Page 8 of Not My Fault

“Babe, don’t do this.” She tilts her head down and bats her dark eyelashes at me.

“I’ll see you, okay?” I kiss her forehead and head for the front door.

I’m not someone who cries, but damn do I want to punch something right now. Standing in the elevator, looking at my own reflection, I think about punching myself. I’m in my thirties, for God’s sake. What the hell am I doing with someone who doesn’t want the things I want. I know better than this. Clenching my fists, I storm out the building and head downtown to my apartment. I don’t have work today so I may as well go home and get some sleep. Maybe I’ll hit the gym in my building and get a workout in to alleviate this anger.

On my way out the door, I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. I’m positive it’s Cari texting or calling to apologize. But I don’t bother looking. I’m not in the mood to see what she has to say. So I head for the 6 train downtown. I live in Bushwick. I grew up just outside of New York, in a small town in New Jersey, but assoon as I was old enough, I grabbed the first train to the city. My dad always said my personality was too big for a small town; I don’t think he’s wrong. But it’s more than that. Being non-binary isn’t easy for anyone in a small and close-minded town. Here, I’m able to dress and look how I want. Sure, most days that’s more masculine-leaning, but it isn’t like I have someone telling me I need to look a certain way.

I swipe my stupid OMNY card on the reader before sliding through the turnstile and heading to the train. I miss my MetroCard; I had waited as long as humanly possible to switch to this stupid thing. I’m nostalgic and stubborn, I guess, but the new card doesn’t hit the same way a MetroCard always did. The new card feels like a credit card, but it scans you though. Gone is my swipe that may or may not go through.

I pop in my AirPods as I take a seat on the train. It’s just after eleven, so it isn’t crowded. Everyone who needs to go to work is already there, and anyone else is a tourist looking for the Brooklyn Bridge or a local heading home. I know how many songs it takes to get home once I’m on the train so I can mostly tune out. Tapping my foot along to the song, I relax a bit. I won’t admit this out loud, but I’m obsessed with that new singer, LULY. After hearing her play live at Aspen’s birthday party, I saved all her songs to my Spotify. Most of them are poppy and upbeat, but there are a few from some EPs that are more toned down. She stripped down her emotions and bared her soul on those tracks. I was impressed. These are the songs that I listen to when I want to feel something. Not that I won’t put on some of her happier tracks when I’m in the mood to get hype. Or if I’m going out drinking.

Not that it happens much anymore. Most of my friends have settled down with a partner and kids, leaving me to the bars. It’s better than dating apps, but not by much. It isn’t that I don’t like going out, but I definitely don’t like the one-night standexpectations. Or the fact that bars seem to be so loud lately it’s like you can’t have a conversation in them.

My best friend, Kenzie, had it easy with her wife, Barbie. They’ve been married for years now and travel all the time for both of their careers. Barbie is the CEO of a successful toy company, and Kenzie is a successful plus-size model. They had a complicated relationship that was five years of loss of contact followed by them falling back in love. I don’t have anyone I’d want to fallbackin love with, but I wouldn’t mind falling in love for the first time. In some ways, I’m jealous. I don’t know if I necessarily want a wife and kids one day, but a long-term partner? Someone to wake up with every morning? That sounds like heaven to me.

By the time I’m back to my apartment, I’m relaxed enough that I don’t feel like hitting the gym. I can always go later if I feel up for it. I unlock the door to my apartment and kick off my boots. All three of my cats come out of hiding to greet me.

“Hi Sparks, Bitsy, and Cat Burglar.” I pick them each up and give them a kiss hello. They meow at me, and I put them back on the ground.

My neighbors’ kids named them for me. I was struggling to pick names, and they insisted I name them after the cats on the showSuperKitties. The names have grown on me, and they work for them. I grab a fresh can of cat food from the kitchen cabinet and place it on the counter. They all walk to their bowls already on the floor and wait. I wash my hands to remove the grime from the subway, then open the can and give them a scoop. They aren’t the biggest fans of the wet food, so I fill their bowls with some dry food too. Then I head into my room and get undressed.

I take off my chest binder and place it on my dresser. I don’t love having my breasts free, but I don’t want to potentially damage anything by wearing it too long. I’m home alone, so I put on a sports bra for some support. My breasts aren’t big oranything, but they always feel like an attachment to me—one I don’t know what to do with. I don’t like the way they fit certain clothes, and I don’t like the way men ogle at them. Sure, I like women too, but I hate being stared at like a piece of meat. That’s the main reason I’ve chosen to wear binders when I’m out and about.

Bitsy jumps on my bed, and Sparks is not too far behind. I adopted the three of them from a shelter nearby a few years after moving to the city. They are older now, almost eleven this year, and I don’t want to google the lifespan of cats. Their different colored furs have started to gray but they are still going strong. Bitsy is a black cat while Sparks is black with some white spots, and Cat Burglar is an orange cat like Garfield. And yes, he's always getting into trouble, hence his silly name.

“I think I need a nap,” I decide, looking at Sparks and Bitsy cuddling at the end of my bed.

I didn’t get much sleep last night, and it isn’t like I have much else to do. I have a load of laundry I can do, but I’m not up to it right now. Before climbing into bed, I put on a pair of boxer shorts and pick my phone out of my pants pocket. I ignore the messages from Cari and look at the missed texts from River. There are more than three, which worries me. I’m about to read them when I get an incoming call from her.

“River? What’s up?” She doesn’t typically call me on my day off. Or at all, for that matter.

“I’m so sorry to bother you, but I have to run to the hospital. Aspen sprained her freaking ankle at CrossFit. But I have a high-profile client coming in tonight and I really don’t want to cancel on her. Is there any way you could come in later and take her?”

“Who’s the client?”

“The singer from Aspen’s birthday party, LULY. She wants a chest piece done.”

“What time do you need me to come in?” I eye my very cozy looking bed. Maybe I won’t be getting that nap after all.

“Just before close? She asked that the place is empty because of crazy fans, and since I thought I was doing it, I agreed.”

“Okay, and what’s the design like?”

“It’s pretty general, nothing crazy or too much my style. Rae and Isla are already fully booked, and I’d hate to let someone else in town get the job.” She sighs. River isn’t my boss, so I could say no. But I also know how much a high-profile client like her would help the shop.

“Yeah, I can do it. Can you send me her contact info and the designs she wanted? And is Aspen going to be okay?”

“Thank you! Of course! Gus you’re literally a lifesaver! And I think so, she’s more upset than hurt, I think. She’s never broken or sprained anything before, and I just want to be there for her. It sounds silly, I know—she’s my wife, not a child—but still.”

“No, I get it. You’re worried and she needs you. You should absolutely be there for her,” I reassure her.

River thanks me a million times over before hanging up. She sends over the email LULY/Emily sent to her and the art River was working on. I do a quick google search to remind myself who this is and what she looks like. I know the basics, and I know her music, but the last thing I want is to say something stupid in front of someone like her. River and I work on high-profile clients a lot, but it isn’t usually people we recognized or people that make us starstruck. I hope that will be the case tonight. I slump into bed and decide to take a quick nap before I have to shower and head into work later.

FIVE

Emily

“Hey, are you Gus?” I ask the masculine looking person behind the desk. River mentioned Gus uses they/them pronouns, so if it’s them, I want to be sure to remember that.

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