Page 105 of Felix

I’d heard Max found a new job. Apparently, he ran out of his shift that night I texted about Noel potentially being in trouble. Luckily, his manager was understanding.

“The bar is open this early?” I ask, following Noel into the bright kitchen.

He nods, pulling tea from the cupboard. “It’s directly across from a hotel, so they open for the lunch crowd. Get a lot of businessmen and such. Want tea?”

“Sure,” I say, sitting at the table as Noel puts a kettle on the stovetop. A smile quirks my lips. “This looks good on you.”

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Contentment.”

He blushes, grabbing a couple mugs from a rack beside the fridge. “It’s, uh…been really nice. Max said I can stay here as long as I want. Which I kind of want to, you know? My place sucks, and his is…” He waves a hand around instead of finishing his sentence. It’s a nice apartment. Small but cozy.

“And you two?” I prod.

“Yeah,” he breathes out. “We, uh… We’re good.”

I huff a laugh. “Just good?”

“The man is a god, happy?”

“Very,” I say, grinning. “I’m happy for you, Noel. You’re a good person. You deserve another good person who can see and protect that.”

“Like Emil does for you?” he asks, shutting off the teakettle as it starts to whistle.

I let out a breath, my thoughts turning to Specs and the soft smile he gave me this morning when he woke. “Yeah. Like that.”

Noel’s smirk is knowing. It doesn’t escape me how far we’ve both come in a few short months. Our lives have changed drastically. Hopefully, for the better.

“Tell me about your job search?” I ask.

Noel nods, setting a mug of tea in front of me before taking a seat. We chat for almost an hour, catching up about my sewing and his interview at a coffee shop down the road. It’s good, and if for nothing else, I can thank Knee Highs for bringing Noel into my life.

It’s midafternoon when I leave the apartment, and the sun is shining brightly, warming the otherwise cool air. It doesn’t hit me where in town I am until I turn a corner and come face to face with the diner where my mom works. It’s such a surprise that, for a moment, my steps falter. I stare at the mint-green awning and faded paint on the window, feeling ten again, a young boy who went with his mom to work for the day, excited to sit at a worn booth and watch the world pass by. The adventure faded the older I got, just like my relationship with my mom.

Part of me desperately wants to keep moving. Just pass on by and pretend I was never here. But I don’t. I cross the street and head for the diner’s front door.

The bell jingles as I step through, the establishment mostly empty at this time of day, apart from an older gentleman seated by the front window. He gives me a nod from behind his paper, not even looking twice at the skirt I’m wearing.

Again, part of me whispers to just go. To turn around and leave before anyone else can notice me. Before a particular person can notice me.

But that voice feels a lot like fear. And I’m tired of listening to it.

I walk up to the U-shaped counter at the center of the diner. There are chrome stools all around it, the style reminiscent of the fifties. Some diners replicate the aesthetic. This one is just that old.

It takes a minute before the door to the kitchen swings open. It’s not a shock, exactly, to see my mom walk through, but I still jolt when our eyes connect for the first time in years. She stutters almost to a stop when she sees me but collects herself quickly. She doesn’t bother pasting on a smile, but her expression remains politely distant, if not a little weary.

She looks so tired, and I hate it.

“Christian,” she says simply, stopping on the other side of the counter. Her outfit is light blue, her apron white.

“Hey, Mom.”

She looks me over, this woman with light blonde hair and icy blue eyes that I used to admire. Used to adore. I wonder what she sees. A disappointment? Her son? A man in a skirt she has nothing in common with except a love for eighties music?

She doesn’t say anything about the skirt, but I can tell by the pinch in her brow she doesn’t like it. I didn’t wear it because of her, though, and I think that’s something she’s never fully understood. I wear it for me. No one else. Her opinion never has and never will trump my love for me.

“Have you been well?” she finally asks, just as the silence starts to wear thin.

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