winter
They’re holding hands in the park. Laying next to each other on the frozen grass. Laughing. Her hair is brushing his cheek. It’s so cold they can see their breath. She squeezes his hand. He smiles. She pulls him to sit up and they sit face to face, knees touching. They talk about the movie. The dresses. The hair. The makeup. He pushes his nose up to make him look like the leading girl. She giggles. Leans forward. Close. Touching noses. Shuts her eyes. Takes a deep breath.
She has to do it. It’s not like it’ll be that difficult. Three seconds of lips on lips for an end to a lifetime of confusion? Fair trade. She can do it. Anyways, she likes him. A lot. She can do it. She has to do it.
He feels sick. So sick. He has to kiss her. He has to. He has to. He doesn’t want to. He feels sick. He has to. He shuts his eyes. He leans forward a little. Maybe he can imagine she’s a boy? Yeah? No. No boys. He has to kiss her. No boys. She’s a girl and he likes her so they have to kiss. They have to. He has to. He-
They kiss. Her lips are cold. His are warm. He’s shaking. She’s still as a statue. It lasts for one… two… they jump away from each other at the exact same time.
She looks like a rabbit caught in the headlights.
He looks haunted, terrified.
There’s a beat of silence and then they speak at the exact same time:
“I’m queer.”
“What?”
“You’re-”
“You too?”
“Whizzer?”
“Delia?”
“Holy-”
“-shit!”
They stare at eachother for a moment. Are they gawping? Are they smiling? The moment lasts a minute before he clears his throat.
“How long’ve you known?”
“Since nine? You?”
“Since twelve.”
“That’s the first time I’ve said it out loud.”
“Me too.” He laughs breathlessly. She is silent. He notices. “Delia?” She’s still silent. “D, what’s up?” She’s looking down. Sniffling. It feels like someone is physically pulling at his heart. He pulls her over. Hugs her close. She hugs back. Buries her face in his sweater. Sobs softly. He holds her till she manages to talk:
“I thought- thought I could fix it.”
“I know, honey. It’s okay.”
“We’re still friends?”
“Best a’friends, Delia.” He hears the smile in her voice when she speaks again:
“M’glad.”
“Me too.”
There’s a comfortable silence for about ten minutes. She stays with her head on his chest. He stays looking up, watching the stars. It’s cold, but he feels warm. Exhilarated. Saying those two words has made him feel freer than he has in years. He kisses the top of his best friend/fake girlfriend’s head. She smells like the gingerbread she burnt last night. He smiles and looks up again. A shooting star crosses the sky, so he wishes for her happiness. They’ll talk tomorrow, he thinks. He’ll fix it all tomorrow. He’ll be here for her. It’ll be fine.