Page 91 of Our Little Cliche
“Well, you’re not wrong. I DJ at a gay bar.”
“Oh, that’s awesome!”
“Yeah, it is. I love it there, it’s become my home. Plus I’m… gay.” She pauses, rubbing her hand along her arm as if in shame, then her eyes drop to her lap. “Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize. Are you not comfortable talking about it? We can talk about something else if you want.”
“No it’s not that. You’re so easy to talk to, eh. I’ve only ever told a few people, but what you say in the club, stays in the club ya know? I haven’t even told my parents. And it’s why I don’t like to be called Renee, because I don’t feel that Renee is me. I am Stacy.”
I swallow, feeling terribly guilty that she’s opened up to me so vulnerably. I’ve just met someone who feels that I am her safe space, and yet I cannot reciprocate it for my own bloody secrets would cost me my career, and Cyrus’s. Meaning, as much as I so desperately want… andneeda friend,I cannot truly be one for Stacy. And that just fucking hurts.
“I can fully get that. You’re so lucky to have such supportive friends there that make you feel safe and welcome. That’s so special to have. And your readers too I’m sure of it,”
“Yeah. That’s why I write what I do. It’s for the gay community. I create women who make other women climax with their magical minds. I compose men who shape shift, and can grow cocks the size of A4 journals depending on how far the other male is prepared to explore. I writequeer romancesthat are open and public about their sexuality to escape the reality of closeting my own. And I write it asfantasybecause that’s all I can imagine. I have nothing to go by…” She gulps, chewing on her words as though they’re acid. “I haven’t been with a… well, I haven’t been with anyone for that matter. What kind of gay does that make me?”
I let her question stew in my mind for a moment, unsure if she’s venting that she hasn’t been intimate with a woman, or guilty that she hasn’t been with a manbecause it’s the societal norm.“You will when you’re ready. You don’t have to have sex to prove you’re who you are.”
“Holly,” her eyes soften, like something has finally clicked into place. “I’ve been in intensive therapy, taking antidepressants forseven years, and no one has ever been this honest, nor made this much fucking sense. Thank you,”
“You’re welcome. Well hey, I can’t wait to read one of your shifter books,” I say truthfully. “Where can I get a copy? I didn’t see you at the signing today.”
I trail off, thinking about Cyrus—a man who to me sometimes isn’t human just like the men Stacy writes about. He’s like a giant bear, with a… well… not an A4 size ding dong, but he certainly isn’t small.
My big bear.
I lean over the table to my left, seeing that Cyrus is still talking with the old man who tried performing the Heimlich onhim. God, I’m so incredibly lucky. He loves so good it hurts. The way he opens doors for me, cooks for me, brushes my hair, plaits it too. He rubs my back, he buries me in blankets, he makes sure I cum first, and wants to know me on a deeper level that I never knew existed in men.
Cyrus is a realman.
“I’d love that, Holly. Where are you staying? If you’re nearby I can give you one tomorrow if you’re around, or I can always post it to you.”
“I’m staying here with—”Not with Cyrus… definitely not staying in the same hotel room as my boss… totally not in the same bed as her work colleague.“Myself.”
“Really? Why don’t we catch up tomorrow if you’re free?”
“That sounds…” Why do I feel like I’m about to cry? “Perfect. I’d love that.”
We spend a few more drinks talking about her upbringing, and her vulnerability being gay. Everyone deserves to feel free to be who they are, and being cooped up in a closet is no place for a woman like her. I’ve only known her for a few hours and already I feel like we’re best friends.
“What if the world doesn’t accept me the way I am, Holly?”
“What if the world does? This is all new. When you experience new feelings,newbecomes different, thendifferentbecomes familiar. Then, one day,familiarbecomes home. Andhome, is you.”
“Wow. That-that’s amazing. Have you considered writing books? You have a way with words. You could change brain chemistry talking like that, I know you have mine!”
“It’s on my bucket list to write a romance book, definitely.” I smile, thinking about the only kind of love I ever want to write about until I’m in my grave.The love of Cyrus and I.It’s a hot minute by the time I speak again. “By the way, you’re not missing out on much,”
“Hmm?”
“Men…” I deadpan, mentally directing the dig about Adam. I’m so glad that she doesn’t have to ever experience someone like him, or any man like that for that matter. His sex was sub zero.
“Oh, is itthatbad?” Stacy queries, shuffling in closer as if it’s story time, and making me giggle.
What a perfect opportunity to shit on my ridiculous, pea sized brain of an ex boyfriend. “My ex was,” I allude, regret quickly sinking in. As much as I love the idea of bitching about Adam, it’ll be hard to stop there. I wish I could tell her everything about me, I really do. I feel like I’ve had so much bottled inside of me that it’s like I’m an actual cage, trapping in all of the toxins of how I got here in the first place. A story that normal people would tell their friends about.
But I can’t tell anyone anything!Because the people I know here, know Cyrus, and everyone I know at home, wouldn’t listen… or care. Sure, Icouldtell Stacy that I got cheated on, got white-girl wasted and of how I got here, leaving everything behind, got a house with no furniture… but then what? How do I continue on from that, because there is nothing else to tell without saying what has filled my life from then on: getting snowed in with my boss who I’msomadly in love with, that we’re fully incognito about it, how sex can be so fucking good that it hurts, how I live with him and have completely neglected the house I still pay for with no furniture in it—furniture that I don’t even care about anymore. But I can’t. Because anything that I bring up would have to be a complete and total lie.
Everything.
