11. Ryan
Ryan
The past two days had been full of highs and lows. The fact that Gids was ready to have me on his arm—as me—was the high, albeit scary as hell. My need for him was a high. Wanting to kiss him was the biggest high. But with those highs came the rough.
I’d been feeling so femme that dressing for the game last night had been nothing short of painful.
Pulling on that ugly polo, those shitty trousers, and having to step into rubber-soled men’s shoes made me feel like throwing myself in front of the Zamboni.
At home, I was so happy. I could wear whatever real Ryan wanted with no fear of repercussions.
But then reality set in, and I had to strip off the skirt, the blouse, and the satiny flats to force myself to conform. I hated it. Hated. It.
Now I stood over an ironing board, hot iron in hand, pressing out wrinkles in the dress shirt I’d wear with a suit to the Copperheads fundraiser.
My grip on the iron was tight as I glared down at the delicate material, my mind clogged with stress, pain, anxiety, sadness, and utter exhaustion.
Every day that went by carrying this boulder of lies made me sick with the ache of losing myself.
It went past emotional pain. It was now physical.
A low, throbbing stress headache had been my constant companion for the past thirty-six hours.
My skin felt irritated as if the masculine clothing were chafing me raw, and I was so damned fatigued.
And to make it worse, in two hours I had to present as a macho male to a packed room filled with other macho male hockey players.
I wanted to retch. The stress hormones were making my gut knot.
It was awful. This fucking suit was awful.
This shirt was awful. I held the iron to the silk shirt with a vengeance.
Some tiny voice of reason shouted at me to stop, but it was too late.
Before I even lifted the iron, I knew the shirt was ruined.
The front had a scorch mark, the exact shape of my iron.
Staring down at it, I should have wept over the ruination of such an expensive shirt, but all I could do was sneer down at the destruction with no small amount of pleasure.
Then, of course, real-life Ryan—the one who now had no shirt to wear with this dark green suit—began to freak the fuck out.
Self-sabotage, my old friend, had returned to destroy this night before it had even started.
Panic rising in my chest, I yanked the iron’s cord out of the wall, pulled on Gids’ hoodie, which was mine now and forever, and bolted out of my room.
Dad looked up from his movie. This fundraiser had a mandatory attendance for players, coaches, and core management. Trainers and medical support staff weren’t required to show up, which left me the odd person out. Again.
“Hey, where you going in such a rush?” Dad asked as I flew past the sofa, grabbed my keys, and yanked the front door open.
“Fashion emergency!” I yelled over my shoulder before darting to my car.
It was cold outside, and the windows were steamy, so it took a moment to get the windshield clear enough to drive.
As I sat there with some old Motorhead blaring from the scratchy speakers, my shoulder spasmed.
I’d been so tight for so many days that every muscle in me was as tight as a banjo string.
Catching my reflection in the rearview mirror, I sighed at my haggard face.
If only I could be me, wear my hair up with the emerald barrettes, do my eyes, feel the slide of a dress gliding down over me…
“Okay, stop, breathe. This is life. Look for the good things. It’s a date. With Gideon. We’ll be seen as a couple in public. Does it matter if you’re wearing a tie or a tiara?”
Yes. Yes, it matters so very much.
Inner me was right. It did matter, but there was nothing to be done about it.
Gripping the wheel, I drove to the mall in a fugue.
Voices were yelling at each other inside my head.
How I didn’t make a wrong turn or end up in the lake was beyond me.
I was parking before I even realized that I’d turned off the exit. Christ.
“Enough. Enough!” I scolded myself. “You’ll kill yourself or end up in a K-hole. This is not that big of a deal. It’s not at all. We’ve been hiding our secret for years. What’s one more fucking night?!”
Hiding is killing us.
I sighed. Yeah, it was, but one more stab of injustice wouldn’t end me this evening.
I’d not bleed out. I’d put a Band-Aid on it, just like I did every single day.
With the knowledge that I’d be with Gideon as his plus-one in front of the whole Copperheads universe, I picked up my phone from the console and made my way inside.
The crush of people, the noise, and the overwhelming smell of deep fryer grease nearly made me gag, but I pressed on.
Eyes ahead, I ignored Sephora. My goal was the men’s wear shop where I’d taken Gideon.
They’d have a replacement shirt for the one I accidentally scorched.
Accidentally? Really? Why are we lying to ourselves? That was done with intentional malice.
True. It had been. And it had felt great.
Families strolled past. People eating cinnamon rolls, pushing baby carriages, and toting bags from a variety of stores. Normal. Normal. Normal. No one else here was clutching their midsection as they bumbled about. They were normal. I could be normal for Gideon. I’d not embarrass him with my—
My eyes were drawn to it. A dark blue brocade choker dress with a Queen Anne neckline. The buzz of shoppers hustling past as well as the piped-in mall music faded into white noise as my whole existence zeroed in on that dress. It was stunning. Beautiful. Me. It was me. It was me. And I wanted it.
I had no idea how long I stood there in a sea of people staring at a dress in a shop window before the tears started.
I found a fountain to sit near, my knees folding, my gaze still on that dress.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew time was wasting.
I had to get a shirt. I had to go home, shave, tie back my shoulder-length hair, and present as a happy dude in a suit.
But that tie would garrote me now, I was sure. The suit would feel like plate armor.
No one bothered to stop and ask me if I was okay.
Which was fine. I wasn’t okay, but how would I ever explain to all these het folks with their kids and their gender norms?
I couldn’t, and that was the rub. Nobody would get it.
Only two people knew. I couldn’t even call Lyle because I’d hidden my real self from him too.
Sniffling, feeling queasy, and still longingly looking at that dress, I dug my phone out of my back pocket to call the person whose voice I needed to hear the most right now.
Gideon answered on the second ring. “Hey, Ryan. What’s up?”
“Gideon, I think there’s…” I took a shaky breath.
“Ryan. Hey, are you crying? What’s wrong?”
“There’s a dress…” I croaked, wishing I was stronger.
It was embarrassing as hell sitting here getting damp from a stupid mall fountain and having a breakdown over a damned dress.
“I’ve been… I’ve been feeling some real suppression burnout the past few days.
Worse than ever. And I burned my dress shirt.
On purpose. It was a deliberate sabotage.
I liked seeing it singe. It felt good. Like if I could have set the whole suit on fire, I would have.
Then I felt bad. Stupid for being so weak.
I came to the mall for a shirt. Then… then the dress was there and I…
it’s so pretty, Gideon, and it’s me. It’s so me, the real me.
And I can’t buy it and wear it tonight, and it’s killing me in ways that—”
“Why can’t you buy it and wear it?” His voice was calm, soft, soothing.
“Because.” I coughed. Some old woman gave me an odd look as she passed by with a bag from a chain coat store. “Because people would… everyone would… people would… because it’s a dress, Gideon.”
“So what? If you like the dress, buy the dress. Wear it. Fix up your hair, put on that makeup you love, and be you.”
“But people will talk about us. You. Me.” I wiped under my runny nose with the back of my hand, the extra-long sleeves of his hoodie acting like a tissue. “Shit, I just wiped snot on your hoodie. Gah, I’m such a wreck. Why do you even like me?”
“I like you for a lot of reasons, and so does everyone else on the team. No one will care if you show up looking like a different Ryan than they’re used to.
This team spouts off about being inclusive.
The league talks about hockey being for everyone, that they embrace the LGBTQ community.
We have two players openly dating other men.
Let them show it. Let them put their money where their mouths are for once.
Buy the dress. Wear it. And if one of those assholes looks at you sideways, I’ll have a talk with them. ”
“What will you say?” I asked, gaze still on that dress. I was scared someone would buy it but scared to get up and go purchase it. I was a fucking mess.
“I’ll say that my date is the prettiest person in the room, and if they want to make a comment about them that’s not complimentary, I’ll cram a roulette wheel up their ass.”
I laughed out loud. Two girls on cell phones startled at the sound as they passed.
“You’re so amazing. I don’t deserve you,” I whispered into the phone.