Page 113 of Worthy

When I get to the lobby, my heart jumps up in my throat at the sight of Jamie waiting to open the heavy doors for me. As if the day couldn’t get any weirder, he skipped his normal sweaters in favor of a casual tee and a pair of gray sweats that makes my mouth water. I can’t help the huge smile that spreads across my face, and to my surprise, he smiles back. “Everything alright?” He brushes a hand down my back as we head out the door, then keeps it there as we walk to the car.

“Everything is healing perfectly. I have another appointment three weeks from now, but by then I’ll be able to drive myself.” I’ll miss him—his relentless calm and the way he takes everything I say so freaking seriously. Maybe I can convince Mallory to start having weekly dinners with her dad and invite me along for no particular reason.

“Good job, Kota.” He opens the car door for me, resting his cool hand on my warm neck as I get in, then hands me my protective pillow. He leans over me to buckle my seatbelt, his hair tickling my cheek. One of the few benefits of having a small dick is that he can’t see how hard he makes me.

The radio rambles quietly about weather forecasts as we drive south out of Seattle to my studio apartment in the suburbs. I distract myself by texting Mallory photos of my still swollen and bruised chest. Even though I can’t wait to hug her tomorrow, part of me wishes she would stay in Spokane until I can figure out whether there’s something real between Jamie and me, or if I’m imagining the whole thing.

“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” I blurt, desperate to listen to his steadying voice. “I’ll probably sleep and play video games.”

He shoots me an incredulous look, like I just suggested he go clubbing. “Work, of course. What else would I be doing?” I could be mistaken, but he seems even moodier and more pedantic than usual, like I’m not the only one struggling to let go of the past four days.

“This is it,” I say finally, pointing at the row of apartments on the right. I expect him to make one of his overly blunt comments about how shabby they are, but he just presses his lips together and finds a parking spot. Since I still can’t carry anything more than five pounds, Jamie grabs my backpack and the groceries he bought me. I would offer to pay him back, but it’s so pointless that I save my breath for climbing the stairs.

As I unlock the front door, I try to remember if I left anything awkward out in the living room—dirty underwear, my stuffed animals, my massive orange dildo. The place looks clean when I switch on the light, but it’s almost as embarrassing to have Jamie examine the cheap, worn out furniture and the video game posters I hung up because I can’t afford real paintings. I finally found an elementary school that would hire a trans teacher, but the job pays almost nothing. I’m just lucky their health insurance covered top surgery.

I spot my flamingo stuffy, Francis, on the couch, but I force myself to ignore him until Jamie leaves. I don’t need this to feel even more like a childish crush than it already does. “Just leave everything on the counter,” I tell him as he wanders into the kitchen. “That way I don’t have to reach into the cupboards.”

“Very well.” He arranges everything as carefully as if he were making store displays, then sets the bags aside in awkward silence. When he leaves the kitchen, I’m sitting on the edge of the couch picking at a hangnail with no helpful words.

“Thanks for all your help,” I offer lamely, hunching my shoulders in a sudden wave of shyness. “I know it was a big disruption.”

When he doesn’t answer right away, I glance up to see him holding Francis. He carefully hands me the threadbare flamingo stuffy that has stayed with me for my entire transition. “It would make me happier if you didn’t say that,” he murmurs in that uncertain voice he gets when he’s trying to express something he doesn’t totally understand.

“I’m sorry.” I stroke Francis’ soft fuzz, then set him aside and stand up. “Thanks for everything.”

When I go in for a hug, he catches my wrists gently. “Don’t raise your arms, remember?” Of course he never forgets. I bite the inside of my lip and hang my head, gutted that I don’t even get to hug him goodbye. But instead of walking away, he takes my shoulders in his strong hands and pulls me against his chest, then folds me into a warm, firm hug. He keeps it chaste, like a hug between friends, except for letting me tuck my nose under his collar and inhale him. “Be good when I’m not around and follow all the doctor’s instructions.”

I smile into his shoulder. “You are so bossy.”

“With good reason,” he insists earnestly, clueless to the fact that I’m teasing him. He pushes me back with his hands on my arms and looks me up and down. “I don’t trust you. I should ask Mallory to stay with you.”

“I promise I’ll be fine,” I insist. I love Mal with my whole heart, but that same heart isn’t ready to face her just yet. She probably wouldn’t be mad if I told her I fell for her dad, but I wouldn’t even know where to begin.

“I suppose this is goodnight, then.” I thought he’d be relieved to have his house and his life back, but he sounds sad.

“Goodnight. Thank you.” I stay rooted by the couch, waving awkwardly as he ducks outside shutting the door behind him. I can’t fling myself miserably across the couch without hurting myself, so I perch on the edge of the coffee table and rub my face in my hands. “Shit.” I’ve had crushes before, and even rejection, but Jamie feels like a deeper kind of loss. He’s the first person to see the real Kota, the first one who makes me feel wanted and cared for as a man, not a sideshow. My future dating life is ruined—how can I leave that feeling behind and dive back into the pool of strangers and assholes that feels so dangerous for someone like me?

My phone vibrates with another text from Mallory.Oh, say Happy Birthday to Dad for me!I blink at it a couple of times. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask Francis, shoving on sandals as fast as I can without hurting myself. “Seriously? That man drives me completely insane.”

Hugging myself to protect my chest, I stagger as fast as I can back downstairs. When I emerge into the sun, I’m relieved to see Jamie just opening the door of his BMW. “Wait!”

He glances up, startled. “Are you alright?” he asks with a worried frown.

“You didn’t tell me it was your birthday.” It sounds a lot more like an accusation than a statement.

Letting go of the door, he straightens up. “I suppose it is. So?”

“How are you going to celebrate?” I gasp for breath and ignore the pounding of my heart.

“Work. It’s just another day, Kota.”

“You can’t work through your birthday.”

“I do it every year.” He crosses his arms, which flexes his muscles against his sleeves.

I cross my arms right back at him. “What were you going to have for dinner?”

The man actually rolls his eyes at me. “I don’t know. I have some tinned soup that needs finishing.”

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