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“I’m doing fine right now. You know I can’t sit still.”
He laughs incredulously. “Understatement. When was the last time you actually relaxed?” he asks, his breathing rougher. “When was the last time you went camping? That’s always brought you peace.”
That’s true. “It’s been a few years,” I admit. Has it really been that long?
“Why don’t you take a little weekend trip soon? Go breathe in the forest and exhale all the stress you’re pretending you don’t have.”
“That's,” I consider, “not a bad idea actually.”
“Ha! So you admit you’re stressed.”
“No,” I grouse. “I’m agreeing that it’s a good idea to get out of the city and hug a fucking tree.”
Angie would love it too. My mind replays a memory of the first time the two of us went camping without my moms. We had just finished our senior year of high school, but graduation wasn’t for another week.
We went with a small group of friends we had collected over the last few years—people I haven’t talked to since come to think of it. But that’s fine; because I still have Angie and that’s all that matters.
We spent most of the afternoon drinking screwdrivers and laughing our asses off while we made fun of our teachers. Angie’s imitation of Mr. Forton was always spot-on. From his unexplainable and widely-known dislike for cats, to his much younger wife, the man had a lot of material for us to work with.
But when the sun set low and the temperatures stayed high, the strands of our friendship began to fray with each sip of vodka. And when someone admitted in a game of Never Have I Ever that they had never played Spin the Bottle, a gust of wind blew over the tightrope of our friendship.
To this day, we’ve never talked about what happened that night. We can talk about everything else, but never that. We can dance around every other facet of that camping trip, but neither of us bring up that moment.
It’s probably for the best. Especially now.
Because now that she’s pregnant, there’s something inside of me gnawing at my heart. It’s fucking uncomfortable—that percolating desire I’ve kept buried since we were teenagers has been growing hotter. I’ve always seen her as beautiful because it’s a fact; but now…it’s like her aura has changed and she’s drawing me into her orbit. Is she Aphrodite?
Angie might be mildly sick and tired these days, but she’s so vibrant now, which only serves to remind me of our friendship. Never in my life have I had to remind myself how seriously platonic we are as often as I have recently.
Never get close to women, mijo. They’ll only ruin your life.
I know, Papá! Get out of my head.
You’re not enough, my mind tosses back.
“Raf!” Joaquín’s voice twinges in my ear. “Are you listening to me?”
Shit, I zoned out.
Taking this opportunity, I slow my pace to cool down. “Sorry. I got distracted,” I huff out. “Hey, when was the last time you talked to Papá?”
He groans. “When he called us at Christmas.”
“Has it been that long?”
“Considering I haven’t seen him since before I transitioned, that’s on-brand for him.”
“Does he still not know?”
“No,” Joaquín grumbles. “I’m not hiding it from him. But the day he actually asks how I am or about my life or makes an effort to see me again, I’ll gladly tell him.”
“You’d think he would hear the difference in your voice by now.”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “Doesn’t make me feel self-conscious at all that he can’t tell the difference.”
“And you don’t want me to say anything?”
“No,” he says. “It’s not your responsibility to do that. But hey, when are you going to tell the rest of our family that you’re having a kid with Angie? Do the Johanssen’s know yet?”
