Page 58 of My Own Kind of Person

Elijah’s eyes look for mine, but it must be too much for me, because I look away.

“Let’s go,” I say.

It’s nighttime outside and the streets are made of mismatched stones. The buildings are brick and old. Every window reveals rooms with lamplit couches beneath pieces of art or enormous plants, romantic places to sit and think about big things.

I stop in the middle of the sidewalk and look at Elijah.

“Thank you for bringing me here.” My quiet voice is gone, like a sweater I no longer need. “It helped me see the kind of stories I want to tell. It helped me see the kind of person I want to be.”

Elijah doesn’t look away. “And what kind of person is that?”

I finally understand the correct way to consummate this feeling I have toward him. I would like to kiss him on the lips, and when I’m done, I would like to kiss him on the lips again.

“Uh.” I wonder if all those storytellers onstage had planned exactly what they were going to say. It seems like it would be easier to say things you memorized and to deliver them to a room of people who applaud you. I could say many things that way. “I don’t know if I have the words for it.”

Elijah gives me a long stare. “Would you like me to say what I think?”

“Sure.”

He holds my gaze. After a pause, he says, “I guess I don’t have the words either.”

“Could I hold your hand while we walk, though?”

His response is quick. “Don’t you have a girlfriend? I’ve seen you together.”

“We broke up last night.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And then you messaged me?”

“Well. Yeah. But.”

I’m hot. Or sweating. I’d like to rewind my life. Or maybe it’s the opposite: I want what is right after this moment.

I watch him and he watches me.

Hesitantly, he holds out his hand.

I slip my hand into his.

We walk past closed stores, across busy roads under big billboards, and down little streets covered in posters and flyers and stickers. When we get to the subway, we decide to walk to the next stop, and we do this with the next one too, until it makes sense to walk the whole way to Penn Station. When our palms get sweaty, we switch sides and hands.

On the train home, Elijah falls asleep on my shoulder. I watch my reflection in the window as the backyards and backlots of Long Island pass by in the dark. I listen to his slow breathing. My brain is blank. I don’t have the words because I’ve never heard of being this way with someone, I could’ve never conceived of this. But I don’t need the words. I’m feeling my way forward.

Chapter 19

It’s after midnight when Elijah drops me at home. I open my bedroom window to let in the cool air and the sounds of the crickets. Everyone talks about college and the future, but right now is right here. I look at the walls, the shelves, and the carpet, all things I can see. I press my hands over my arms and up my neck and through my hair. Things I can touch. What am I supposed to do with this feeling?

I decide to watch porn.

I search for two male friends holding hands. The first video is two guys sitting on a couch.

I put in my earbuds and turn up the volume.

One guy is telling the other he’s had a hard-on all day and hasn’t had a chance to get rid of it. The other guy says, “Me too!” and, with his free hand, pulls his penis out. The concept is absurd, but they keep chatting about their days while they jerk off. There’s no drama. It’s not a big deal that they’re getting off. On the coffee table is a half-eaten slice of pizza. One guy says, “I think I’m gonna finish,” and the other says, “Hold on, let me catch up.” The first replies, “You got this.”

Usually after I finish I immediately close what I’m watching. And usually after the people in the video finish, it ends. This one still has a minute left, so I leave it on.

“I’ve never jerked off with a friend before,” the first guy says.