretty in a boy way. Would I be so angry if they stayed together? Maybe the blow would soften if Ryan were a girl. I shook my head. We’d had those conversations before plenty. I’d buttressed any hope of Ryan accepting his queerness, his femininity, the moment he called me his “bro.” Trying to reassure me, I guess, trying to assert my perennial place in his life, he’d settled on “bro” as our word.
Lee met my eyes across the room, and I froze. Their expression was unreadable. It hit me then I had no idea what color Lee’s eyes were. Green or blue maybe. They were predominantly Irish, and paler than anyone I’d met, save Ryan’s ex-girlfriend.
One of the younger Hopkins students grabbed my hand on his way out. “Hey, thank you so much for hosting. You have a lovely home.”
“Thanks!” I said, which made more sense than saying I don’t live here.
On cue, Lee joined me, squeezing my other hand once to indicate it was time to go. In a blur of goodbyes—into the Lyft—onto the road. Walking together. All in silence, ambiguously companionable.
We stood in line with a bunch of other queers and idled. Lee had heels on, but they were still shorter than me by a lot. I cleared my throat and grit my teeth, tipping back and forth on the balls of my feet.
“So, uh,” I said, faux gregarious, “you tryna have me wingman you, or what?” Lee laughed once, sharp and ironic. They smirked at me, their pupils dilated, and shook their head. “No, I think I’m good for the night.”
I fucking knew it, I thought. I fucking knew they were banking on keeping Ryan. “You sure?” I shifted from foot to foot. “I’m like, a really good wingman.” They tilted their head at me but said nothing. We flashed our IDs at the door and then we were inside, besieged by beautiful dykes and their pet fags. Some were in costume. Most weren’t, but expressed appreciation for mine. Lee wasn’t in costume—unless you count being hotas the costume, which many others in attendance clearly did—and we made our way to the dance floor, avoiding eye contact with each other.
The inside of the Ottobar is heavily graffitied, with posters for shows past lining the black walls floor to ceiling. Aluminum HVAC hangs over the dance floor, silver and visible, the only real bright spot in the venue, while a reddish loft forms the stage. There’s a small set of stairs or a ramp leading up to the cash-only bar, where a sticker-covered orange water cooler sits by a cluster of stacked barstools and folding tables. It reminded me of the Bronze from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, another childhood wish come true since my move to Baltimore. I cruised but there was no intent behind it. I was still unsure of my place in the city—I’d been warned at a Ketel One Vodka commercial shoot I’d done with a bunch of other locals, “You can’t get away with big city bullshit here. Baltimore really is Smalltimore. Remember that.” For this reason, I needed to be on my best behavior. In the back of my mind, Ryan was still my world. My “not-boyfriend,” as Singer called us, my lover and my best friend and my confidante. I couldn’t imagine bringing another person into our chaos, not without some kind of primer. Poor Lee. Suddenly aware of our proximity, the heat of their hard little body, I watched them dance. Their eyes were shut, their brow furrowed, their head bowed as though in prayer. Curved here, planar there. A broad, sculpted nose unlike any I’d seen before. Their lips weren’t full, really, but they were beautiful, shaped like a ribbon tied into a bow.
I was resolute in my refusal to touch them. If I closed my eyes, too, we’d brush against each other, but neither one of us deepened the contact. I saw the roundness of their belly undulate against mine exactly once before they shied away, and I matched this estrangement. All the air between us was charged with negative particles. We repelled.
After a spell, we went to grab drinks and sit awhile, waiting for the main event.
“So, like,” I began, “what’s, um. What’s your deal? Gender-wise?”
That laugh again. A surprised little shriek, so at odds with their taciturn demeanor. I wanted so badly to hate it, to hate every shocking new thing about them, but I couldn’t. I wanted to hear that shriek more. I leaned in, putting my listening face on.
“I’m,” they began, their voice pinched from disuse. They took a swig of their drink and coughed. “I mean. I’m not sure. I definitely, you know, I definitely resonate with ‘they’ and ‘he’ pronouns. Me and ‘she’ have… well let’s just say ‘she’ and I have had some difficulties.” They widened their eyes at me for emphasis. In the dim light of the bar, they were the grey of a coming storm.
I cleared my throat heavily.
“Would you ever,” I started, “I mean, like, would you ever want to medically transition?”
“Definitely,” Lee said. “I’ve definitely thought about it.” A pause. “What about you? What’s your deal?”
Upstairs, there was an entirely different party going on, one with straight people. We lingered there for a minute, bored and restless. I’d brought my tarot cards and dice with me. “Want a reading?” I could feel my biases rear their heads, the way my subconscious tried to will the cards to tell whoever I read for what I was too chicken to say. It never worked. Lee nodded. I rolled the dice and pulled a few cards. I pursed my lips.
“This says you need to play,” I said. “Chase what gives you joy, even if it’s childish or whatever. Remember what you were like as a toddler and do things to feed into that newness, that excitable way of being.”
We looked at each other. Lee smiled at me, expression impenetrable otherwise. Across the room, a much older man caught them in his line of sight. He fixated on them, following their body with his eyes as we walked back downstairs.
After the main event—which involved a lot of simulated cannibalism and what looked like a crucifixion—we lost each other in the crowd. This sudden ache in my chest, was it relief at finally being away from them? Or did I want them to come back? I was a torn page. On the edge of the dance floor, a pretty girl in a tiara stared off into space. I coaxed her out into the center of the floor without much effort. She smiled shyly up at me. We danced, touching shamelessly, and
I broke my tension with her, feeling new flesh on mine, feeling blood, muscle, skin, the hard bone of her wrists and finally, the soft, pliant give of her mouth.
We pulled apart after a single, chaste kiss. I saw Lee in the balcony, watching. It was past two in the morning. We waited out front for our Lyft, looking past each other. The man upstairs reappeared outside, dancing at Lee, trying to get their attention. Soon, he was on us, his hands passing over their bare shoulders. I glared at him, trying to shoo him away. Didn’t he know it was Dyke Nite? We’re not for you.
“Oh, my bad,” he said. “Y’all are together.”
A long, tense moment. One of us said “no, we’re not,” and the other one agreed. The man looked between us, gaping, lingering on the swell of Lee’s ass in their tight black dress. He grabbed me by the neck and pressed his lips to my ear.
“You gay?” He leaned back to assess my response.
I blinked at him. “Excuse me?”
He pulled himself into me again. “You gay, man?”
I maintained my composure. “Sometimes!”
“Oh,” the man said, drawing out the O. “Bisexual!”
“Sure.”
To Lee: “You coming home with me, now, right?”
Lee forced himself to giggle, friendly as ever. “I don’t think so! We’re going to bed!”
For the first time all night, I looped a protective arm over their body. God, I was so much bigger than them. My bicep pressed into their right breast and my hand came to rest on the curve of their left cheek without so much as a stretch.
“We’re all good,” said the man, holding his hands up to me. “I see you, you just wanna make sure your girl’s alright. But we’re good. I’m just tryna be friendly, you know. Give me your Instagram.”
Lee gave the man their Instagram. Our Lyft arrived shortly after. We tumbled in. Space returned between us. Lee laughed, mirthless and annoyed.
“Can’t believe I went to fucking Dyke Nite and got a man’s number.”
I said nothing. Kept replaying the scene in my head. The guy had been attractive, sure, but old. Pushing forty old. Smooth talking, handsome, tragically straight, and a tiny bit musty. Not for the first time, I wondered if Lee was ever bothered by the reality of their body—being a guy in the skin of a beautiful girl. What was worse, the entire exchange never would have happened if I’d been brave enough to just say, “Yes. Yes, ‘she’s’ mine. And you can’t have ‘her.’” But I hadn’t even touched them. I wouldn’t touch them.
Life passed. On Tinder, I met a nerdy cis guy who called me the hottest guy he’d ever matched with. You’ll do, I thought, and we started dating in November, just as Lee started testosterone. All the suffocation of Ryan, Lee and I’s malaise trois seemed to dissipate now that I had my own goofy redhead to match Ryan’s. Ryan and I still slept together—it was hard not to, what with the way our bodies fit—but pretty soon, Sam was in the rotation. Sam, who shoplifted even though he didn’t have to and panted like a dog whenever I kissed him. Sam, who wasn’t my type except for his rugby player body, but smelled amazing and made me cum every time we had sex, who demanded aftercare and told me “No” whenever he didn’t want something so I could always trust his “yes.”
Sam made it easier, being around Lee and Ryan. One night, I broke down over this, staring across the table at him, shaking.
“I feel like… like I’m using you.”
Big, sharp nose. Eyes like sapphires. A thin, articulate mouth. Sam looked at me, then, searching for the words. Searching me.
“Isn’t that just beautiful?” he settled on. “I mean, what a beautiful thing it is. To be used.”
Despite my aversion to them, I found myself spending more and more time with Lee and Ryan. Sam was there, too, often, because we all got along really well. Every now and again I’d find myself up late on a deadline, or trying to finish a commission, and there Lee was. Just Lee. Sitting at my feet like a puppy. I’d reach down on instinct and scratch their head or rub his back before returning to my work.
Winter was hard and exhausting. Towards Lee, I oscillated between tolerance and outright hostility. With Sam, I could tell he loved me, and I didn’t love him. It frightened me. Still, all of us, plus some of Ryan’s friends from high school and one of my friends from Pennsylvania, spent New Year’s Eve together. I perched in the corner as the seconds ticked closer to midnight. Unsure about Sam, angry at Ryan, afraid of Lee, I knew this would be my first midnight without a kiss.
I watched as Lee approached Ryan, then, sinuous and supple in the tungsten warmth of Ryan’s apartment. Envy burned in the hollow of my heart, though once again, I wondered who it was for.
February came. Both Sam and Ryan confronted me. I’d been avoiding Sam for all of January, while I’d been cruel about Lee to Ryan’s face for about the same amount of time. “I know what you’re doing,” Sam said. “And you’re not getting away with it, I’m sorry. Not here. If you actually want to, you know. End things. Move on. You can do that. I’m not stopping you. But you don’t get to ice me out and have me make the decision for you. That’s not okay.”
And Ryan said, “I love you. But you need to be nicer to Lee. The things you say—the way you talk about them. They’re not just some person I’m fucking. They’re my friend. And they’re so, so good to me. So kind. And the way you look at them sometimes, it’s like you hate them. Like you really hate them, and it’s not a joke, it's real life, and it hurts them. It hurts me.” And I said I was sorry. And I said I would work on it. And I did.
In Ryan’s apartment in April, Lee burst through the front door with a bag of thrifted goods from an estate sale they’d gone to on a date that morning. There was a hat with a plush shark sewn to it, some art, and a green leather halter top. Sam and I had just returned from a romantic trip to Niagara Falls. I was in love with Sam, secure in my relationship with Ryan, and happy to see Lee, genuinely happy. They pulled their shirt off and I averted my eyes. The rustle of the leather top over their skin made me flush. It all intensified when they backed into me, leather straps between their fingertips, their arms outstretched behind them.
“Can you tie this, please?”
I bit my bottom lip and nodded. Kneeling down, I tried not to imagine what it would be like to trace their back tattoo, the horned skull of some ungulate staring me down as I fumbled with the straps. My knuckles grazed the pink dip of their lower back. I pulled the straps tight and tied a neat bow. Then I tapped them on the arm, still holding the bow with my other hand as I stood.
“There you go,” I said. “The, uh. The leather’s kind of coming apart from the silk here. Maybe I could, I dunno. Maybe I could fix it for you sometime.”
Lee looked up at me. “I’d like that.”
“Okay,” Ryan interrupted, appearing suddenly from the hallway. “I’m ready to go.”
At Lee’s apartment in the County, we watched Crimes of the Future. Lee sat between Ryan and me, their dog at our feet. As the movie drew to an ambiguous end, Lee opened the door to their dewy backyard. A cool night breeze drifted through the basement suite. Lee ran outside with the dog, leaving Ryan and I alone.
Shadows fell over Ryan’s face, but I knew he was staring at me. His enormous eyes shone in the dark. Tears. He was holding back tears.
“What?”
He inhaled once, sharply. “I love you,” he whispered. “So much.”
I leaned my head against the wall and watched Lee chase the dog, the dog chase Lee. I looked back at Ryan evenly, earnestly. “I love you, too.”
Lee returned with the dog, who promptly jumped on Ryan, much to his distress. As he tried to push her off, Lee swung one brave thigh over my lap, then the other, straddling me. They shot a petulant look at Ryan, who wore the face he saved for when he had something to complain about, but didn’t know where to start. Nausea spiked in the pit of my stomach, and I gripped Lee’s shoulders—broader and stronger now from the T—to steady myself. Even in the dark, I could see their pulse trembling in their jugular. The heat between their legs was palpable.
Their eyes were blue, I realized then. Blue as the sky with yellow around the pupils like sunflowers in full bloom.
Enough was enough. I pressed my ear to the soft plane of Lee’s chest and listened.
Headshot by @swaysview.
Shaawan Francis Keahna is a writer, filmmaker, and cross-disciplinary artist. His words have been featured in R.I.S.E. Indigenous, TransLash Zine, the Blood Pudding, the Vassar Review, and many others. Keahna’s first chapbook, Mayday, was published by Bottlecap Press in June 2023. More about him can be found at shaawan.com, or on Instagram @sfkeahna. Keahna makes his home in Baltimore.
