I step in.
Turn around.
He’s in the elevator with me, his naked, imposing frame crowding me.
I step back until my back meets the wall. I can feel the pounds of my heart in my stomach. Can feel my skin sizzling under his closeness. Dipping slowly, eyes glued to mine, he pushes our mouths together and moans. I give him immediate access, opening up to him, speaking in a language he understands. His warm tongue is soft, his lips firm. I taste coffee. I taste all man. This kiss has purpose. It has meaning. My body reacts, and just as I’m about to climb him and take it to the next level, beg him to take me back to his bed, he pulls away, panting, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving me stumbling back into the wall, dazed. This is what I crave. This freedom from pain, from thinking, from grieving.
This release.
“Call me later,” he orders softly, backing out of the elevator, tilting his head, waiting for my compliance.
He doesn’t need it.
The doors close, and I urgently pull air into my lungs. “I will,” I say to myself.
Of course I will.
* * *
I’ve never stood outside Lawrence’s house for so long, just staring at the door. Dreading what’s waiting for me inside. This house has always been a haven. Now? Now it feels like a cage of discrimination. On a needed injection of bravery, I slip my key into the lock and turn it tentatively, pushing my way inside. I hear them in the kitchen, knives and forks scraping their plates as they eat their breakfast. I glance up the stairs. I could go straight up. Hide. Delay facing their looks of disapproval.
No.
I drop my keys in the glass bowl on the table, making a loud clang, and the sounds of metal scraping on plates stops. I wander down the hallway into the kitchen and go straight to the fridge, and their eyes follow me the whole way. “Morning,” I say.
“Morning,” Dexter replies, sounding tentative. “Nice evening?”
I grab a bottle of water and twist the cap off as I turn to face them. “Lovely,” I reply simply. And mysterious. And curiosity inducing. And enlightening. Uncle Lawrence regards me for a few, uncomfortable moments, taking in my lace dress. Then he goes back to his breakfast without a word. The silent treatment. I give Dexter tired eyes, and he smiles tightly.
“You could have been civil,” I say, taking a seat at the table, my focus on Lawrence. If he wants to be a child, fine, but I won’t be a child with him. Dexter shifts on the chair, setting down his cutlery before standing. Lawrence pretends like I’m not even here. “Lawrence, come on.”
“Don’t ask me for my blessing.” He pushes his plate away. “I tried, but I cannot bless . . .” He fades off and turns his eyes onto my wrists.
“One of the things I love most about you is your open-mindedness.” I get up from the table, knowing I’m fighting a losing battle. He needs to pull his head out of his ass. “But right now, you’re behaving like my father.” I turn and walk out, just catching sight of his horrified expression and Dexter’s blank face.
“I am nothing like your father.”
“Then stop being so narrow-minded,” I call, taking the stairs. “I’m a big girl. I know how to say no.”
“Then say no!” he yells, sounding unusually frazzled. “There must be better ways to let loose.”
“Better?” I laugh. “I know where you keep your bondage gear, Lawrence.” I turn at the top of the stairs, hearing him scuttling down the hallway.
“I do not have bondage gear.”
“No?” I ask.
“No.”
I shake my head and make tracks to their bedroom, letting myself in and zooming in on the French cabinet I shifted not too long ago so I could decorate. I yank a drawer open and swipe up the leather crotchless panties. “No?” I ask again, waving them over my head. Then I grab the bra that sports more spikes than a porcupine. “No?”
He lands in the doorway and assesses my finds. “They’re Zinnea’s,” he barks, marching toward me and swiping them from my grasp, stuffing them back into the drawer and slamming it shut.
“I guess this is too?” I ask, seizing a whip. “Don’t tell me this doesn’t cause injuries.”
He gasps, his mouth falling open. “That’s Dexter’s.”
“Hey, leave me out of it,” he calls from downstairs.
“Don’t judge me,” I warn, sidestepping him and leaving the room. “Next time you see James, be nice,” I order, turning at the door, following up my words with a stern look. I’ve never seen my uncle shrink before. It’s a novelty.
“So you’ll be seeing him again?”
“Maybe.”
His nose wrinkles. “I don’t know why you can’t date a normal man.”
Like Ollie. Kind. Sweet. Normal. “Are any of us normal, Lawrence?” I ask. “Do you consider men who never dress as women and don’t have a stage name normal, Lawrence? Are you not a prime example of someone who can accept and enjoy things that others cannot?” He sighs, looking down, probably trying to find the perfect counter. “Everyone is a certain level of fucked up. Leave me to be blissfully fucked up, will you? Because you don’t understand what fucking someone who isn’t into missionary gives me. It might only be temporary, but I’m taking it because it gives me moments where I’m not lost or grieving or angry. And surely I deserve that. Surely.”