Why We Fight (At First Sight Book 4) Read online

  “I wasn’t fucking a banana with my anything!”

  “That’s so precious,” Helena purred. She was standing in front of me now. I didn’t know how she’d gotten so close without me realizing. She had enchanted me somehow. I turned my head and shuddered just as she reached up and stroked my cheek. I was Ripley and she was the Xenomorph. Pretty soon she would open her jaws wide and a second, longer mouth would zoop out and hiss at me. “I adore you. Do you adore me?”

  “Yes,” I said, voice trembling.

  “Good,” she breathed. “Because here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to find out where Jeremy and Robert live. When you do, you’re going to tell me. And I am going to meddle.”

  “Look!” I cried. “Out the window! That dad from next door is washing his car shirtless again and getting all soapy!”

  “Precious!” Helena hissed as she turned and loped toward the window. Helena Handbasket couldn’t resist a DILF washing a car.

  I ran for my bedroom just as Helena realized she’d been tricked. I managed to slam and lock the door as she bellowed my name. I was safe.

  For now.

  SANDY HAD already left for work when my phone vibrated in my hand a short while later. I was in the middle of a fervent one-sided conversation filled with an inordinate amount of exclamation points to a certain Daddy. (U NEED TO RUN! SANDY KNOWS ROBERT AND JEREMY LIVE CLOSE!!!! IT’S ALL OVER!!!!!!) I switched over to another thread and saw a second message from the number I’d only gotten the night before.

  The first one was a smiley face. A goddamn smiley face.

  The second read: I’m here! You ready?

  No. No, I wasn’t. How was I supposed to face the man who had seen me accidentally deep-throat fruit?

  I thought about ignoring it and him. Maybe he would think no one was home and leave and then I would never have to see him again. Even though we worked together. And lived near each other. And—

  “Man up,” I muttered. “Who the fuck do you think you are? You’re not Paul. You’re not Sandy. And you sure as shit aren’t Tyson. You got this. You got this.”

  Damn right. I was cool. I was suave. I didn’t take shit from no man. And so what if Jeremy had seen me eating a banana? It was just fruit. Everyone did it at some point in their lives!

  “Play it nice,” I hissed. “Be smooooth.”

  Be right out! ;)

  Okay, yes. There was a winky face. I didn’t know why I thought that was necessary. I’d just thrown it out there like it was nothing, but there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it now. Maybe he’d ignore it.

  My phone vibrated again as Jeremy texted back.

  ;)

  “Oh dear god,” I breathed.

  I was doomed.

  I shoved the phone in my pocket.

  I straightened my tie.

  I lifted my backpack over my shoulder.

  I stared at myself in the mirror.

  “Just do it,” I told my reflection. “You aren’t some silly white boy in a romantic comedy of errors or a drama-filled angst-fest about childhood sweethearts. You are Corey motherfucking Ellis, and you are going to rock this shit.”

  I nodded firmly and headed toward the door and the great beyond.

  “SO YOU like bananas, huh?” Jeremy asked as he pulled away from the curb.

  I laughed shrilly. It sounded like someone was fisting a donkey. “Hahahahahah, yeeeeeeah. Just, like, so much! Gotta keep up with my potassium!”

  Goddammit.

  It didn’t get any better from there.

  Chapter 6: The Obligatory Info Dump

  A COUPLE of weeks later, not much had changed.

  Scratch that.

  Things had gotten worse.

  Oh sure, I’d gotten used to seeing that Jeep pull up outside our house, Jeremy grinning from the driver’s seat as I walked out the front door. And sure, maybe he was the type of person who seemed happy to see me, no matter what day it was. He was naturally cheerful, and while that should have been the bane of my sardonic existence, it was instead infectious like a communicable disease. He was infecting me with his jovialness, and I couldn’t find a reason to want a cure.

  The rides weren’t long. On a day with bad traffic, it took us a little more than twenty minutes to get to Phoenix House. Usually it was shorter than that. But it still gave me enough time to learn some things about him that I was probably better off not knowing to protect my sanity.

  First, Jeremy Olsen had the worst taste in music a human being could possibly have. We’d both agreed that talk radio was out, given that the state of the political world was toxic and most likely going to end in the destruction of the planet. So instead he would flip through his CD folder (yes, a folder filled with CDs; it was made of leather, and he proudly said that he’d had it since high school, because what), finding something he said he was sure I was going to love. “Broaden your musical horizons,” he said on the third day. I was helpless against the way he smiled, and could only nod.

  I should have known it was a trap.

  Unfortunately his version of broadening musical horizons meant listening to bands that I thought had been relegated to hold music at insurance companies (other than the one Sandy and Paul worked at, because please).

  Have you ever sat in traffic while Coldplay blasted from the speakers so loudly that people in other cars knew you were listening to Coldplay? On purpose?

  Because I have.

  I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

  And, as my luck would have it, Coldplay turned out to be quite prolific, seeing as how Jeremy owned seven albums by them. I was tempted to ask why record executives felt the need to keep giving them money to make their version of “music,” but managed to keep that thought to myself.

  When I politely asked for a change on the sixth day of hearing Coldplay wail about unity and feelings and whatever-the-fuck, Jeremy decided it was time to introduce me to something called Ed Sheeran. I didn’t know what an Ed Sheeran was, but I assumed by the CD cover (because yes, Jeremy put those in the leather folder too: “I like remembering what the album cover looked like”) that he was a Hobbit of some kind on his way to destroy the One True Ring but had somehow gotten forced to sing songs about… whatever-the-fuck.

  Second, nothing seemed to faze Jeremy. He didn’t blink an eye when, midway through the second week, I walked out the door as Kori. The blouse I wore was obviously feminine, and Sandy had done my makeup. I could have done it on my own, but for reasons I didn’t want to delve into, my hands were shaking and I couldn’t calm myself down. Drag queens aren’t known for using makeup sparingly, but Sandy was a bit of a wunderkind, having learned from Vaguyna Muffman, his drag mother. “She told me that sometimes less is more,” Sandy murmured, his breath warm on my face. “You don’t always need to go all out to prove your point. And sometimes it’s okay to just want to look nice. Don’t tell him I told you, but Dare’s got quite the collection himself.”

  “Hey, Kori,” Jeremy said, and even though my names sounded the same, I knew he was using the feminine version. He didn’t even have to think about it. I wondered if it was really that easy for him. “You ready?”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

  The first car ride as Kori was mostly quiet, aside from a new CD (and by new, I meant it was new to me, though it was probably at least a decade old) of something called a Snow Patrol. He didn’t blast it, though, and it was a quiet background for our commute. I kept waiting for the inevitable questions: why and what’s going on and is something wrong?

  I didn’t quite know how to articulate it, though it was part of me. It was usually a low-lying current thrumming just underneath my skin. I didn’t ignore it. I acknowledged it for what it was, even if I didn’t get it.

  The fosters didn’t get it either. I was twelve the first time I sneaked into their bedroom, feeling slightly feverish, unsure of what I was doing but unable to convince myself to stop. I went to the closet and opened the door. My foster father’s clot
hes were bunched to the right, the majority of the small closet for my foster mother. They weren’t wealthy. They weren’t middle-class. The clothes weren’t nice, but they were more than I had. I touched the blouses. I ran my hands over jeans that were cut differently than anything I owned: tighter in the hips, slender in the legs. They wouldn’t fit me; she was a small woman, and I was already taller than she was.

  I felt guilty when I took one of her shirts, a Ship’n Shore blouse I’d never seen her wear. It was white with blue stripes. I didn’t think she’d miss it.

  I ran back to my room and slammed the door, breathing hard.

  It took me three days to work up the courage to try it on.

  It was too short in the sleeves, too tight in the shoulders. The length wasn’t quite right either, but I felt good wearing it. Oh, the guilt was still there, clawing at the back of my mind, but the bands around my lungs were beginning to loosen, and I could breathe and breathe and breathe.

  I went back to her closet again.

  And again.

  The fourth time, my foster dad caught me.

  They didn’t understand. How could they? They probably never had to deal with anyone like me before, had probably never even heard the term transgender before. That much became obvious later when the word transvestite was thrown out carelessly, landing like a bomb at my feet, exploding and tearing at the fabric of who I was.

  They turned my room over, accusing me of being a thief. They found the Ship’n Shore blouse, the stockings, the barrettes I’d swiped from their bathroom that I put in my hair when everyone else was asleep. All the while, I stood shamefaced near the door, wishing I could disappear into the floor. I was going to run away, I decided. That very night. I couldn’t stay there.

  I did, though, because I didn’t know where else to go.

  And it made me fucking angry. The word thief thief thief kept ringing through my head, and I hated it. I hated that I’d just taken it, taken their anger, my constricted throat making it impossible for me to say anything.

  The third thing I learned about Jeremy Olsen was he did not like being cooped up in his office. He’d say he had work to do, that he couldn’t be disturbed, but ten minutes later he’d peek out from around the corner and ask what we were doing and if we needed any help. Marina would remind him that he had reports to look over, but he’d smile and shake his head, saying he’d get to them later.

  Toward the end of the second week, I came out of the office I shared with Marina clutching a note that had been left on my chair. Music was blaring—the Chainsmokers, for fuck’s sake—to find him dancing with some of the kids.

  Regardless of what else Jeremy was, he was a terrible dancer.

  He was all jerking limbs and stiff hips. It was terrible, but he didn’t care. He was laughing and smiling and singing along, getting only one word right out of every ten.

  I stood there watching him, feeling my stomach flutter.

  Diego and Kai weren’t dancing. They were sitting on the old sofa in the corner, legs tangled together. Diego caught my eye. I held up the note. He frowned, nodded, then leaned over to whisper something in Kai’s ear. They didn’t look up from their phone as he kissed them on the cheek. He stood up from the couch and made his way through the throng of dancing people.

  I thought I’d made it out undetected, but the next thing I learned about Jeremy was that nothing escaped his attention. He was still smiling when he saw me standing on the other side of the room, though he stopped dancing. He watched as Diego nervously made his way over to me, rubbing the back of his neck, gaze darting around to see if anyone else was watching him.

  All right? Jeremy mouthed.

  I nodded, then shrugged.

  Jeremy looked back at the couch. “Kai! I need you to get up off your ass and dance.”

  Kai rolled their eyes and didn’t look up from their phone.

  I led Diego away from the noise toward the office. Marina was still inside, bent over her laptop, her face scrunched up. She’d been on the phone earlier with the financial advisor, and the conversation hadn’t been going well, from the sound of it. I’d thought about asking her if there was anything I could do to help when I came in, but then I’d been distracted by the orange Post-it on the seat of my chair.

  “Hey,” she said, looking up at us. “Diego, how are you?”

  Diego fidgeted in the doorway. “Fine. Just… looking at where you guys work.”

  She nodded. “Isn’t much, I know, but it’s good enough.” She glanced between us curiously. “Is there something you needed?”

  Diego looked stricken, and I stepped in before he could flee. “Nah. I just wanted to talk with Diego. Get to know him a little better. The others seem to listen to him pretty well, and I want to pick his brain to see if there’s anything he can teach me.”

  Bless her heart, Marina seemed to understand all I wasn’t saying. She closed her laptop and stood, stretched her arms over her head. “Perfect timing, then. I could use a break. I think I’ll go see what all the fuss is about out in front.”

  “Maybe you could convince our illustrious leader to consider better music,” I muttered.

  She laughed and patted me on the shoulder as she headed for the door. “We don’t stifle anyone here, Corey, even if their tastes are… lesser.”

  I rolled my eyes. “That’s one way of putting it. You’re not the one who rides with him every day and gets to hear just how lesser his tastes actually are.”

  She glanced over her shoulder and winked at me. “No, I don’t suppose I have to do that at all. That’s just you. Funny how that works.”

  I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks as she closed the door. I shook my head as I pointed to her recently vacated chair. “Take a seat, Diego. Your note said you wanted to ask me something.”

  He rubbed at his bare arm. He wore a thin tank top that proclaimed him to be the #1 Party Dude at Lake Havasu over cutoff shorts and flip-flops. He had a smudge of dirt on his knee. He gnawed on his bottom lip, the bar through his eyebrow moving up and down as his brow furrowed.

  “Or you can just stand there, if you want,” I told him as I sat down in my own chair. “Whatever works.”

  “I’ll just stay right here,” he finally said.

  I shrugged. “Okay. What’s up?”

  He looked around the office, anywhere but at me.

  I waited.

  He sighed, shoulders slumping. “It isn’t—it’s not a big deal.”

  “Okay,” I said evenly. I thought hard for a moment. “Hey, can you do me a favor?”

  He looked dubious.

  “Nothing big,” I said. “I wasn’t kidding when I said the others seem to listen to you. Look up to you, even. You’re a natural leader. That’s pretty great for someone your age.”

  He mumbled something that sounded like he disagreed with me.

  “If you hear anything—”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I’m not a narc.”

  I held up my hands. “Nah, I know that. I wasn’t asking you to be. I was going to say if you hear anything about one of the kids needing something but they’re too scared to ask, can you just let them know I’m here? I’m not asking you to tell me what they told you, but just to give them a nudge in my direction. I can’t make any promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “What if someone wants crystal meth?”

  I laughed. “Yeah, I don’t know about that. I was thinking more along the lines of condoms or to set up appointments to test for STIs or help with homework, something like that.”

  “It’s summer,” he reminded me.

  “Not everyone is a genius like you,” I teased him. “Some are in summer school. That shit is hard.”

  His eyebrows rose. “You were in summer school?”

  “Between freshman and sophomore year. Things were a little… crazier for me back then. Thankfully it was enough of a wakeup call that I never had to do it again.”

  “I’m sure it was really hard for you a decade ago
,” he said, lips twitching.

  “Thanks for that,” I said dryly. “Seeing as how I’m only six years older than you, I’ll let that slide.”

  He popped his knuckles. It sounded like it hurt. “Did you get a lot of crap?”

  “For what?”

  “You know.”

  “Being queer?”

  He nodded. Then, “Or being brown.”

  I sat back in the chair, settling my hands on my stomach. I chose my words carefully. “Some. Nothing I couldn’t handle. People are… I think most people are good, or at least they try to be. But there’s always going to be the assholes. I was just lucky enough that my assholes’ barks were worse than their bites.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I kicked this one dude in the nuts when he tried—” I cut myself off, shaking my head. “Violence is never the answer.”

  He snorted but seemed to relax a little. He began to wander around the office, looking at the knickknacks on Marina’s desk, tracing a finger along the photographs. “People can be dicks.”

  “They can be,” I said slowly. “Is there anyone like that here? I’m not asking you to narc on them, but I need to know if there’s a problem so I can deal with it.”

  He shook his head. “Nah, they’re good here. Mostly. Couple of jerks, but I can handle them.” He glanced at me slyly. “Without violence.”

  “Good. But if that ever changes, you tell me. I’d rather be safe than sorry. And anything you tell me stays between us.”

  “Like a lawyer?”

  I winced. “More like a therapist, though I’m not actually one. If you think you need one, we have the psychologist on staff, or we can find someone else.”

  He scowled at that. “I’m not crazy.”

  “Never said you were. Therapy isn’t necessarily for crazy, though it’s ableist to think that way. I was in therapy for a long while. A friend of mine still is. It helps more than you think.”

  “I don’t need a therapist.”