Page 3 of Angel

Nico snorts. “Since when do you do what they tell you?”

I huff quietly. It’s true. I might have a teeny tiny rebellious streak that makes me want to do exactly the opposite of whatever someone tells me to do. That whole reverse-psychology thing? Totally works on me.

“Anyway,” Nico says, pulling me into a tight one-armed hug. “I’m glad you’re here. I know Mom and Dad are too. Even if they don’t say so.”

I know he’s right. My parents love me. They just don’t understand me. Nico’s always been the golden child. Smart, athletic, a real man’s man. He married his high school sweetheart and they bought a house three blocks away.

But me? I’ve always been different. More interested in dolls than trucks. Wanted to play with makeup rather than sports. I grew my hair long in high school and started wearing “girls’ clothing”. My parents never forbade any of it, but they definitely disapproved.

“Have you said hi to Dad yet?” Nico asks.

“Not yet. Didn’t want to interrupt his story.”

Nico chuckles. “The one about getting kidnapped?”

I roll my eyes.

“Now might be a good time.” He nods toward Dad.

Sure enough, Dad’s standing with our old neighbor from across the street. The rest of his audience has dispersed.

I leave Nico by the drinks table and approach. Dad spots me as I draw closer and his friendly, life-of-the-party expression becomes shuttered. I sigh and force myself to smile.

“Hey, Dad. Happy birthday.” I give him a hug, but unlike the one I shared with Mom or with Nico, this one is stiff and awkward. We barely get our arms around each other for a split second before we both back off again.

“Thanks, Son.”

I bristle. Not because I’m not his son—I am. But because he says it like he’s trying to remind me that I’m a boy, not a girl. And I know I’m a boy. Keeping my hair long and wearing makeup and dresses doesn’t make me any less of a boy. It just makes me a boy who likes long hair, makeup, and dresses, damn it.

My smile might tighten around the edges, but like him, I’m a performer at heart, so the smile doesn’t slip an inch.

“Having a good time?” I ask.

“Yeah, it was nice of everyone to come out.”

I nod and silence fills the dead air between us. Neither of us know what to say to each other. We never have.

“You’re gonna stay for the cake, right?” he asks, finally.

“Uh…” I scramble for an excuse, but he beats me to it.

“Your Ma spent all week baking it.”

Which means that if I leave before the cake is unveiled, I’ll be the disrespectful, ungrateful son who couldn’t be bothered to have a slice of his mom’s cake. Wonderful. I tamp down my irritation.

“Yeah, of course I’ll stay.”

“Good.” Dad nods, then turns away. “Hey, Bobby!”

I’ve been dismissed. Thank fucking god. With my can of wine cooler, I manage to sneak back inside and up the stairs without anyone seeing me or stopping me. I don’t let myself breathe until I’m back in my childhood bedroom, slumped down on the bed.

The room still looks the way it did when I was a teenager, and I’m not really sure why. The walls are plastered with posters of hot dudes—baseball players with their tight pants, Olympic divers in nothing but a speedo, a bunch of Australian firefighters posing with kittens. The bedspread is bright pink, with ruffles. The curtains are tied back with mini feather boas.

I would’ve expected Mom to strip the room down to the studs and redecorate, but nope, everything is exactly as I left it when I moved out. Weird.

I grab my phone. There’s a message from Hayden, who is my best friend in addition to being my roommate. It asks how things are going. And a second message from another good friend, Sebastian, asking me if I’m alright. I smile.

Moving away from home when I was eighteen was one of the scariest things I’ve ever done. I only moved from Staten Island to Brooklyn, but it felt like a world away. I didn’t know what I was going to do with my life or how I would survive. I only knew I had to get out of this neighborhood.

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