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I slump lower in my chair, the plastic creaking under my weight. Sometimes I can go all day without saying a word to anyone. It’s scary how easy it is to get by on body language and physical cues. It’s not that I have nothing to say, or that I don’t want to. Sometimes my chest feels full, so full of words that I can’t hold on to them all. There’s too much I want to say to too many people: to Lulu, that I don’t think I’m good at breaking the rules either but for vastly different reasons; to George, that I miss him; to Pop, that I have a secret.
“My pop and gran raised me; did I tell you that?”
She shakes her head.
“He has dementia.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I want to tell him about me,” I say. “That I’m bi, you know? But now it’s like, if I tell him, he won’t really hear me. So, what’s the point?”
Lulu and I have never really talked about my identity, other than her acknowledgment that George and I were together. Normally, it’s not something I’d share so freely. Maybe it’s because despite not knowing her for long, we’ve been more intimate with each other than anyone else in this room, or because Lulu can be as vulnerable as I want to be sometimes, but sharing with her doesn’t feel like exposing my jugular. Telling her isn’t the same as participating in the group sessions or telling my grandfather, but it’s something. My chest doesn’t feel so full.
“Maybe it’s not about waiting for the perfect time to tell him. Maybe it’s about telling him over and over again. Maybe it’s about saying it for yourself.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You’re right that he might not hear you the first time, but if you say it enough times he’ll know it. And even if he doesn’t, you still get to say it, out loud. There’s power in that. In our words.”
“Hmmmm,” I say. Sometimes Lulu is so earnest I need a moment. “Sounds like a lot of talking, though.”
Lulu huffs in mock exasperation, then leans over, her mouth open, and bites me through the sleeve of my shirt. Immediately, I know it won’t hurt. She doesn’t bite hard and her mark will fade in a few minutes. She makes a growling sound as she does it, her nose wrinkling. She’s embarrassed after, she won’t meet my eyes, her cheeks pink. I lean into her, drop my voice. “Careful,” I say. “I bite back.”
I think she sees my pulse thrumming wildly in my throat. I know she must see the way my pupils are blasted wide. I shouldn’t have said that, flirted, but her smile gets bigger, her tongue peeking out between her teeth, and mostly I know that if she just wants to be friends, only friends, I can do that.
I get buzzed into the secure floor at Pop’s residence and am immediately met by his neighbor, Clarice. “I thought you’d never get here,” she says.
Despite her thin skin and her frail frame, her grip is always surprisingly strong on my forearm.
“I’m here to see Pop, Clarice.” I gently pry her fingers from my security guard uniform.
“I thought you were taking me out tonight?” Clarice pouts as she swishes in an emerald green dress that looks like it belongs in one of the old black-and-white flicks I’d watch with Pop late on Saturday nights after Grandma went to bed. Her hair is pinned up in an intricate twist. I don’t understand how the human brain works, how her mind can remember how to do that hairstyle, but can’t remember that I’m not her deceased husband, Tom.
“Next time,” I promise. “You look really lovely today, Clarice.”
She beams as a nurse collects her and I get to Pop’s door without any other cases of mistaken identity. I pause there, straightening my clothes and patting at my hair, even though it’s too short to style. I knock and a nurse answers, in the middle of helping Pop with his dinner. “I can do that,” I offer, taking his spot beside Pop at the small table by his window.
“Hey, Pop.” I offer him another spoonful of peas, but he turns away to stare out the window. Fair. These peas aren’t fantastic. I’ve tried them. “I’m heading into work soon so I can’t stay for long.”
He chews at his cheek. The sky outside is grapefruit pink, turning his bedspread and tile floor the same vibrant color.
“I, uh, made a new friend.” I feel like a little kid again, telling him about my first day of school. “Her name is Lulu. Eloise. But don’t call her that.”
He looks at me. We have the same eyes, brown, serious.
“She’s, um, we, um...” I feel my face turning red. “I think I like her, but she just wants to be friends. It’s really important to her to be able to make friends.” And that’s why I can’t let this little crush get out of hand. It wasn’t until I saw her today that I realized that IlikeLulu. Beyond the sex we sort of had or the way she looks. I like sitting next to her while she talks, following the dips and jumps in her voice, and how she approaches everything like she has something to learn. And if I thought there could be a chance of anything between us, maybe I’d just leave the study altogether so no one would be breaking any more rules. But I’d still be where I am now, with nothing and no one. And more importantly, she sees me as her friend, and she wants to make more of us. I don’t want to ruin that for her.
I gathered up all the feelings I had for her this morning and shoved them in a box in my head, stuffed them in the closet where my sexuality used to be.
“I know I don’t usually talk to you about the people I...like, but...” I take a deep breath and try again with his peas. He opens his mouth this time. “I like—liked—Lulu but I’ve also liked other people before.”
Pop watches me while he chews. A breadcrumb clings to his beard and I wipe it away with the napkin in his lap.
“George, for instance. I liked him, too, Pop.”
Pop stops chewing.
“I liked him as more than a friend.” I feel light-headed, saying the words out loud to him for the first time. My voice sounds rough. He puts his hand on mine, leaning toward me, his face intent. My heart pounds. Maybe he heard me. Maybe he understands.
