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Emotions squeeze around my heart. So many damn emotions.
“I’m okay.” And I actually mean it. I am okay. For the first time in months, it feels like I can breathe.
I pick up my fork to go after my neglected meal and accidentally elbow the person sitting beside me—Clarke, I think?
“Sorry,” I say with a mouthful of peas.
They laugh and wave their hand in a ‘whatever’ motion. They’ve got on a pair of black and yellow striped arm warmers, and their blond hair is swooped in a way that reminds me of the punk rock bands from high school.
“I’m Shiloh,” I say once my mouth is clear of food.
“Clarke. They/Them.” They sound so happy to say it, and Heather nearby smiles at it.
Nobody at the table makes a face or a comment. Even Marshal a few seconds later addresses them with the right pronouns.
All I hear in my head are Dad’s constant refusals. The blatant use of my deadname like it was a knife aimed to maim. Teachers messing up and making fun of the change. Students rolling their eyes because I looked like a typical tomboy.
Then I remember Atlas stepping up and making it cool to be a respectful, decent human being. Blair showing up at the classroom and giving the teacher a lecture on diversity and discrimination.
I miss them.
As tears sting my eyes, Corvin rubs along my inner thigh with soothing fingers. He’s not drawing attention but still offering comfort.
Corvin who never once questioned my identity, who has never treated me or my body differently than any other man’s.
These are my people. My family.
“Excuse me.” My voice wobbles as I push my chair back.
Corvn’s hand drops away, but he tangles his fingers with mine for a quick squeeze before I move past him and out the back door.
I round the house to a spot with no windows and out of sight, then crouch on the ground and bury my face in my hands.
The sob I scream into them is ugly, wet, and as muffled as I can make it. It’s like a build up of all the unresolved tension in my life boiling over into the realization that Corvin is right.
I make things hard on myself because I can’t stand to see who I’ve become.
Even at my worst, all Blair and Atlas have done is try to protect me. They didn’t lecture me when I needed rehab. There’s been tension but they haven’t hounded me about recovery, and they’ve always been there. An offer if I want to accept it.
One day, I’m afraid I’ll end up just like my dad: angry, bitter, and alone.
A pair of warm arms wrap around me, and even if I didn’t know Corvin was the only one in shouting distance who would touch me like this, I’d still know it’s him.
“It’s too much,” he whispers into my ear, and all I can do is nod.
“It’s not fair,” I say, wiping the overflowing tears with the sleeve of my shirt. “I fought and clawed my way to being accepted. My own father acts like I’m just starved for attention. That…”
I motion toward the house. “That is what every little trans boy deserves. Every trans, queer, or however they identity child—this is the family they deserve.”
And it’s one most of us will never have.
Corvin cups my face in both of his hands, rests his forehead on mine, and breathes out so slow I feel it like a caress.
“We all deserve so much better than we got. It hurts. I know it hurts. But we have to make our own families. Protect our own hearts.”
He’s stroking my jaw and sifting his fingers through my hair, a constant contact that keeps me present, that holds me together.
“What if I’ve broken mine? What if it can’t be fixed?”
