“Um, yeah. Smart! I guess a cab would be more expensive, anyway.”
“Ah, plus! You’ll get to take the Piccadilly line toward Cockfosters. Americans usually find that name hilarious.”
He has to raise his voice at the end of that sentence because of my snickering. The sudden laughter kind of shakes me out of my spiral, just enough that I can get a grip on the situation.
I am doing this for me, I remind myself. I need to be uncomfortable. I need to try new things. And if I can just get past the burning feeling in my core, I might even enjoy this.
Maybe.
“Let me help you with your bags,” Pierce says. The gesture, while a little much, causes a smile to creep across my face. He leads the way, almost triumphantly, as he carries my bags. He is a trumpet, from the volume of his voice to how he commands attention in a space like this.
Suddenly, we’re standing at a coffee bar, and the smell of freshly ground espresso hits my nose.
“Quick diversion. Want some tea?” Pierce asks, then narrows his gaze. “Or, let me guess, the American wants coffee? Hot chocolate? A mocha?” He pronounces it mock-uh, which brings another smile to my face, despite the fact that he’s mock-ing me.
He makes a gagging sound, and I laugh, even though my mouth waters at the thought of chocolate in any form. “Just coffee is fine. With milk and sugar if you don’t mind. Here, let me get this.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a few bills. Dead American presidents look back at me. “And … I just realized this is basically Monopoly money here. Can I Venmo you? Or I can go to a currency exchange. Or—”
He places his free hand on my shoulder and looks me in the eyes.
“No worries. It’s my treat.” He laughs. “Well, technically, it’s Shane’s treat. He may have given us money for the cab.”
He winks, and my cheeks heat up. There’s something about his smile. The fact he’s holding my bag. The way he can poke fun at me but not make my defenses tighten up. It makes all the lies that got me here feel worth it for the first time, and it reminds me of the unusual path my life is taking. I feel older than I was before. Which, okay, sure, technically is true—I understand how the passage of time works—but there’s something tugging at the corners of my brain, at my emotions. It’s something like infatuation, sure, but as I watch Pierce rock on the balls of his feet, bringing a whole new intensity to something as mundane as ordering coffee, it’s also totally different. Something like home.
Pierce hands me a steaming Americano and guides us toward the tube. He flashes a soft smile at me, the kind of smile that’s brimming with possibility. With hope of what’s to come.
“Welcome home, Marty.”
Now that’s how you welcome someone to your country.
12 MONTHS AGO
DIARY ENTRY 8
I’m going to rewrite this entire journal. It’s a shitty piece of shitty homework for shitty teachers at this shitty school and shitty town full of shitty people. Am I missing anyone? Basically, it’s all shit.
But, fictional reader, you’d know that if you read my other entries.
Shane is the only one here who gives me hope. Maybe Aunt Leah too. Now that we’re leaving for Ireland to see my extended family—days earlier than expected—I think my aunt really understood me for once.
A few years ago, me and Shane decided we would both come out to our parents on the same day. There were tears all around, in both families. Shane’s? Beautiful, artistic tears. Like when Jennifer Garner tells her son “You get to exhale now” in Love, Simon.
Mine took a different path. Different tears. Hotter, heavier ones, weighed down with the last strands of hope I had. And I’ve been grappling with this fire in my stomach ever since.
As no one will read this, I might as well give out some more details about the whole coming out extravaganza. Shit hit the fan, and I barely left my bedroom for days. I took my entire family’s numbers out of my phone, Shane and Aunt Leah included. I deleted my social media accounts, fell off the grid completely. But … it turns out taking someone’s number out doesn’t really stop them from reaching out to you, and we live in 2020, where you’re ALWAYS on the grid.