Track 5 Delilah #3
“It’s a local legend kind of thing—one of the store’s founders snagged a kiss from Allen Ginsberg, who kissed E.
M. Forster, who kissed Edward Carpenter, who kissed Whitman.
So if you smooch an employee, you’re however many degrees from smooching a whole bunch of great queer authors.
Like a giant gay daisy chain.” She pauses.
“Though it’s probably apocryphal at this point.
I don’t think you can make it part of your employee onboarding to make sure everyone kisses at least once just to keep the chain going. ”
“Probably not.” Emmett looks more amused than judgmental, which is a relief, but Delilah asks the question anyway.
“You don’t think it makes me a bad person?”
“What? Wanting to kiss someone?”
“I mean, I was supposed to be getting married yesterday.”
Emmett shrugs. “I don’t think I have any moral authority to tell you how you should act or what you should want.
Your partner hurt you and betrayed your trust. You get to decide how to respond to that.
It doesn’t sound like you want to hurt anyone, so why should it make you a bad person to want to do something for yourself? ”
Delilah doesn’t really mean to, but she stares at him.
She’s not a good enough person to have avoided making a few assumptions about Emmett when she saw the kippah and tzitzit, about what kind of person he probably was and what he probably thought was right.
He’d already proven her wrong a few times, but she still hadn’t expected to get such casual acceptance of her plans to go from being engaged to get queer-married to kissing a total stranger from someone who, at least by all appearances, was fairly religious.
“Huh,” she says finally. “Okay. Thank you.” She pulls away from the shelf, rolls her neck, and sucks in a fortifying breath. “In that case, I’m going to go poke around until I find someone who looks kissable and see if they’re feeling charitable.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Emmett says, with a touch of something that might almost be flirtation but, given the circumstances, probably isn’t. Delilah grins at him anyway, trying to project more cheer and confidence than she actually feels.
“Think you can keep yourself entertained for a bit while I’m gone?”
“Yes,” Emmett says.
This time, there’s no hesitation in his words.
He’s looking out across the shelves and posters and memorabilia around the store, one hand drifting out of his pocket to skim pale fingertips along the nearest row of books.
He stops at a basket of pronoun pins and stares down at them like they’re something he’s never seen before.
Delilah leans over. “What? Thinking of showing off your allyship?” She plucks a he/him pin out of the assortment, waving it at him. “I’ll treat you, if you want.”
For a moment, Emmett doesn’t move. Then, with obvious uncertainty, he reaches down and touches a they/them button with shaking fingertips. “Is this—is this a plural pronoun? Or—”
Not quite sure whether she’s about to educate or start a fight, Delilah says, warily, “Singular they. It’s a gender-neutral third-person singular.”
Emmett doesn’t take his fingers off the pin. “I didn’t…I mean, I suppose I knew about that, but…” He looks up at her, expression guarded. “Anyone can do that?”
Her heart cracks a bit in her chest, confusion giving way to realization and a wave of unexpected tenderness. “Of course.”
A delicate, almost wondrous smile spreads across Emmett’s face. They pick up the pin, holding it like something fragile and precious.
Delilah leans over and gently nudges Emmett’s arm. “Definitely my treat,” she says. “Come on, let’s go check out so we can get that onto your jacket.”
“I’ve never been in a store like this,” they say quietly as they fall into step beside her, like it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if Delilah didn’t hear them.
“I knew they existed, but I didn’t…I’ve never been able to go.
” They glance over at her, expression open and radiating a pure sincerity that Delilah has forgotten is even possible after years of media-ready smiles and public relations half-truths. “Thank you.”
“It’s special, right? A place just for people like us?”
The light in Emmett’s face dims slightly. “I don’t think there are any people like me.”
They hadn’t pushed her away the last time she touched them, so Delilah chances it again, reaching out to put her hand over Emmett’s where it rests on the bookshelf, squeezing gently.
Their skin is cool and rougher than it looks, almost like touching stone.
“I think we all feel like that sometimes,” she says as gently and honestly as she can, because there’s a part of her that knows that look in their eyes, that disbelief, that disconnection and yearning and hope.
“That doesn’t make it true.” She nods at the pin in their hand.
“That alone kind of proves it, doesn’t it? ”
Emmett is still for a moment, looking down at Delilah’s fingers over theirs. Finally, they swallow, nod, and turn a smile on her that doesn’t quite reach their eyes.
“Go find your kiss,” they tell her. “I’ll be fine.”
Delilah takes that as the dismissal it is, but she still lets her hand linger a few seconds longer before she walks away.