Chapter 15
The walk home from Sleigh Queen is five blocks of nothing but sheer, sparkling giddiness, and let’s be honest, I’m not playing it cool at all. Jordan’s hand is wrapped in mine, warm and comforting, and every few steps one of us loses it and we’re laughing and kissing again, for no reason except that we’re together, the whole town just saw a drag queen chimney sweep spectacular meant for us, and somehow this is my actual life now.
“That last high kick,” Jordan says, shaking their head. The streetlamp casts their face in gold, and there’s a speck of confetti stuck in the sandy undercut above their ear that just refuses to budge. “I cannot believe May actually cleared the footlights.”
“She’s been practicing,” I tell them, swinging our hands. “Patti told me she’s been rehearsing in the stockroom during slow hours.”
We’re both still cracking up when I try to get my key into the lock, and my hands are shaking, not from nerves, but from this bright, electric happiness. Jordan just steadies me with a hand at my lower back as we walk inside, their palm warm through the thin material of my dress.
The house is exactly as I left it. The farmhouse table angled toward the window, because I thought the light would be better. Drew’s print is still propped against the wall instead of hanging; I haven’t decided if I want to keep it there, and that’s finally okay. The changes are tiny, but they’re mine, and tonight they feel like proof, not rebellion.
Jordan kicks off their boots by the door, easy as breathing, and their flannel lands over the reading chair with a soft thump that is pure comfort. I go to reach behind me for my zipper, but Jordan’s already there, fingers careful and slow drawing the zipper down, and my breath catches in my throat.
The dress slides off my shoulders, pooling on the floor in a burst of cotton and flowers. I’m standing there in my underwear and the strappy sandals I wore because they make my calves look good, and Jordan is just looking at me. Like I’m the whole moon and every star. Over the top, maybe, but I’m not about to complain.
Jordan’s shirt joins the pile, then their binder, and suddenly they’re there in front of me, compact and solid and covered in those tattoos I’ve always wanted to really see up close. The one on their sternum, winding down from the collarbones. Their chest is bare and strong and entirely theirs, and I want to touch every inch of it.
So I do. I reach out, and Jordan steps right in, no quips, no deflection, just the weight of their body against mine, steady and sure and exactly what I needed.
We don’t let go of each other, not even for a second, making our way to the bedroom with Jordan’s mouth pressed to my neck and my fingers buried in their hair. The lavender walls sort of catch the light from the hallway, glowing softly. The bed is right where we left it after the great painting disaster, and when we fall onto it, the frame lets out a creak so dramatic it could win an award.
“Jesus Christ,” Jordan groans against my skin. “We need to fix this bed.”
“Tomorrow,” I promise, and kiss them for real this time.
Their weight covers me, warm and solid, and I let my hands roam; the line of their back, the sharp edge of their shoulder blades, down to their waistband and the button of their jeans,which I pop open with a little flick before pushing them down over their hips and help them kick out of the denim and their boxer briefs. Jordan makes a sound into my mouth, all pleased and hungry, and it shoots straight through me, and I can’t help but laugh a little because this is what I get to have now. Maddie Weiz gets to want things, and take them, and it doesn’t have to mean disaster.
Jordan’s hands are both gentle and rough as they slide up my ribs, thumbs brushing right under my bra, and the way I arch into their touch makes them look at me like I’m pure sunlight. It’s a look I’ll replay in my mind a thousand times, at least.
“Off,” I tell them, reaching for my bra clasp, and Jordan helps, their hands quick and sure, and then it’s just us, skin against skin, nothing in the way except everything we feel and the heat that builds between us, so real and so immediate.
I trace the lines of their sternum tattoo with my fingertips, finally getting to follow the pattern I’ve wondered about forever, and Jordan’s breath turns shallow. Their eyes are fixed on my face, and what I see there nearly undoes me—a bare honesty, nothing hidden, every bit of it for me.
They cup my face in their hands, thumbs soft against my cheeks, and when they kiss me it’s so slow and deep that I have to close my eyes just to steady myself.
We move together like people who know what they want and plan to do it again and again, with enthusiasm. Jordan kisses down my body, patient and thorough, and when their tongue finds me I gasp, loud and desperate, but I don’t care—not about the neighbors, not about anything except how good this feels and how good Jordan is at making me fall apart.
I come, hard, with Jordan’s name on my lips and my hands clenched in the sheets, and the pleased rumble they let out against my thigh makes every second of the last three years feel worth it.
Afterwards, Jordan collapses next to me with a sigh that’s equal parts worn out and happy. I curl against them, my head settling into the place on their chest where their heartbeat is strongest, and their hand finds my hair, fingers threading through with such care I have to swallow hard around the lump in my throat.
We lie there, tangled together, the lavender-painted walls lit only by moonlight. Jordan’s chest moves under my cheek, steady and solid, and their thumb traces mindless circles on my bare shoulder.
“You good?” they ask, voice rasping a little.
I tilt up to look at them in the dim room, just able to make out the lines of their face—their jaw, the curve of their mouth, everything about them that says they’re content.
“Yeah,” I say, meaning it. “I’m good. Don’t think for one second we are done though. I still get to have my way with you.”
“Later,” they say with a soft chuckle and a quick kiss to my forehead.
Jordan’s hand slips down to my back, holding me even closer, and I let myself melt into them, releasing something I didn’t even realize I’d been holding onto for all these years.
It’s quiet. The house, the street, everything. For once, it all feels right, and this time, I actually believe it.
The next morning, we walk to the store side by side, and I am trying so hard to play it cool, which just means I’m even more of a disaster than usual. Jordan’s hand finds its place at the small of my back as we cross Main Street, thumb drawing lazy circles through my shirt, and I have to bite my cheek to keep from grinning like an idiot before we even set foot in the hardware store.
The door is already unlocked, meaning Melvin is early as always. Reaching for the handle, I notice a new sign taped to the glass in the door.
