16 Ian
Ian
Ian has been in unpleasant situations before.
Hookups that turned awkward, a sex party they thought they’d try out and quickly discovered they didn’t care for, a terrible tucking incident that came to head during a performance, STI exams, having to tell former partners they might have crabs…
The list goes on. Most of it they can handle with grace and humor as long as no one is being an asshole.
Then they can handle it with rage and attitude.
But they’re not sure how to handle texting Victor.
They’re up early for work and keep glancing over at the phone as they eat some weird health cereal they found in a cabinet; it tastes like he imagines the cabinet does.
He doesn’t like this house. The whole place feels like an insane asylum, or maybe an old-age home, like everything here is supposed to be calming, as opposed to actually lived in.
They finish the cereal, still looking at their phone.
NICOLE
How’d the date go, Ollie?
Ian looks around. Brandon is still asleep in the den, but Ollie has been gone for a while.
IAN
He’s still out walking the dogs, so I think it’s going well.
Although, these days, maybe they shouldn’t be so sure something that looks good is good.
IAN
Or she’s killed him.
NICOLE
I want the deets!
Ian frowns at that. It doesn’t sound like Nicole. But maybe it’s like a forced smile, trying to calm all of them down as they wait for a man with a ridiculous tattoo to shoot them all in the head. Blast all their peaches.
OLLIE
It was great!
IAN
Or you’re her and you took his phone.
OLLIE
She doesn’t know the passcode
And she’s really great. You guys will like her.
Ian smiles. They’re happy for Ollie. He deserves a new partner, or at least a fuck, or maybe just a kiss.
All of them deserve at least a kiss, right?
Like a good, soft kiss that makes everything in your body melt away, and you don’t feel scared or sad or angry, just safe.
Ian hasn’t had one of those in over a year.
IAN
Did you get a kiss?
OLLIE
On the cheek. I’m going to text her to make another date though.
Ian smiles, putting their bowl in the sink and going up to the master bedroom.
Even the walls are covered in white fabric.
Absolutely mental-hospital chic. They get dressed and take the train to the bookstore, opening up and closing the last few messages they sent to Victor, eleven months ago: You really hurt me.
And his response: I’m so sorry.
And now Ian has to apologize.
But at the bookstore, they have to open, and a bunch of parents are there with their kids.
The cool kind of parents who buy their kids the gay art book.
A lot of the parents are queer themselves.
Ian wonders if that’s in the cards for them.
They ring up a picture book for a pair of hot, bearded literal DILFs and their adorable little daughter, who is in a purple tutu.
They’ve thought about kids before—Victor had always wanted kids.
Ian isn’t opposed, as long as it’s a long way off.
Once they have an established drag career.
Once stuff stops pissing them off so much.
But they like kids. Kids are so honest and genuine. Ian never gets mad at them.
Not babies though—babies are gross.
Maybe adoption?
Ian shakes their head, ringing up another book for another DILF and his wife and their little stroller gremlin, who starts chewing on the board book immediately.
But once the morning rush is over, and it’s just them and Kate, Ian’s eyes keep flitting back to their phone.
To Victor’s message. I’m so sorry. Ian took that as a challenge—made sure he was sorry.
Victor has probably blocked them by now, right? That would make it easier.
“You keep staring at your phone,” Kate says as she shelves some new books.
It’s below her pay grade, but Kate likes putting the new books on the shelves herself, seeing what’s being bought or handled in the space more intimately, instead of just looking at sales numbers on a sheet.
She says it helps her figure out what titles to buy next and what to return.
“I have to text someone.”
“You’re usually good at that.”
“I have to text an apology.”
Kate laughs, throwing her head back. The laugh goes on longer than Ian thinks it should. And then it keeps going, ending in panting. “Oh,” she says finally, making her face expressionless like she didn’t just cackle at them for ten minutes. “Sure. That’s hard.”
Ian rolls their eyes. “I apologize to you all the time.”
“I sign your paychecks. You kind of have to.”
Ian sighs. She’s not wrong. “Fine, whatever. I guess I won’t do it, then.”
Kate laughs again. “Sure, there ya go. Get angry and defensive and don’t apologize to someone else because of something I said. Seems healthy.”
“Well—” Ian says. She is, once again, not wrong. “Yeah. Sorry. See? There, I apologized.”
Kate shelves a few more books, then walks over to the counter. “What are you apologizing for?”
Ian sucks on their lower lip, not wanting to reveal the whole story to Kate. Because she’d probably think they’re nuts. “I accused them of something they didn’t do.”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Kate says. “Just say, ‘Hey, sorry, I was wrong.’ You can do that, right?” She asks it like she’s asking a six-year-old.
“Unclear. I’ve never been wrong before.”
Now Kate rolls her eyes and gives them a stare that they know means a biting critique of their character is imminent, but they’re saved by the chime of the door opening as a couple of old dykes walk in, regulars who come in once a month, looking for the new queer releases or recommendations from Kate.
A couple, Ian assumes, one with short, nearly shorn hair, the other with a faux-hawk, always wearing leather jackets, no matter the time of year.
Ian smiles politely, but they know Kate has this one, and she’s soon chatting them up about all the new books, so Ian pulls out their phone again.
Since they’ve been using this new texting app, Ian hasn’t seen normal texts in a while.
Beneath the energetic group chat is something from Tom.
Shit. They should get him an answer. They do really want to see that movie, but…
“Can you put these aside for us?” one of the old dykes asks, placing some books down on the table: a pierogi cookbook, a naming book for dogs and babies, a hard sapphic noir with a vintage cover, and another pierogi cookbook.
“Of course,” Ian says, thumping the pile to the side of the counter.
“Don’t mind them,” Kate says. “They have to send an apology text.”
The trio of older women chuckles together. The one at the desk pats Ian on the hand. “Once you do it, it’ll be over,” she says.
“Or it’ll blow up,” the other says.
“Yeah,” Ian says. “That’s the fear. Well, that and I’m broken forever.” They smile, making it a joke, but no one laughs.
“Aw, honey,” the customer by the counter says. “Nothing is broken that can’t be fixed.”
Ian nods. That’s true. In one of their art-history classes in college, they did a whole section on kintsugi and became obsessed with it, buying up dozens of cheap ceramic pots at dollar stores and then throwing them on the floor so they could repair them in art class.
Beautiful cracks all over. None of them ever came out looking great though.
Their teacher said something breaking naturally wasn’t quite the same as shattering it against the wall just to see it break.
Ian nodded, but still doesn’t really believe it.
They flick past Tom’s message, scrolling back to the last ones he and Victor sent.
VICTOR
I’m so sorry
IAN
The stuff you had at my place is in the dumpster by the bad sushi place.
Ian frowns reading those over. They feel the righteous rage that they had typing it out—how angry they were.
It blossoms in them like a rose of fire.
But they feel something else, too. A little shame, but that’s easy enough to shrug off.
Something else, something like a pit opening under their feet that they’re going to fall into and never get out of, just them alone in the dark forever.
“Putting this one aside too!” one of the dykes says, putting a dark-academia horror romantasy on top of the other ones. “Your boss has the best recs.”
“She does,” Ian says. “So do you two though. Thanks for the advice.”
“We love to help out family. You probably don’t know that term. That’s what we all called each other in the seventies. ‘Family.’ Not sure why we don’t anymore.”
“Gay Republicans, probably.”
She snorts and pats them on the hand again, then goes back to Kate, who has a new book out to show the customers. Ian turns back to their phone.
IAN
So turns out someone else broke into our apartment
Sorry for accusing you
I think it was just less scary imagining it was you
I was really scared
They stare at the words they just sent, feeling queasy all of a sudden.
“You do it?”
They look up to find both customers and Kate staring at them, eyes wide and too warm.
“No.”
“They did,” Kate says. “They just feel weird about it.”
“Shut up,” Ian says.
“Isn’t she your boss?” one of the old dykes asks.
“I can tell you to shut up, too.” Ian is pretty confident they can get away with teasing these customers.
They all chuckle. “Well, good for you. Apologizing is hard but…needed,” one of the customers says.
“Yeah.” Ian doesn’t meet any of their eyes. “Thanks.”
Their phone buzzes and they look down.
VICTOR
What?
Who?
Did you talk to George?
I’ll kill whoever did this
Ian smiles, a warm feeling in their stomach. Victor still cares. Murderously.
VICTOR
Was it Brandon’s newest crush or something?
He didn’t bring home a con artist again did he?
IAN
Something like that
“Ooooh, they’re texting someone back now,” one of the old dykes says. Ian glances up and glares, and all three of them burst out laughing as Kate takes them to the far end of the store to show them more books.
IAN