Kiss Her Once for Me (15)

I wonder, vaguely, if this person would protest to being called pretty.

They’re fucking beautiful. My fingers are desperate for the pencil in my shoulder bag so I can sketch the straight line of their nose and the slope of their jaw before I forget what they look like.

“I promise I didn’t come over here to bother you,” they say, leaning their long torso sideways against the shelf of books. “I’ve been telling my friend I’d read Fun Home for years, and I figured I could finally get to it during my time off for the holidays. It looks like I stole the last copy, though.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” I mumble. “You can have it.”

“That hardly seems fair.” They bite down on the corner of their mouth again. I have no idea what’s funny, but I’m sure it’s me. And possibly the way I’m nervous-sweating. “You were here first.”

“It’s okay. I’ve already read it. Like, ten times, actually. It’s amazing. And sad. And amazing.”

They glance down at the cover, at the abstract green leaves, at the illustration of an unhappy family trapped inside a picture frame, at the words A Family Tragicomic scrawled beneath the title. They slowly shake their head and sweep aside their hair. “I’m not much of a reader, but I heard this book has pictures.”

“Uh, yeah. It’s a graphic novel.”

They flip through the glossy pages. “Oh. Huh. Look at that.”

“You don’t read… like… at all?”

They shake their head, and their hair sways a bit across their forehead. “Not really. There’s too much… sitting involved.”

So much for my bookstore fantasy. It’s only now that I realize, along with leaning against the shelf behind them, they have one leg hooked in front of the other, and they’re shaking their right foot, as if to the beat of an unheard song. “There are audiobooks,” I suggest. “You can listen to those while doing… whatever you do.”

“I bake,” they answer. “For my job. I work in a bakery kitchen. I bake cookies, cakes, pastries—that’s what I do.”

“Oh.” I try to imagine this tall, loud, restless, person piping intricate frosting details on a cupcake, designing shapes in fondant. I picture those long fingers kneading dough…. “You can do that while listening to audiobooks.”

They cock their head to the side. “You’re very concerned about my literacy.”

“Well.” I start windmilling my arms at my sides nervously. “It’s just… books are great. And based on the last five minutes of conversation, you seem also… great. You know, with the general concern about women crying in bookstores. That’s the trait of a great person. And I love uniting two great things whenever possible. So.”

I flail my arms more for good measure. The stranger’s smile breaks free of their teeth, their mouth twisting into a half-moon, pulling the white scar through their lip into a fishhook shape. I feel that fishhook snag on my stomach as if it’s pulling me closer to them.

I do not like that feeling.

“I should go!” I shout abruptly, stepping around them to make my escape. Their hand comes up again and reaches for my sleeve.

“Wait. What about the book?” They flash me Fun Home again.

“I said you can have it.”

Two fingers are hooked on my sleeve, and they stare at me intensely. In this lighting, their dark eyes are almost incendiary, like they could burn right through me. They’re still staring, and I squirm under their gaze. I want to look away. I unexpectedly want to ask this stranger what they see when they look at me.

“I was thinking a shared custody arrangement might be in order. You know.” Their smile widens. “An every-other-weekend kind of deal. You could have the book for Christmas, then we’d meet up for an exchange so I could have her for New Year’s.”

“I’m not sure it would be healthy for the book to be carted back and forth like that.”

“Hmmm…” they murmur. Even their murmur doesn’t have an inside-volume. “You’re probably right. Maybe we should stick together. For the book’s sake.”

“If we’re going to be co-parenting,” I say slowly and cautiously, still worried this person is going to flee, “I should at least know your name.”

They release my sleeve and reach for my hand. “I’m Jack.”

“Jack?” I repeat as their cool hand slides into mine. Something flips in my lower stomach, and I’m not sure if it’s the way Jack’s calluses slid against my palm, or if it’s my nerves at screwing this whole thing up. This is Portland, not Ohio, and I’m probably going to do this wrong, but—“I’m Ellie,” I mutter clumsily, “and my pronouns are she/her. What… um… what are your pronouns?”

Jack’s entire face breaks into a genuine grin. “She/her,” she confirms, and I think maybe I didn’t fuck that up, after all. “Ellie.” She repeats my name, saying it like it means something. “Shall we?”

I hesitate. “Shall we… what?”

Jack straightens, steady as an oak tree, and takes a confident step up the aisle. “I figured I could start by buying my co-parent a coffee.”

I turn to the window behind us, to the snow piling up on the sidewalks, turning the grimy Portland streets pristine white. And I think about freedom and joy and magic. “I—I shouldn’t get coffee,” I hear myself say. “I have a lot of work to do this weekend, and—”