Bankers' Hours(51)

"Unbelievable," Tristan commented.

"That's what I said!" Mel exclaimed. "It was unreal how that bird sipped  the sugar water from the tiny teacup, and then moments later it sat up  in his hand, ruffled its teeny-tiny little wings, and took off. Just  like that!"

I smiled at Mel. "It was pretty cool."

"Pretty cool? You are the bird whisperer, Grant. You have a gift."

I chuckled and rolled my eyes. I glanced at Tristan and said, "Mel exaggerates."

Tristan said smoothly, "Oh, I doubt that. I think he tells it exactly  like it is. You seem to have a lot of adventures together."

I ignored his cold tone and turned my attention back to Mel as another  story popped into my mind. "Oh my gosh! Remember your crazy friend  Darla?"

Mel whistled and tilted his head back. "Oh, wow. I can't believe you're bringing this up."

"It's classic!" I looked back to Tristan to tell my story. "So Mel has this friend from college."

"Darla," Tristan said.

"Yes. She's a bit wild."

"A bit?" Mel asked.

"Shush, let me tell it. Anyway, Darla wanted to go dancing one night. We  were all over at Mel's sister's house, because Mel was babysitting, and  Darla said that when his sister got back we should go out dancing. Only  she found this old Fisher-Price airplane-"

"Complete with little wooden people," Mel broke into my explanation with  uncontrollable laughter. "I can't believe she took it onto the dance  floor! Oh my gosh," he declared, wiping tears from his eyes.

I scoffed, "Ha! You spoiled the story."

"I'm sorry," he said, still laughing and crying.

"Crazy Darla took the toy airplane with us," I told Tristan. He was  sitting very calmly, not getting into the hilarity at all, hands crossed  on the table in front of him. I ignored it. I was having fun, and he  was not going to ruin it for me. "She took it onto the dance floor," I  laughed. "People gave her the most incredulous stares as she pretended  to fly it around, but she didn't care. She just kept dancing with it."

"Stop!" Mel urged, clutching his chest. "I need to catch my breath."

I laughed at him, but I did stop retelling the tale.

"Let me see that ring you keep waving around," Mel said, reaching for my  hand. I gave it to him, hoping his reaction would be better than my  boss's. "Holy cow! This thing is gorgeous. Grant," he looked up, his  eyes shining bright. "Your man has incredible taste."

"Um, actually, Grant picked it out," Tristan corrected.

"You picked Grant," he told Tristan, "so the comment still stands. Grant, this is beautiful," he said, squeezing my hand.

"Thank you." I blushed.





THE REST of the evening continued in much the same manner. I told  stories, Mel told stories, we laughed, and Tristan sat quietly  listening. I wasn't sure what had gotten into him, but I wasn't going to  let it spoil my evening.                       
       
           



       





Chapter 13: Fights, Bites, And Realizing Relationships Take Work





WE DROVE home in silence. At least for me, the quiet was because my  throat was sore from all the talking. Tristan, though, hadn't said much  of anything. I didn't know what to expect when we pulled into my  driveway. Would he stay? Would he go back to his house? We still hadn't  worked out the details of living together. I didn't really like his  house, because of the dust and clutter, but it was improving with every  hour I spent cleaning it. Maybe soon I'd be comfortable.

"Are you staying?" I asked, walking toward the door.

Tristan hung back, hands in his pockets. "I don't know. I think maybe I'll head home. It's been a long day."

I opened my door. "Okay. Whatever makes you happy." I went in but left  the door open. It gave him the option of stepping through, as opposed to  slamming it shut as if to say, "Fine, then go the hell home. See if I  care."

I was in the bedroom when I heard the door shut. I hung up my pants. I'd  only worn them for a few hours, so I thought I could wear them to work  in the morning.

"You could have warned me, you know," Tristan said from the doorway.

I turned to face him. If he was going to make a big deal about the way  Mel and I carried on, then I wasn't going to run from it. He could be  jealous all he wanted to, but I wasn't going to alter my behavior  because he couldn't take it. Mel and I had history. "Why?" I spat.  "Because you can't handle a few funny stories? We've been best friends a  long time. I can't help that we're-"

"That Mel's transgender," he interrupted coolly.

I blinked. "I don't see what that has to do with …  anything," I said,  running out of words to complete my thought. I wasn't expecting this  reaction.

He strolled into the room and leaned against the dresser. "You could  have warned me. I spent most of the night trying not to stare. Didn't  you wonder why I wasn't speaking?"

I shrugged. "I assumed it was from jealousy."

He chuckled, but I knew he wasn't amused. "Yes, well … ." He let the  thought go and kept his eyes on me as he formed another one. "I didn't  want to interrupt your long overdue bonding to ask why he wanted to  change genders."

I felt a chill run through me. "He's not changing it. He's always been male."

"On the inside, but not on the outside," he emphasized hotly. "I get it, Grant. But this isn't about Mel. This is about you."

"I can't believe you'd be so cold to him." I huffed and turned away,  fiddling with my shirt buttons but having difficulty undoing them.

Tristan came over and turned me back around. "You don't get to turn  away. I'm not done. I don't like how comfortable you are together. Are  you sure he's not gay?"

I pulled my shoulders back. "Yes!"

He clenched his jaw. "Fine. And there's nothing going on between you?"

"No! How many times do I have to say it? Mel and I are close. I'm the  only one he's trusted during his transition. Do you have any idea the  shit he gets? Do you know what it's like to be born in a body that  doesn't match your inner identity? He's struggled with it since he was  five and realized he was a boy, while everyone around him told him he  was a girl. Do you know what that's like? To be told you're wrong, how  you feel is wrong, what you desire is wrong?"

Tristan looked down, rubbed his chin, and then stepped closer as he  brought his gaze back to mine. "I was in the US Navy, Grant. Stationed  on a submarine with one hundred and forty other guys, all straight. What  do you think happened when one of them found out I was gay?"

I blinked, well aware of what his answer might be.

"They beat the crap out of me. Not enough to send me to the hospital,  but enough to say ‘touch one of us and you're dead.' So I know what it's  like to be hated for what you were born as. I'm not trying to criticize  Mel or how he feels."

Tristan turned away and walked out of the room, leaving me there to  sputter. "But …  I …  you … ." I didn't know what I was supposed to say. I  felt guilty for talking about Mel the way I had, but in the heat of the  argument, it had tumbled out. I ran after Tristan and found him sitting  on my couch. I stopped short. "You didn't leave."

"No," he said. "I'm not angry about Mel." He looked at me with such  weariness in his eyes. He looked exhausted. "I was hurt because I felt  left out of most of the conversations tonight. I'm not used to feeling  jealous, and the way you two spoke made me want to punch Mel's face in. I  was worried about him being gay and stealing you away from me."                       
       
           



       

"Why? I told you we've been friends a long time." I walked over and took  a seat on the couch next to him. "I'm not interested in Mel. I'm  attracted to you. Very attracted. Insanely, wrapped-around-your-finger  attracted."

He smiled and reached over to squeeze my knee. "I'm sorry."

"You're forgiven."

"Thank you. When I stormed out of your room I realized why your  relationship bothered me so much. I reconsidered my feelings when I  thought of my pal Marc."

"Marc?"

"Yeah. We were in the Navy together. We spoke much like you and Mel did.  We finished each other's sentences, anticipated each other's  needs-heck, we even read each other's minds on several occasions, much  to the chagrin of the guys playing poker with us. So I get it. Mel is  your Marc."

Suddenly I was the jealous one, and I wanted to meet this guy. "Are you …   do you still talk to him like that?" I asked, my hands shaking.