13. Ryan #2
He exhales, then turns around, a warm, delicious-smelling, full dish in his hands. “I hinted toward it.” He puts the dish on the island and pushes it to me.
“You mean you lied,” I say, even though I know it’s a little pathetic, a little childish, how my voice shakes.
“I did not lie,” Camille replies, setting down his own bowl, but he’s turned away from me, his face a dark profile against the dusk-lit wall. “I just did not tell you everything.”
I eat in silence for a few moments. The food is better than I want it to be, rich and fragrant and hot enough to sting the roof of my mouth.
I want to be angry, but mostly I just want to keep eating.
Some of the tension in my body melts away with each bite, like I’m being slowly sedated by calories and salt.
“So you think the break-in has something to do with their relationship?”
“I think,” Camille says, and now he’s really looking at me, his eyes heavy with something that might almost be apology, “that people will go to extraordinary lengths to protect the stories they want told. Or to destroy the ones they do not.”
“You’re still not telling me everything,” I say, and it’s not a question. “I get…” I take a breath, steeling myself. “I get that we’re just fuck buddies. But I… I don’t know. I thought we’d gotten to a point where… where you wouldn’t hide these kinds of things from me. Do you really not trust me?”
Camille’s eyes flicker; it’s a tell I’m only now learning to read. He doesn’t look down, doesn’t fidget. He only blinks a fraction slower than usual and says, “It is not about trust.”
“That’s not an answer.” The food in my mouth suddenly tastes like paper. “It sounds like you’re protecting someone, but I don’t know who.”
He puts down his spoon with precise care. “If I am protecting anyone, it is you.”
I shake my head. “That’s not how it feels.”
He breathes out, slow and controlled. “I do not want you involved in something dangerous.”
“Why is it dangerous, Camille?” I ask, frustrated. “It has to be something more than them being gay.”
Silence. He stares at the wall for so long I think he’s decided not to answer at all. But then he says, so quietly I almost miss it, “I do not wish you to become a target. Like Alberte.”
The name lands between us like a dropped glass. I push back from the island and stand, bracing my hands on the cold edge of the counter.
“So what am I supposed to do? Just… wait around and hope no one tries to break in again?”
“I will not allow anyone to harm you.”
I bark out a laugh, sharp and ugly. “You wouldn’t have to fucking protect me if you’d just tell me what the danger is! I can protect myself, Camille, but I don’t know how, because for some stupid reason, you think you’re being fucking chivalrous by keeping me in the dark.”
He stands too fast, and the stool skids an inch. “Ryan.”
“What?”
He lowers his voice. “I am sorry.”
I want to continue being angry, to yell at him and argue the truth out of him, but instead I just feel cold.
“I’m tired. Where’s the guest room?”
He gestures down the hall. “Upstairs, at the end, on the left.”
I grab my bag and head for the stairs without looking back. The memory of his face, so perfectly composed, follows me up. I slam the door behind me, but it does nothing to shut out the ominous feeling in my chest.
* * *
The guest room is the nicest I have ever been in. The bed is comically enormous, heaped in duvets so soft they practically swallow you whole. There’s an antique writing desk in the corner and a window overlooking the rolling countryside.
None of it helps.
I set my bag on the bed. My hands are shaking.
There’s a mirror above the desk. I look at myself in it and force my face into blankness.
My eyes are red-rimmed. I laugh, quietly, at how much I look like a child at summer camp, homesick and furious but too proud to pick up the phone.
I unpack my toothbrush, the half-finished book I brought with me, and then I just stand there, unsure what to do next. It’s not even dark yet.
I check my phone—no new messages. Well, at least that’s familiar. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare out the window.
I stay in the guest room for a long time.
I do not sleep. For a while, I try to read, but the words blur together, and after the third time I realize I’ve been staring at a page without understanding a single sentence, I snap the book shut and toss it onto the comforter.
I check my phone again, then let it hover over the lock screen, daring myself to open a blank message window and type. I do not.
Eventually, night falls, swallowing the view outside the window into a depthless blue-black that reminds me of a river at midnight.
I turn on the desk lamp, but the circle of light only makes the shadows in the room darker and deeper.
I give up on pretending I’m tired and wander into the ensuite bathroom, where I spend an embarrassing amount of time brushing my teeth and then running scalding water over my wrists until the veins stand out blue and bright under my skin.
I imagine I am rinsing away all the adrenaline, anger, and whatever else is making my hands shake.
It doesn’t work.
A little later, I leave the guest room and pad barefoot down the hall.
The house is silent, and the old floorboards creak with every step, carrying the sound through the bones of the walls.
I pass the bedroom I know is Camille’s; the door is ajar, and the bed is perfectly made, the coverlet stretched smooth and undisturbed.
There is no sign of life in the room—no phone charging, no books or glasses on the nightstand, not even a loose sock to prove that anyone actually lives here.
I continue downstairs. The kitchen is dark, but a faint glow spills across the foyer from the open library doors.
I cross the threshold and find Camille on the couch, sitting almost exactly where we first had sex, one long leg folded under him and a book propped open on his knee.
There’s a glass of deep red wine on the coffee table beside him, untouched.
He doesn’t look up when I enter, but I know he knows I’m here; his posture shifts just enough to acknowledge my presence.
I hesitate in the doorway.
He turns a page, then speaks. “You can come in.” He gestures to the empty cushion beside him. “Sit.”
I sit. Camille closes his book and places it gently on the table, then looks at me, hands steepled under his chin. His eyes are shadowed, but the light from the nearby lamp gives his skin a bronze warmth, softening the lines of his face.
“Can’t sleep?” he asks.
“No,” I say.
He picks up his wine but doesn’t drink. “You are angry with me.”
“I have an ex, Paul,” I start, looking across the room into Raja’s enclosure. “He… We weren’t…” I sigh, my brow furrowing as I think about how to explain Paul. I don’t like that I’m about to give Camille a piece of me that I thought I’d never give anyone.
I find myself searching amongst the enclosure’s foliage to find Raja, because looking at Camille feels impossible when I’m about to rip open a wound I’ve spent months trying to scar over.
“We were together for six years,” I say at last.
Camille remains silent.
That helps. If he offered sympathy, or brushed my knee, or murmured an “I’m sorry” in that soft, measured voice, I think I might bail on the whole conversation and bolt upstairs. So I keep my gaze glued to the opaque glass where the leaves blur into emerald shadow.
“I met him before I started transitioning. I’d known I was trans for a while, but there’s a difference between knowing something about yourself and being ready to blow up your entire life over it, you know?”
I glance sideways at him. Candlelight catches in his eyes, reflecting a steady attentiveness rather than pity.
“I can imagine.”
“No, you probably can’t,” I snap, but the edge falls away instantly. “And that’s okay. Most people can’t.”
He nods once, a small motion that feels like permission to continue. Meanwhile, I drag my fingertips along the seam of the sofa cushion.
“My name has always been Ryan, but back then, I wore different clothes and had my hair longer. I was…” My throat catches, so I clear it.
“I was performing this version of myself that made everyone comfortable, even though I was miserable. But Paul knew. Not straightaway, but pretty early on. I told him before things got too serious because I thought it was only fair.” My voice trembles.
“I told him I was a guy, that I’d want hormones once I could get them without a parent’s consent, maybe surgery someday, that I didn’t know exactly how I’d look, but I knew I couldn’t stay a woman forever. ”
Camille’s hand tightens around the slender stem of his wineglass; the crimson liquid swirls with a quiet clink. “And he stayed,” he says.
“Yeah.” The laugh I give is small and harsh, a dry rasp between us. “That’s kind of the problem.”
“For years I thought him staying meant he understood. That when he said he loved me, he meant me. He was there when I started testosterone—drove me to the clinic, helped me fill prescriptions. When I got scared about telling people, he promised we’d figure it out together…
I thought I was so fucking lucky.” I swallow against a sudden dryness. “Then I started really changing.”
My hands slide into my lap, trembling slightly.
“My voice lowered. Body hair sprouted. My face sharpened. Not overnight, but month by month I faced a stranger’s reflection who felt more like me.
” My lips tilt into a small smile. “I loved every stupid little change. The first time I spotted darker hairs on my stomach, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror for like an hour, tracing them like proof—proof that my body could become someone I recognized.”
The smile vanishes. “Paul hated it.”
I look at Camille. His jaw shifts—just the faintest motion.