“I wanted to apologize,” he starts off, making eye contact with me, and my eyebrow quirks. What does he have to be sorry for? “I never asked you what your pronouns are, I just assumed. I assumed a lot of things, Charlie, and I’m sorry. I saw you in those jeans and that hoodie and I just figured that that’s what you would go for. I didn’t even ask if you preferred something different or what your style was and I’ve been referring to you as he and him in my head this whole time. I’m still learning, so if I say or do something that upsets you, please correct me and please forgive me?”
Oh my god, is he for real? I want to cry. This man is beyond precious. “They are,” I say, “he/him I mean. I identify as male. I just like to dress more feminine and feel pretty. But it means a lot that you are asking. So thank you.” He smiles and nods.
“When was the last time you went shopping?” he asks, “or went to a mall?”
“Honestly, I don’t really remember the last time,” I say, taking in my surroundings. My gaze meets his. “My parents didn’t really let me get out much, so thank you for this.”
“My pleasure,” he replies. “I think after lunch we should stop somewhere else and get you some pajamas and lounge clothes. Maybe some sweats?”
I nod. “Fine. But I’m keeping the T-shirt.” His face turns the most adorable shade of red and he scratches behind his ear, making me grin. He’s so fun to mess with. But seriously though, he’s never getting that T-shirt back.
A young woman from the Chinese place approaches our table and sets our meals in front of us with a warm smile on her face. Then she turns to me and in accented English says, “I really like your outfit. It looks great on you.”
God, am I crying again? Fuck, I hope not, but there’s some sort of liquid filling my eyes and making it difficult to see. “Thank you,” I whisper.
She nods. “Let me know if you need anything else,” she says, and then walks away.
“Charlie?” Paul says after a moment of us just enjoying our food.
My stomach clenches because he sounds serious and I don’t know if I want to do serious right now. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, or aren’t ready, but I never did get the story of why you left home. I’d like to know. Not so I can judge you, I promise. I’m done with that. I just want to know you better, and understand your story.”
I let out a breath and poke at my food a little. “My home life wasn't the greatest,” I say. By that I mean it was fucking awful. I don’t think a day went by where I wasn’t berated or abused either physically, mentally, or emotionally. I won't go into details about that, though. I don’t want his pity. “My parents had some views on things and I didn’t measure up to their expectations. They never let me be myself.”
“How so?” he asks.
I shrug. “They stifled me. Forced me to do things I didn’t want to do, dress the way they wanted me to dress and not how I felt most like myself because it didn’t fit their image of what a man should be. They told me who I was allowed to date and not date. They made it very clear to me when I started showing interest in more feminine things like skirts, and jewelry and makeup, that those things weren’t appropriate for boys. I came home from a birthday party in second grade and showed my mom my nails because I thought they were so pretty, and she yelled at me until I cried and then took the polish off and called the girl’s parents and yelled at them. I was mortified, and I felt so much shame and confusion. I didn’t understand then how some things were for girls and some things were for boys, that we couldn’t just like what we liked and it didn't have anything to do with our gender. But they made it clear that I had done something wrong just by liking the way something looked on me. That it was wrong for me to be or feel pretty.
“They made me play sports even though I hated them and was terrible, and then my dad would get mad at me for not trying hard enough.” I leave out the part where he would hit me when I didn’t do as well as he thought I should and how he told me I was a disgrace to the sport and to men in general.
“I wanted to take dance classes but those were too feminine, so I couldn’t. I felt suffocated. My entire life under their roof was a lie and I would never have the freedom to be myself if I stayed. So I left. I had to. I couldn’t take it anymore.” Tears are falling down my cheeks again, and I sniffle as Paul reaches across the table to take my hand. He gives it a gentle squeeze.
“Charlie,” he says, the empathy evident in his voice. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
Somehow, hearing him call me that, any term of endearment from him, calms me, warms me, makes me feel loved and wanted. I’ve never been wanted before, at least not in a good way. Only by men who wanted my body. I hate that that is a part of my life and I feel sick whenever I think about it. It’s humiliating. But as bad as it was, as much as I hated doing it, selling myself, letting those men touch me, I would do it all again if it meant being out of that house. Honestly, if I hadn’t left I probably wouldn’t be alive right now, either because my dad would have beat me to death or I would have fucking killed myself. At least the choices I made on the street were my choices to make, and no one was telling me how to live and who to be, just to make themselves feel better, or beating the shit out of me because they caught me wearing makeup or because I didn’t perform well enough in a stupid soccer game I never wanted to be involved in in the first place.
I sniffle and wipe my eyes, my lunch forgotten on my plate. “They never would have done any of the things you did today,” I tell him. “Let me try on those clothes, or shoes, and they certainly wouldn't have bought them. They would have been standing there with that lady in the shoe aisle, glaring at me like I was a pervert.”
“Then there would have been three idiots instead of one,” Paul says, and I laugh a little.
“Thank you,” I say, and realize he’s still holding my hand. And he doesn’t let go. Even after I’ve picked up my fork and started eating again, and even after we’re both finished with our food, he keeps his hand in mine as we stand, and he takes the bags in his other hand, linking our fingers together once again as we head out to the car.
Is it too soon to fall in love? Because I’m starting to think I’m dangerously close.
* * *
When we get home, Paul carries my bags inside for me and I can’t help but grin at the fact that he’s treating me like a china doll, like I’m so frail and dainty. But honestly I kind of like it. He doesn’t think I’m weak or incapable, he’s just caring for me. And I think it’s good for him, having someone to care for. I don’t know his history, but I did see a few photos in his house of a woman and a young teenage boy, and I wonder where they are now. He’s not wearing a ring and they haven’t been around since I’ve been here. I’m guessing his wife either passed away or they got divorced. I’m more curious about the boy, who I’m assuming is his son. He looks to only be about sixteen or so in the pictures, and he never gets older than that. If he were away at college or married and on his own, surely they’d have more updated photos. It’s a mystery, but not one I feel safe diving into right now. He deserves his privacy, same as me.
“I’ll bring these to your room, huh?” he says, as we step inside and he shuts the door.
I nod as I slide my shoes off, leaving them by the front door. Paul grins and I wish I knew what he was thinking as he heads down the hall. A minute later he’s shouting my name, his voice laced with anger and panic. I turn as he makes his way back towards me and shoves the box of condoms in my face—the ones he bought me just last week.
“These haven’t even been opened,” he says, his jaw tight and his face red.
My eyes narrow and I snatch the box out of his hand. “Were you digging through my stuff?” I’m more embarrassed than upset, but I try not to show it.
“They fell out of your backpack when I set the other bags down,” he explains. “You told me you slept with someone the other night, but that is a full box.” He gestures to it, and I can’t decide if there’s more anger or concern in his voice. But I’m not used to anyone being concerned about me.
“So?” I try to deflect.
