I blinked.
Santos was back on his feet. I checked him out—the dark jeans and the button-down shirt and the sneakers, I bet he’d been painstakingly cleaning the night before. Because Santos was on a mission to pretend he had his life together, but just like me, he had an inner battle going on at all times, and it had taken me this long to realize.
“I can take it out at any time. This just helps.”
It did.
I still had half a mind to throw up the little breakfast I could eat earlier as we headed downstairs, and I could hear my parents’ voices filtering through the backdoor to the patio they favored when they were here.
“It’s going to be fine, right?”
I hadn’t put on anything too scandalous. They had seen me in shorts before. I’d even had a crop top on once. This was just a skirt. Sure, a ruffled skirt, but it went to my mid-thigh, and theshirt I’d picked out was a bit baggy, not like the body I’d matched it with the last time I’d put it on.
I was trying. They’d seen me show more skin than this. It should be fine.
The silence that fell as soon as we got to the patio spoke volumes, though.
Of course, unlike Santos, who had gone for more of a casual look, the two of them were dressed to the nines, my father in a suit—tie included, even if he’d loosened it some—and my mother in one of those flared pants and blouse combos she wore for most social engagements.
When we walked in on them lounging on two of the deck chairs they had placed there about a decade ago, they just stared.
A lot.
It was taking everything in me not to fidget, not to vibrate, or start moving.
No. I knew I didn’t have anything to apologize for. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. The itch to break the silence somehow was there.
“Hello, Mrs. Haro.” Santos reached out his hand to her. As if she hadn’t helped clean up his scuffed knees when he was learning to ride a bicycle. “Mr. Benavides.”
“Oh, drop the formalities, son.” My dad waved his hand away before my mother could react. I held my breath when he focused back on me. He had looked as shocked as my mother, but I supposed it made sense that he recovered first. My whole life, he’d talked about keeping the peace and being the glue in the family. “Well, it’s a good thing we didn’t go Christmas shopping yet.”
Given that it wasn’t even August, it would’ve been fucking weird if they’d already had.
I managed to chuckle, though, giving the semblance of normalcy he was trying for. “If you want any ideas, there’s abrand that makes tailor-made dresses for men. I wanted to order one, but the measurement thing was scary.”
I had barely survived it the first time my dad took me for a suit fitting. I could see it in his eyes that he was thinking back to the same memory.
“W-what does this mean?” my mother asked, probably unaware of the silent smile we were sharing. My family had always been the quiet type that wasn’t good with words or very blatant displays of affection. Unlike me, they were better at socializing with people outside of the house, but… Yeah. “You never told us…”
“There’s nothing to say.” I squirmed then, the plug something I was quickly more aware of. Santos moved closer to me. He didn’t pull an arm around me or anything big like that, but if I closed my eyes, I could almost feel his skin against me. “Nothing’s changed, I’m still…Ev. This feels right. Righter.”
“What about…” She swallowed. Everyone had told me my whole life that I took over my mother. I’d never fully seen it until now, as she struggled for words. As she battled between wanting to nod and pretend everything was okay, and she was supportive even though she wasn’t visibly so, and doing things differently. Breaking the molds she had grown up in. The ones she had tried to raise me in, even though they’d clearly failed somewhere along the way. “Pronouns? Isn’t it a bit late to transition? Surgeries and hormones have a higher success rate the younger you start, don’t they?”
“I think it’s more nuanced than that,” I mumbled. I didn’t think I was the person to ask, though. Besides, all the trans people around me had actually started their transition journey in their teens. I didn’t know if there were any stats that backed up what she was saying, or if it was more propaganda disguised as care. “But, uh, it’s just he/him. I don’t want to medically transition. I just wanna wear skirts. And makeup. And…stuff.”
This was better than I’d thought when I’d been tossing and turning in bed while I came up with worst-case scenarios.
It was still not good.
“Okay.” She tucked her shoulder-length hair to the side as she nodded. “Are you hungry? Miguel has set up everything for the raclette in the dining room.”
I shared a look with Santos. He winked at me.
“Starving,” he said, taking over with that dazzling smile that had always earned him more points than it did me when I tried to recreate it. “I’ve been dealing with bureaucracy all morning.”
It was the perfect segue for my parents to commiserate with him. The perfect excuse to have us moving, and to have Santos carry me toward the dining room with a hand on my lower back that no one saw. It burned against my skin, and it left me bereft, not knowing if the plug or his hand was the culprit for the rising temperature, but my parents were none the wiser to it, simply talking to Santos. They’d always felt more comfortable around him. Of course, my wardrobe update wouldn’t have helped those odds.
What helped was Santos’s hand on my leg when we sat around the table with the raclette grills there. Eating raclette—having to load up the little dishes to place them in the grill—one-handed had to be awkward to say the least, but he wasn’t moving. I took charge and started taking care of plating up for him. It was just easier.
