Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Cannon
“Oh, you’re awake. Is this Cannon? I’m Reed.” His warm, throaty tenor, quiet and extremely serious, melts me into a puddle on the bed.
“Um, hi. What’s up?” I sound so smooth.
“I’m sorry I called so late. I was going to leave a message.
” The tone of his voice tells me he wishes I hadn’t answered.
“There’s something I need to tell you before we meet.
I wasn’t going to bring it up, but you seemed so enthusiastic and I…
I don’t know what’s best. This is why I didn’t want to use a stupid app in the first place. ”
“Reed,” I interrupt, my voice a bewildered croak. “I’m, like, two percent awake. Can you talk a little slower and use fewer words?”
“I’m trans.” I guess he took me literally, because he doesn’t say anything else.
I stare dreamily into empty space. “Hi trans, I’m Dad.” Almost thirty full seconds of silence later, I jolt upright in bed. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I did not mean to say that. I was asleep, and…shit.” I bury my face in my knees. “I get it if you don’t want to meet me tomorrow.”
After another long pause, he clears his throat with a hint of a dry, confused laugh. “That last part was supposed to be my line.”
“Back up,” I babble, still incoherent. “Being trans doesn’t change how I feel at all. You’re so hot. Fuck, I mean— Look, I still want to hang out with you if you still want to hang out with a total idiot.”
“Yeah, I do.” His soft, slightly awkward voice doesn’t relax, but it does get warmer. “See you soon.”
Reed
I never liked Fridays.
Fridays mean weekends, and weekends mean silence, an empty house, dark rooms, or maybe if I’m feeling bold, the corner of a coffee shop where everyone wants me to give up my table because I’m alone and they have friends.
So no, I’ve never liked Fridays the way other people do. And now it’s even worse. Now I count them. How many more Fridays do I have? Today I’ll find out, I guess.
But first, someone is coming to find me.
Fourteen girls in red Milton High Cheer t-shirts and athletic shorts gawk at me as I settle onto the bleachers next to the football field and pull out my phone.
Fighting to keep a straight face, I scroll through the History Today article I was reading over breakfast about the social impact of the sewing machine.
I even fake a yawn, just to rub it in. After a few minutes of chickadees singing overhead and sneakers shuffling in the wet grass, our eleventh-grade flyer Madison pipes up. “Coach Palmer?”
I pretend to finish a sentence, then glance up casually. “Yes?”
“What are you doing?” They all think I’ve gone crazy, but at least they’re paying attention now.
“Well, it looks to me like we’re not interested in practicing anymore, since we didn’t qualify for State. So I thought I’d use this chance to catch up on some class prep.”
Kelsey, a very opinionated freshman, crosses her arms. “That’s so not fair. What’s the point of training hard when we’ve already failed?”
The early morning sun finally rises high enough to warm the back of my neck.
Getting up hours before school starts is definitely not my favorite part of volunteering to coach the school’s cheer program.
“Since you’re asking me, I think the point is keeping our minds and bodies healthy and bonding with our friends.
But it’s your opinions that matter, so I’m going to match my energy to the energy you bring to practice. ”
The girls start making faces at each other, passing telepathic messages up and down the row until Madison sighs and rolls her eyes. “Fine. We’re sorry, Coach Palmer. We don’t want to stop cheering. We’re just sad that we didn’t make it.”
“And that’s absolutely fine, as long as we keep trying.” Stuffing my phone in my pocket, I hop up and distribute high fives to everyone until my palm is stinging. “I’m proud of all of you. I know it sucks, but this is how we get better for next year, right?”
Except there won’t be any “we” next year. My stomach cramps. I try to avoid anything that will trigger this train of thought, but I keep stumbling over it because it’s everywhere, in everything.
Forcibly clearing my mind, I glance over my shoulder to check the clock over the back door of the school. My breath hitches in my chest like I got punched. He’s here.
Cannon flashes me a hesitant smile from where he’s leaning against the faded brick wall thirty feet away with his arms crossed.
None of the girls have noticed him yet. “Go ahead and get changed for class,” I call hastily, waving them away.
“Use your extra five minutes to think inspiring thoughts about how many push-ups we’re going to do on Monday. ”
Laughing and groaning, they stream into the building. A couple of them do a double take to admire the stranger, but luckily for me none of them are ever going to connect him with their painfully uncool, old-as-dirt history teacher.
Silence falls as I cross the slippery grass and stop in front of the guy from the app.
He’s unfairly, disgustingly good looking—a few inches shorter than me, with powerful shoulders and biceps that fill the sleeves of his white t-shirt.
His blue eyes look bright against the flawless tan of his skin, and his blond hair is shaved on the sides with a thick French braid going back along his scalp that makes him look like some kind of Viking.
I feel like crap at the way Cannon’s grin fades when he sees the look on my face. “You should have waited out front,” I chide quietly, weaving the strap of my school lanyard in between my fingers. What a great first impression.
His expressive eyebrows furrow as he glances at the Milton High School spirit banners hanging above the bleachers by the football field. “Oh shit, I’m sorry. I got excited, but I forgot schools don’t like their teachers to have personal lives. You won’t get in trouble, will you?”
“Not if you go wait out front.” The answer is very pragmatic in my head. He asked, after all. But the words come out sounding incredibly rude. If I’m too awkward to date someone, why the hell did I think I wouldn’t be too awkward to act like we’re dating? “I didn’t mean—”
“That’s on me for not listening to the teacher’s instructions,” he interrupts gently, with a flash of teasing in his eyes. “Take your time, then find me and we’ll start over.”
“Thank you.” Taking a deep breath, I look down at myself.
He wasn’t supposed to see the cheap school-branded athletic clothes I threw on in the dark this morning.
“I’ll ditch the bright red track pants,” I offer ruefully.
It’s not even funny, but he lets out the warmest, happiest laugh, like bright summer afternoons napping in the shade, and my whole body aches.
I fetch my “date clothes” from where I left them folded on the table in the teachers’ lounge—just a lightweight blue sweater and dark jeans, because I don’t really own anything else.
Since I had top surgery three years ago, I could get away with using the male staff locker room, but I always change in the unisex toilet next to the chemistry lab.
If anyone here figured out I was trans, I’d probably be locked out of the building by Monday.
After rinsing with mouthwash for the fourth time today, trying in vain to tidy my curls, and checking with my substitute to make sure she’s ready to cover my classes, I run out of ways to stall.
The drop off rush finished five minutes ago, so it’s easy to spot Cannon sitting on a beat-up old road bike chained to a lamppost on the sidewalk.
My first impression wasn’t wrong—he’s a muscular ball of sex appeal wrapped up in a cheeky 1000 watt smile.
What I couldn’t have guessed from his photo is the sense of calm authority he radiates, the kind that my body responds to viscerally even though I’m ten years older.
There’s “out of my league” and then there’s…
this. I should probably just walk away. But then I remember last night, when he blurted out the world’s worst “Hi, I’m Dad” joke.
How he panicked and started babbling apologies in the cutest groggy voice.
He bounces up as soon as he sees me, smiling at the cloud pattern knitted into my sweater.
After six years on testosterone, my body has masculinized enough that I can wear more whimsical clothes without being misgendered.
“Hi! I’m Cannon,” he enthuses, like our communication blip never happened.
My mouth drops open in protest when he grabs a huge bouquet balanced on the handlebars of his bike and holds it out.
“Don’t worry,” he jokes, misreading my stunned silence.
“I kept them safe in my jacket on the ride.”
“Um, god.” I can feel my face getting warm as I study the delicate white anemones and green ferns, resting on thick bunches of honey-smelling lilac. Besides a few roses at graduation, no one’s ever given me flowers. “These are stunning. I’m so sorry I didn’t get you anything.”
“Hey, don’t say that.” His voice comes from much closer as he steps forward, stopping right on the edge of drawing attention. “I mean it. If we’re going to do this, you have to let me treat you right. It makes me happy.”
Forcing my gaze up from the riot of blooms, I meet his sky-colored eyes just a foot away and study them more carefully, searching past the overwhelming hotness to what lies underneath. “You did mention being bossy.”
Dimples pop out on both cheeks as he grins. “This is nothing.”
I take a deep breath, trying to pull in enough oxygen to clear my mind. “Look, can I buy you a coffee really quick? I want to check in before we go any further.”
He follows my gesture toward a blue service station sign a couple of blocks down the road. Not my first choice, but it’s the only thing in walking distance. “We can absolutely talk. Do I have to drink gas station coffee though? I will, if that’s what it takes, but I might burp on you later.”