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They’re also—
Fine. They’re pretty. Pretty enough that if some other boy looked at them for too long, I’d snarl. Pretty enough that some terrible part of me wants to grab them and keep them. Shatter a bone so they can’t leave me like everyone else wants to, like everyone does once they see how ugly it is under here.
Felicity sets the setting powder on the nightstand.
“Thank you,” they say. “For helping me.”
For some reason, I reply, “Then act like it.”
Their mouth slams into mine, and they’re on top of me, and Mrs. Keating calls from downstairs, “Dinner’s ready!”
Fuck.
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Tonight’s dinner in the Keating household consists of the driest chicken I’ve ever seen in my life, with a side of kale and carrot salad. When I ask (politely) for a glass of water so I can choke it down, I am summarily denied.
“Liquids with dinner ruins your digestion,” Mrs. Keating declares as she piles my bowl high with food that my autism wouldn’t let me eat even if I were starving. “Would you like to say grace? We always let guests lead, if they’d like.”
“I’m good. Thanks.”
Felicity, at the table with their foundation-coated scabs, looks like they’re going to vomit. They refuse to look at me, or their guardians, or at anything but the grains of wood in the grand oak table. Mr. Keating leads the prayer, and when I take Felicity’s hand to complete the mandated circle around the table, they flinch.
I don’t hear any of the words. I’m too busy replaying the memory of Felicity’s lips on mine, until it scrambles into vague softness and pressure and their necklace on my chest.
During dinner, Mr. Keating shovels dry chicken into his mouth as he discusses drafting a bill to legally reclassify gender-affirming care as child abuse—if he used to work with my father or recognizes me in any capacity, he doesn’t bring it up—and Felicity is fixated on a single mishappen carrot slice.
“It’s for the good of the nation,” Mr. Keating says.
The kiss upstairs couldn’t have been more than a second or two, and it was clumsy. Felicity put their weight into a weird spot on my arm. Our noses jammed into each other.
