Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
XAVI
I’ve been putting my jewelry on display for the past two days now.
Taking pictures and then packing them up with proper labels so I know which box has what item.
I’m either working faster these days, or it’s been a hot minute since I last dropped new inventory.
Either way, there’s a whole lot more than usual.
Or maybe I’m just slower at this part this week.
I’m excited about some of these new sets getting out into the world.
I created a new line that’s specific for aromantic people and one for transgender.
I don’t often create entire lines for a specific identity, but as awareness days come and go and I scroll through comments of idiots, I realize how dark our world still is, and it inspires me to spread some joy.
I began creating jewelry for an online stranger who lived in an apartment with a radical homophobe. He constantly posted videos of his interactions, and one of the phobe’s constant comments was how ashamed he should be to be riding dick.
Honestly, his obsession with this man’s dick was a loud tell of a closeted motherfucker spreading hate to hide his own insecurities.
But watching this man keep his head held high always inspired me. However, it’s a single short exchange between them that stuck with me.
“Are you proud of who you are?” the gay man asks.
“Of course, I am. I’m exactly as God made me and living as I should.”
“As am I. Pride isn’t about broadcasting when my dick goes down anyone’s throat. It’s about being proud of who I am, just as you are. When you’re condemned for where you put your genitals, then I’ll stop being proud to be who I am.”
Yes, the exchange was centered on sex because the phobe never let an interaction go by without commenting on where he puts his dick, but the gist of the conversation is the same. I’m allowed to be proud of who I am. Period.
I worked for three weeks on something specific for this stranger.
We’d never interacted before, but when it was finished, I sent him a message on ShareIt with the picture and explained that I’m a long-time supporter and fan, and I made it for him because I was inspired by his confidence, pride, and strength.
We quickly became internet friends. I sent him the item. He gushed and gushed online. It was during one of these moments that he was gushing about the necklace I made him when phobe learned that he’s internet infamous in a bad way and was absolutely pissed. It was epic.
Since then, pleading for jewelry like I made this stranger-turned-internet friend came pouring in, and I accidentally fell into this business.
That was four years ago, and I think I’ve come a long way since that first piece.
I often send my friend something new because he always gushes over and over about it on his feed, so it’s exposure.
But also because I make them loudly proud. Nothing about what I make is subtle.
I’ve been branching out into different styles though because, let’s face it, rainbows don’t go with polka dots.
I am proudly a rainbow. That’s the flag I claim as my own, but not everyone feels the same.
I want my jewelry to be wearable and not sit in a jewelry box, so I’ve been trying to branch out a little.
Shapiro comes streaking into the room and jumps onto the table just as I’m taking a picture. I laugh and wait for him to settle so I can take one without him in it.
“Is there a fire, sunshine?” I ask.
He glares at the door, and it might as well be an announcement. My mother’s voice calls up the stairs. “Xavi?”
I laugh. Shapiro despises my mother. She always tries to make friends with him. Brings him treats, toys, and catnip. Shapiro ignores her outright but enjoys what she brought him only after she’s left.
I roll my eyes at my dramatic cat. “In here, Mom!” I call. A few more pictures from different angles, and I set my camera down to pack up this necklace.
“There you are. Oh, this one’s stunning,” Mom says as she stops beside me.
“Thanks. I made you something. Hold on. Let me finish this.”
She bounces on her feet a little. My mom loves it when I make her jewelry. She tells anyone who’ll listen that her son made it. Hell, she tells even those who don’t want to listen. I love my mom.
Once it’s packaged and labeled, I add it to the pile and head for the inventory heap that I still need to photograph. Maybe I should break this into two drops. Or separate them by identity? That might be cool. Events. Aromantic event. Transgender event. Queer event. Well, that event is year-round.
I dig through the items. I have a few different storage vessels.
A doll trunk closet thing I turned into something for the necklaces.
I hang each one on a hanger so it doesn’t get tangled.
The little drawers hold the rings. Pegs on the back hold bracelets.
The only thing that doesn’t fit here is earrings. I made a little pegboard for those.
“Here it is.” I turn and hand her the new ally necklace.
When I first began making jewelry, my mom said she wanted something to announce that she’s an ally.
She has several queer kids, as tends to happen when you have seven.
She asked for something to announce to the world that she’s a proud ally of her kids.
I’ve been making her different pieces ever since. As she does when I hand it to her, she squeals with excitement. You wouldn’t know my mother is in her sixties.
“Oh, baby. I love this! It’s stunning. Help me put it on.”
She’s already wearing one of my necklaces. I can’t remember a time when she wasn’t wearing my jewelry. It always makes my heart warm. After I secure it behind her neck, I arrange it with the other, and they fall perfectly together.
“It’s as if I meant for them to lie together.” This one is specific to bisexual allyship. In honor of my brother, Nelly. It also has a nod to polyamory with the infinity heart to include his entire household.
“Xavi, this is stunning,” Mom says as she examines it in the mirror. “Your brother is going to love it too.”
I smile and return to the storage caddy and choose another necklace at random to arrange on the bust display that Shapiro is sitting behind and glaring at my mother.
“I have something for you, too,” Mom says.
Shapiro follows when I move the bust, so I decide this one is just going to include my orange cat.
My followers are well acquainted with Shapiro at this point.
They also know when he has that look that my mother is in the room.
I grin in anticipation of the comments on this photo when I upload it.
Maybe I’ll upload it tonight as a teaser that something is coming.
“What’s that?”
“Give me your attention, Xavi,” Mom says. I turn and see the manila envelope in her hand. My breath catches, and chills break out over my body. She’s grinning. “I have a contract for you. Signed.” She offers it to me.
“Oh my god,” I murmur. It’s happening. It’s finally happening.
Tears sting my eyes. I’m not teary, but it feels like I’ve been waiting for this moment my entire life. “Thanks, Mom,” I whisper.
She kisses my cheek. “Take a look and give me a call when you’re finished. Okay?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
Mom gives me a hug. “I’m really proud of you, baby. I can’t wait for you to begin your happily ever after.”
“Me too.” I can’t seem to get my voice above a whisper.
Mom squeezes me again and then lets me go. “Thank you for the necklace. I’m going to see if Nelly is home and up for a drop-in. I need to show him.”
I nod. “Let me know what he thinks.”
“Of course.”
As soon as Mom leaves, I look at Shapiro. “When are you going to give Mom a chance?”
He blinks at me and lazily drops from the counter. I shake my head. “Come on. Let’s go read this thing.”
My hands shake as I walk to my bedroom and drop into my comfiest chair.
I cover with the blanket there and wait for Shapiro to settle at my side before pulling out one of the contracts.
My parents marked with page stickers what’s different from my contract to one that combines mine and my future husband’s.
The first note is about locations. We won’t be living here. My stomach drops. I hate that. I’ve lived in this house my entire life! Sparrow’s family lives right behind my house.
Okay, not right behind my house. There are practically a dozen football fields that separate our houses, and one massive wall that surrounds my entire rich, snobby-people community. I think Sparrow’s uncle owns all the land beyond the wall, though.
Anyway. I don’t want to move. The thought makes my chest tight. Especially when it says I’ll be moving a few hours south to reside in Napa Valley once we’re married.
At least we’ll stay here for the thirty days before our wedding. Further tacked onto that is that we’re to live within the continental United States for at least forty-nine weeks throughout the year. Twenty of those weeks must be in California.
I scowl at that. What kind of bullshit is that? Why? What’s the purpose?
The next point changed is about the honeymoon. We’re not leaving the country. I roll my eyes.
On to children. Knocked down from three to two. They’ll be had via surrogacy, one biological each.
I’d give anything to take this out entirely. I tried when I was a kid to get my parents to remove it. I’m the seventh kid. The seventh son. There’s no need for me to have kids. Our family line is already very well carried on.
My parents weren’t willing to take it out. Even after I told them I’d not be a parent. The kid will be raised by nannies.
They assured me I’d change my mind when it was my kid.
That was when I was a kid myself. Back when I hadn’t told them I was gay. Back when my oldest brother was just coming out and having a massive fight with my parents about the gender of his spouse. I was terrified of my future. Sparrow and his neighborhood of love were a lifesaver.
Obviously, my parents came around. Pretty quickly, too. I don’t know what happened, but it ended with my parents and brother in tears, hugging. That was fourteen years ago. My mother is now a very loud ally. And I mean loud.
I haven’t changed my mind on the kids thing—something I voiced last year.
Still, they weren’t willing to take it out of the contract and maintain that I’ll change my mind when it’s my own.
I won’t. I don’t even enjoy being around my nieces and nephews.
I love them, sure. But I don’t enjoy their company.
Last name change. Mine will change to Undergrove.
“Xavi Undergrove,” I say out loud. Not my favorite. I think there’s a far better ring to Xavi Adair, but whatever. Not the end of the world.
I’ll be spending Christmas with his family. Every year.
“I hate that,” I mutter.
The wedding will take place in his family’s church. Another point that makes me cringe. A reception will follow directly at the location of our choice. I suppose that’s something.
There’s a list of properties that we’ll be obtaining upon marriage, which includes my familial house that I currently reside in.
At least I get to keep my house, even if it won’t be our primary residence.
We’ll be acquiring the house that will be our primary residence in Napa Valley, as well as a vacation home in the Bahamas.
“Why include something that we can’t visit for more than three weeks a year?” I mutter, flipping back to that section. No, wait. Maybe I misunderstood. We can’t live somewhere for more than three weeks a year. What if we had an extended vacation for four weeks? Does that mean—?
Oh, wait. Here’s the definition. ‘Living’ someplace is defined as occupying a single dwelling for five or more consecutive weeks. So, arguably, we could hop between three different houses in the Bahamas and still call it a vacation. That counts according to this.
“Stupid,” I mutter.
Financial obligation. The debts we go into the marriage with are not to be shared with the other party.
They are our own responsibility. Huh. I don’t have debt.
Does he? There are none disclosed despite there being a section for debt disclosures.
Maybe that comes from his end to protect him in case I have debt?
Inheritance is our own and controlled solely by the individual it is released to, i.e.
, my trusts are mine. My company shares are mine.
I have final say in use of that money. Otherwise, all assets we come into the relationship with, already released, are to become communal wealth.
Then it carries on with a list of what that includes and what’s not included.
I scan down it, noting that at least one account that holds at least thirty percent of my net worth is to become communal.
There is a brand-new section about resolving disputes or conflicts during our marriage.
There’s a new section about disclosure of previous life events that will be reported before the contract is finalized and included below, to which it’s listed that he was arrested for being falsely accused of domestic violence.
The ‘victim’ admitted it was all made up and that he never touched her at all, much less violently.
Because of this incident, he spent a short time in prison.
Huh.
An entire page discusses the acquisition of property during marriage and what it can and cannot be used for. Did my parents even read this? It’s stupidly restrictive.
I continue to read down the weirdness that was added from his contract. There’s a note as to what was taken out of mine, which wasn’t anything too exciting. If anything, it appears that what had been in mine was too open for interpretation.
“What kind of family am I marrying into?” I wonder and scratch Shapiro behind the ears.
Part of me wants to bring it back to my mother and be like, what the fuck is all this crazy?
But as I go back and look at the things added, I decide that none of it is truly something that is concerning to me.
I don’t really care about travel, so the sections on property and living situations are meh.
It’s the principle more than me actually wanting to travel.
As much as I’d rather not get married in a church, it’s honestly not worth a fight.
I don’t truly care; it’s just not part of my belief.
The kids thing would be the only thing I’d get rid of, but I’ve already argued that over the years, and it was dropped from three to two, so that’s something.
“This is it,” I tell Shapiro. “Ready to meet my forever man?”
My heart races as I sign all six copies. One week. This all begins in one week!