If- Nina G. Jones Page 0,16

I asked.

He perked up a bit, the question catching him off-guard. “Hadn’t really thought about it.”

“I’d like to invite you. It would be an honor to have you as my guest.”

“Thank you.” It was not an acceptance of my invitation.

“It’ll be small. Just my friend, Jordan, the one who walks me home most nights. I don’t know if you’ve noticed.” I felt kind of stupid assuming this guy even noticed me walking home. I never actually saw him ever look at me until the mugging. “Oh and his boyfriend. And it would be nice to have a fourth person. We’re all transplants, so we have our own little Thanksgiving.”

He nodded, then looked up to the sky, tapping his foot. I assumed he was trying to find a nice way to say no. He had gotten considerably nicer over the course of this short conversation.

“I just realized I don’t even know your name!” I said, sticking out my hand. Only after I did that, did I wonder if he was clean. He didn’t smell or anything, but he was homeless as far as I could tell and I couldn’t help the fleeting thought.

“Ash,” he said, taking my hand. His hands weren’t clean. His fingers were covered in a medley of colors. It looked like spray paint.

“Birdie, Bird . . . either works.”

“Bird,” he recited back, and he cracked his first hint of a smile.

“I’ll tell you all about it over a Thanksgiving meal,” I smirked.

“I don’t know . . .”

“Please, let me thank you.”

Our hands were still locked, and we both seemed to realize it at the same time, abruptly breaking the connection.

“Maybe.”

“Okay, well, I live in those condos on 6th, between Los Angeles and Main, apartment 7b. We start around five. I’m making enough food for you to be there, and I’m a broke starving dancer. So don’t let it go to waste.”

Another smile. This time it was a full-blown half-smile. I wondered what he looked like under the scruffy beard.

“I’ll see you around,” he said. His eyes appeared to go out of focus, as if he was taking in my silhouette.

“I’ll see you at my place,” I said, walking away before he could respond.

BIRD

BOTH JORDAN’S AND my apartment were filled with the aromas of Thanksgiving cooking. Cherry and pumpkin pies were baking in my oven, filling my place with a spicy-sweet fragrance, while the bigger items were prepped in Jordan’s kitchen. Between cleaning and cooking, it had reached four before I had even taken a shower. Jordan and Trevor stepped out to grab some last-minute items before the grocery store closed early, and with the pies now resting on the range, I locked my front door and hopped into the shower.

Because of my jobs, I often found myself either in tights and sweatshirts, or my standard all-black serving getup. So I took the opportunity to dress up, even if it would only be for my gay husbands. I let out my elbow-length curls, pinning back two small braids on each side, and put on a royal blue, spaghetti-strap dress that was tight in the bodice, flaring out into a 1950s-style skirt. Faux fabric buttons formed a line from the low collar to the hem. I felt feminine, and dare I say . . . pretty.

The final stage was makeup. It was always a nice concept, but I struggled with this part the most. Make up is meant to not just highlight features, but cover flaws. Well, my flaws could not be covered, and it felt defeatist to even try. So I left the foundation and concealer alone and opted for the highlighting of features. I lined my hazel eyes with black eyeliner and liberally added mascara. I swept my lightly freckled cheeks with apricot blush, and coated my lips with red lipstick, which I rarely wore. Just as I was puckering my lips, the doorbell rang.

“I told you I would be in the shower—” I said, flinging the door open. Except it wasn’t Jordan forgetting to bring his keys, it was—well, it took me a second to register who it was.

The guy in front of me had his messy hair not under a beanie, but twisted into a topknot. His beard was trimmed down to resemble week-old stubble. And instead of a T-shirt, he wore a button-down plaid shirt over a fresh pair of jeans. For a second I thought I had it all wrong, but when I spotted the familiar rucksack on his shoulder, I knew it was