Page 24 of Sparks Fly

“I know. And I’m not planning on it,” I said.

Benji exhaled slowly and turned back toward the windshield. The truck rolled through a long stretch of quiet road before he spoke again, his voice softer this time.

“Addie’s always thought she had to act like she was straight… her whole life,” he said.

I didn’t rush to fill the silence. I let him take his time.

“Our parents are… a lot,” Benji continued. “You’d think they’d chill after everything with me, but they don’t. They had this idea of the kind of kids they were going to raise. I came out early. Told them I was a boy by ten. They lost it.”

I didn’t interrupt him.

“It took years,” he said. “They still mess up sometimes, but they’ve come around enough. They use the right name. The right pronouns. I’m allowed at holidays now, which is more than I had for a good while once I turned eighteen.”

God their parents are the fucking worst.

“And Addie…” Benji paused, his voice dropping lower. “She was always perfect. She had to be. We never talked about it, but I knew. She took their attention off me. Wore the dresses. Got the grades. Did the charm-school bullshit. She played the part, I couldn’t.”

The words landed low and quiet in my chest.

“And I never asked her to,” he added quickly. “But I know she did it for me.” He was quiet for a moment. “She doesn’t let many people see past the mask, but if she’s talking to you the way I think she is… don’t screw it up.”

My voice stayed even. “I won’t.”

It wasn’t a promise I made lightly.

* * *

I stayed late at the shop and finally tackled a sculpture commission I had been avoiding for weeks. Repurposed steel twisted into abstract spirals and welded vines, something half-wild caught mid-bloom. Projects like this couldn’t be forced. You had to listen, and this one had been loud from the start.

I marked the scorched metal with chalk, turned up the music, and lit the welder. Soon, the world narrowed to cutting, grinding, and shaping.

Iron and oil clung to my skin as sparks flashed through the dim shop. My arms ached, my neck burned, and my shirt stuck to my back, but I kept going.

It was the good kind of pain, the kind that came from making something real with your hands. Time blurred the way it always did when the rhythm took over. The only thing that finally pulled me out of it was the buzz of my phone against my hip. I shut the torch off and pulled off my gloves before fishing the phone out with dirty fingers.

Addison: Hey. Client just booked me for a late meeting. I won’t be done until around 7:15. Can we push dinner?

I stared at the message for a second before replying.

Me: Of course. Want to reschedule?

Her response came almost immediately.

Addison: Not unless we have to. I still really want to see you.

My mouth tipped into a smile before I could stop it.

Me: Text me when you’re home and changed. We’ll keep it easy. Tacos. My place if you want. No rush.

There was a short pause before another message appeared.

Addison: That sounds perfect, honestly.

I read the message twice before answering.

Me: I think so too. Text me when you’re ready.

I slid the phone back into my pocket and looked at the half-finished sculpture waiting on the table.,