4 Ian
Ian
The bookstore is slow, but Ian doesn’t mind that.
It gives them time to read. They’d prefer to be the sort of artist who practices all day and performs at night, but they don’t make enough for that.
They actually have to ask Brandon to help out with their share of rent more often than they’d like because drag is fucking expensive—makeup, wigs, custom dresses.
And the tips they make aren’t really enough to break even on it.
Brandon is cool, and generous, but Ian hates when they have to ask.
So that, plus the ever-present student loan debt, means a bookstore job where they try to pick up as many shifts as they can.
It isn’t a bad place to work. At other jobs they’ve had, reading when it was slow was discouraged; they were supposed to be folding shirts or cleaning.
In a bookstore, though—at least this one—as long as they were behind the counter, ready to answer questions if a customer appeared, Kate doesn’t mind them reading.
They’re currently working through a mystery Ollie recommended.
Gruesome, inspired by true events, kind of unputdownable, as much as Ian wishes they could.
They have trouble not finishing things. They’re a completionist. No matter how awful the TV series, how boring the book, how offensive the movie, they will finish it.
The only time they’re allowed to back out is the first ten pages, the first episode, the first date—that’s just testing something, not committing to it.
But once they’re in, they’re in. Even if the book is bad or, in this case, very weirdly gory and with some terribly written sex scenes, they have to know how it ends.
And they’re not going to look it up online; that’s cheating.
Get to the end—then they can make a complete, well-informed decision.
I hated this book, and I’m sure I hated it, because I read the whole damn thing.
That’s what they’ll tell Ollie tomorrow at brunch.
The phone rings, a regular just checking in on a cookbook she ordered last week that hasn’t come in yet.
Ian says they’ll let her know soon as it does and leaves a Post-it on the desk as a reminder to whoever is here when it shows up.
They read another few pages of the book, sneering at another sex scene where “her pudenda quivered,” and then, blessedly, the bell over the door jingles.
It’s a small bookstore, about the same size as the apartment they share with Brandon, but stuffed with ceiling-high shelves, so they can’t see the door directly from the counter.
Kate, the owner, put up a mirror in a corner, but it’s bulbous, curved, so the faces coming in the door are distorted for a moment, supersized balloons.
A blond mom and a blond kid, maybe four.
The store doesn’t have the best kids’ section.
Kate started it as a queer bookstore but branched out into—ew—heterosexual mainstream stuff to bolster sales.
“Hello?” the woman calls out.
“Welcome,” Ian calls back in their best customer-service voice. “You looking for something in particular?”
The woman rounds the shelves, clutching her kid’s hand tightly as the kid tries to squirm away, toward the brightly colored art books, Ian thinks.
The woman gives Ian a once-over, in their oversize cardigan and crop top, the multiple rings and necklaces, the long dangling earring, the visible tattoo of a thick black circle around their left hip that rises from the waist of their jeans and falls back down again.
“Hi,” Ian says, smiling at her look, wondering where it’ll fall.
If anyone bothers staring at Ian, they’re usually an out-of-towner, and that means they’re either going to be so pleased to see some of the Brooklyn weirdness they came for, embodied in Ian, or disgusted.
Real New Yorkers barely notice Ian anymore.
Unless Ian wants to be noticed, of course.
“Yeah,” the woman says, her eyes narrowing a little, landing in the unnerved-but-staying-polite category.
“I apparently got the wrong book in the series for my niece’s birthday, so I was just hoping you had the right one before I go to the party.
Linus, stop pulling, please, there’s no time to browse. ”
“Sure thing,” Ian says. “What’s the series?”
Ian doesn’t even need to check the computer; they remember shelving it last week—the latest from the Princess and Powderpuff series. They walk over to the tiny kids’ shelf and pick it out, then bring it back to the counter.
“Linus,” the mom sighs as her kid finally breaks, dashing to, yes, the art books. Big brightly colored ones all stacked on a low shelf with one face out, covered in a photo of running paints in a rainbow: QUEER COLORS: Contemporary LGBTQ Painters .
“Lookit the paint!” Linus says, excited.
“Yes, but that book is too grown up, honey; it’s not what we’re here for.”
“It’s a great book,” Ian says, ringing up the Powderpuff book, very grown up feeling like one of those phrases that could be homophobic, or could just mean she thinks it’s too advanced. “ QUEER COLORS , I mean. Some overlooked painters.”
“That’s nice,” the woman says flatly. Linus is opening the cover of QUEER COLORS slowly.
“It’s mostly photos,” Ian says, swiping the woman’s card. “Your kid might be inspired.”
“I appreciate the upsell,” she says, sounding tired. “But we’re just here for this. I don’t suppose you gift wrap?”
“Sorry, only for the holidays,” Ian says. The receipt prints, and they take out a paper bag and put the book in it and hand it to her. “Hope this is the right one.”
“Thank you,” she says.
“Lookit!” Linus says. He’s pulled the first few pages open and is up to a big full-page photo of a painting of two men kissing. Neck up, very modern style, in vibrant Vaporwave colors.
“That’s a good one, right, kiddo?” Ian asks.
“I like the colors!” Linus says, excited someone responded.
“Come on, honey, we gotta go,” the mom says, taking the bag from Ian and walking over to Linus. She closes the book.
“It’s a great book,” Ian tries again. “Mostly photos of art, not really too adult at all.” That’s not entirely true, but the kid likes a queer book—that should be celebrated.
The woman sighs loudly, intentionally. “No thank you. We’re going, Linus.”
She takes his hand and walks out.
“You seem homophobic,” Ian says loudly, when they’ve opened the door.
The woman pauses for a moment but doesn’t turn back, and the door closes with a shutter and a ring of the bell.
Ian knows they shouldn’t have said that.
But it’s what she was dancing around, right?
If she’d just been too rushed, too tired, or just didn’t want to buy it, it would be one thing, but too grown up is like a jolt in Ian’s veins.
Too queer—that’s what she meant, right? And Ian was supposed to call her out on it.
It’s where the conversation was supposed to end.
And Ian’s a completionist. So why do they feel even more annoyed now?
They sigh and pick their book back up, then put it down again and take out their phone instead.
“Bitch,” they murmur to themself, checking the chat.
OLLIE
I love a party!
NICOLE
Won’t a guy you just met think it’s weird if you throw him a party?
They roll their eyes.
IAN
Stop talking about this like it’s happening! We’re not throwing a party!
brANDON
But we could! They’re selling streamers at the grocery! You love streamers
IAN
You want to have a party for the streamers?
brANDON
Yes. Then it’s not for Jon, we’re just throwing a party and inviting him
IAN
Let’s see if he texts you back first
They wait a moment, but there’s no response.
Maybe that was too cruel. Though it does mean this guy hasn’t texted Brandon back yet.
They never do. Ian doesn’t know why—Brandon is cute, and there’s gotta be some other guy out there who’s just as in love with the idea of being in love as Brandon is.
Why have they never met? They could hook up, decide it’s love, have a few weeks of intense romance, realize they hate each other, and break up dramatically.
Isn’t that how it’s supposed to go for guys like Brandon? Ian doesn’t know why it hasn’t yet.
Ian closes the chat and stares at their phone screen, their thumb hovering over the Instagram icon before tapping it.
They switch over from their main account to one of the others, then from there go to Raphael’s profile.
Raphael is Victor’s boyfriend. He’s a big guy, lots of gym selfies, huge arms and chest, always mugging for the camera like he’s butch, like his Instagram isn’t filled with photos of him in a tiny red Speedo at the beach in Jersey, where he and Victor went over the summer.
Ian doesn’t hate Raphael; it’s not his fault Victor cheated, ended things.
But they do think of him with some contempt.
And while making some inevitable comparisons.
Ian is narrow, so femme that they don’t even identify as male—though they are only into guys, and they think of themself as a woman only when in drag.
They’re nothing like Raphael, with that faux-gay-butch-dom-top-daddy thing that feels like it’s trying too hard.
Ian doesn’t know how Victor fell for it.
Ian was never like Brandon. They do not fall in love.
If anything, they were the one who never texted guys like Brandon back.
Then, with Victor…it kept happening. And he made Ian laugh.
And he was angry at all the same stuff, too.
That’s why Victor said he’d hooked up with Raphael, was leaving Ian for him—Raphael wasn’t angry like Ian.
He didn’t make Victor feel angrier. Instead, he felt calm with him, he said. Happy. Things were just easier.
Ian didn’t know what to say to that at the time, and Victor didn’t give them a chance to respond, anyway. He just apologized again, crying, and left. The conversation was never finished.
Ian’s hands move quickly now, leaving some hearts under the selfie of Raphael as this fake persona—Adam, some photo pulled from Google of a hot shirtless guy.
They switch back to their main account, close it, open TikTok, switch to a different account, go to Victor’s page, and feel their hand tighten around the phone as they watch a fan-cam-style compilation of Raphael, sparkly filters and all.
Ian hates Victor for this. For being happy.
And then they hate themself for hating Victor, and then they think about what it felt like dragging a key on Victor’s car—some old one, his uncle’s, fancy and sleek.
Ian used to tease him about it. The car of a guy compensating for something.
Victor always laughed at that. Until he didn’t.
They start to leave a comment on the TikTok— FAGGOT —but delete it.
This account is linked to his other accounts, and if Victor blocks it, it’ll block those, too.
They need to write hate speech from their burner.
They put their phone back in their pocket and reach for their bag, under the counter, where the burner is, but the back door to the office opens, and Kate comes out.
The door is right behind them, so they’re suddenly too close, crowded behind the counter. Ian straightens up, stops reaching for their burner.
“You okay?” Kate asks. She’s fiftysomething, a rail of a woman with short bleached hair and purple cat-eye glasses.
“You look tired. Angry-tired. You yell at a customer again?” She folds her arms. This has been a sticking point with them lately.
Kate likes Ian, but not enough that she’ll let them drive off every customer. Only, like, one a week.
“No,” Ian lies.
She sighs. “Did they deserve it?”
No, Ian thinks. It was just a tired mom rushing out of there.
Ian knows that. But it was the way she was talking to that kid.
That kid could be queer, and now he’s going to think men kissing is “too adult” for him, and that might make him ashamed or scared, and thinking about it just feels like pressure building inside Ian’s brain, pushing out their eyes.
“Just…stuff,” Ian says, taking a deep breath. They spot the book on the counter. “My book isn’t great.”
She laughs, walking around them, in front of the counter. “So stop reading it.”
“I—”
“I know. I’m kidding.”
“I’m sorry,” Ian says.
Kate nods. “It wasn’t a regular, was it?”
“Tourist.”
Her face goes blank, thinking about that, and then she smiles. “You’ll get better, right? I’m not making a mistake keeping you on?”
“No,” they say. They need this job. If they lose it, it’ll be months before they can find another, and they don’t think Brandon will float them on rent that long again.
“I’ll get better.” Ian feels a faint prickling that could become tears, a tightness in their throat, and looks back at the book.
It’s such a bad book. It annoys them to no end, just thinking about how they’ll have to finish it, and the prickling in their eyes goes away, the tightness in their throat moved to their jaw. What a fucking terrible book.
“Okay,” Kate says. “I’m going out for lunch, the vegan place. You want anything?”
“Iced coffee,” Ian says, without even thinking. They look up at Kate’s smirk. “And I guess one of those little mushroom buns?”
“Sure,” Kate says. “Have fun being angry at your book.”
“I’m going to finish it,” Ian says, picking it up, almost forgetting it wasn’t the book they were pissed off at.
“I know you will,” Kate says, walking to the door. “You can’t help yourself.”
The bell on the door rings, and Ian turns the page.