Birthday(57)

“You’re pretty,” he says again. His mouth tugs into a smile. “You’ve always been pretty.” He knuckles his temple and shakes his head. “Maybe I always knew without knowing.” He bites the corner of his lip again and looks down at my legs. “I think I did. I think more than how you looked … We’ve always been … I don’t know, it sounds stupid, but maybe I could feel it even when I couldn’t see it. Like when I kissed you … you felt like a girl to me.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say that,” I say. My throat clenches up and I feel my eyes burning.

“Why not?” he says. He sets his glasses aside and leans forward. “You’re crying. I made you cry. God, I’m sorry…”

“I’m not stupid, okay?” I say. “I know what the world’s like for people like me. Even if I am pretty, which I’m not, even if I win the genetic fucking lottery, I know what it’s like.”

“What’s it like, Morgan?” Eric says. “I don’t understand.”

I look down at his carpet with burning eyes, remembering a lifetime of roughhousing, of building Legos, of looking up at the stars glued to the ceiling, of talking about little-kid bullshit like it was the most important thing in the whole world. I swallow hard. “I don’t know if anyone will love me the way that I really am. The time you kissed me might be the last time anyone ever does, and even then you had to have your glasses off. You said so yourself. So I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you don’t have to. I’ve come to terms with that.”

My shoulders shake and my mouth twists, but I don’t let myself cry. I close my eyes and hear him shift next to me. It’s okay, I tell myself. It’s only natural for him to pull away.

Something touches my chin and gently tilts it up. I open my eyes to find Eric wearing his glasses again, his expression open and warm, with a hint of a smile. He turns my face toward his. His thumb reaches up to swipe a tear from my cheek. I feel my lips part. I feel like I should say something, but then he leans in and his breath is on my chin and neck and then his lips are on mine.

He tastes like chocolate cake.





ERIC



I lace my fingers in hers and hold her hand, gently but firmly.

Her hand, I think, as our lips dance at their intersection. She doesn’t pull away this time. She. Now that I know, how could it have been different? I slip my tongue where her lips part, and as I rise to my knees I graze my fingers down her jaw, her neck. She shudders. Her fingers close around my hand like she’s drowning and a wordless sound escapes her mouth into mine. She dips her face to the side and slips her hand free. It rests on my neck, smooth and warm, and her shaking lips hover near my ear.

“You don’t have to do this,” she whispers.

I kiss her temple, her cheekbone. I run my hand under her hoodie, up her smooth, flat stomach. She sighs again and I smile.

“I do,” I say.

She pulls my face to hers and kisses me three, four, five times.

“Of course I have to,” I say.

She looks down, a hint of sadness creeping into her eyes even as her skin flushes under my hand.

“What’s wrong?” I say, worried I’ve gone too far. “Do you want to stop?”

“It’s hard not to feel like a boy,” she says. Her voice cracks. She shakes her head.

And, I mean, I’m not blind. All I know is that I’ve never felt like this before, that under the things about her body she might not like, she is a girl, vibrating the same hue as any other. And she’s more than any girl, any friend, any girlfriend. She’s Morgan. My Morgan.

“But…” she says. Her eyes bore into me, and I realize the first song I ever write is going to be about her. Morgan Gardner deserves a song. “My chest is flat. My shoulders are broad. I’ve got a … you know … how could you possibly…”

“Some girls are tall,” I say. I kiss her forehead. “Some girls have broad shoulders.” I kiss the bridge of her nose. “Some girls have flat chests.” I kiss her chin and let my breath flow down her neck. “And I guess I never thought about it before, but if you’re a girl, then some girls have whatever you have.” I kiss her collarbone.

Her head tilts back and her fingers twist through my hair. I plant kiss after kiss on her neck.

“Just don’t touch my chest,” she says. “Or there. Okay?”

“Okay.”

My phone buzzes. I ignore it and it keeps buzzing, but nothing can take my attention from this moment. Morgan plants a hand on my chest and pushes me back, back, back, until I’m lying down with her poised above. She cups my face in both hands and kisses me like I’ve never been kissed, like each of us was a key built for the other and now, after seventeen years, both of us have been unlocked. We kiss until my lips feel numb. Her hair gets in the way and my glasses bump her nose. I consider taking them off, but I want her to know I see her.

She deserves to be seen.

“Eric…” she says. She lays her body across mine and ranges her hands across me, biceps to belt, her fingers pinpoints of light. Her words come in the gaps between kisses, desperate and quick.

“Yeah?”

“Eric.”

“Morgan.”

She pushes herself up and stares down at me, her dark eyes glimmering, her face framed by falling hair.