Page 92 of Familiar Things New

Before Andrew even took one step, there was a knock at the door. Shocked, Andrew froze. Another couple of knocks followed. Finally, Andrew started over to the door. When he opened it, he found Edwin on the other side, looking frazzled.

“Edwin?”

“Andrew,” Edwin said through an exhale. “I . . . came to talk.”

With a sheepish smile, Andrew held up the letter. “I, uhm, I was coming to talk to you, as well.”

“What’s that?” Edwin asked, his brow creasing.

Slowly, Andrew extended his hand. Edwin took the paper from him. Andrew’s heart hammered as Edwin unfolded it. And then fear and regret twisted in his stomach as he watched Edwin’s face fall.

Edwin shook his head in bewilderment. “Where—” he started to say.

“In your jacket,” Andrew said, cringing. “I swear I only wanted to hold it for a little while—the jacket, not the letter—but then, while I was admiring it, I-I found the letter in one of the pockets and . . . oh, I shouldn’t have read it. It was an invasion of your privacy. I know that. But I was so heartbroken when you left and—and I wasn’t sure if I’d ever even see you again and—”

“You know, then,” Edwin said, his voice trembling the slightest bit. “About me.”

“Know what? Edwin, the letter is extremely vague. I know there’s something that’s making you feel as though the two of us can’t be together, but I promise you, I have no idea what it is.” Edwin seemed to relax a little, his expression softening. “And I wasn’t coming to force you to tell me whatever it is that’s making you feel like this, but to tell you that there’s nothing I could ever learn about you that would make me not want to be together.”

Edwin winced.

“Don’t make statements like that,” he said. “You said it yourself: you have no clue what I was alluding to in the letter. So, then, you can’t know whether—”

“I can know,” Andrew said. He reached for Edwin’s hand and grabbed hold of his first two fingers. “In the letter, you said that you thought I wouldn’t want you because of the sort of man you are. But I know what sort of man you are. You’re a fine man, Edwin. Sweet. Sincere. Intelligent. Broody, maybe, but in a, uh . . . an endearing sort of way. You’re . . . wonderful.” Andrew’s eyes fell to their linked fingers. “So, see, I know exactly what kind of man you are. And I still want you.”

Edwin let out a barely-there laugh. “Thank you. Really, you’re . . . oh, you’re too sweet, my Andrew. But . . .” Edwin sighed. “I still have to tell you something. Something that might make you change your mind. I won’t blame you if it does. Truly. But I think it’s best if we sit for it.”

Andrew bit his tongue to keep himself from protesting. Whatever Edwin had to say, Andrew knew in his heart that what he felt couldn’t be erased so easily.

Together, they walked over to Andrew’s bed and sat. Andrew continued to hold Edwin’s fingers. Once they were seated, Andrew shifted his hand so that he could hold Edwin’s properly. Edwin’s cheeks reddened a little as their fingers intertwined.

They were quiet for a while.

“What is it?” Andrew asked.

Another stretch of silence followed.

“Andrew,” Edwin eventually began, “when I was born, everyone thought I was a girl.”

Andrew’s eyebrows shot up. He waited for Edwin to continue. But Edwin stayed quiet, his eyes fixed on some random point in front of him.

“Uhm.” Andrew shifted uncomfortably. “Can you . . . elaborate a little?”

Edwin’s throat bobbed, and he let out a quivering exhale.

“It, uhm, it was because of my body,” he said. “But as I got older, it became clear to me that something was . . . wrong. I never felt like I fit right. It was as though . . . as though there was an incongruence between my heart and my mind—or my soul, even—and the rest of me. Still, I was raised as . . . well, as most girls are raised, I suppose. But it caused me a lot of pain. I wasn’t even sure why I felt the way I did. All I knew was that everything—everything—felt like a lie. Everything from the clothes I wore to the work I performed as a seamstress to . . . even my name. I was constantly pretending. And I was constantly watching women move through life as themselves so effortlessly while wondering why I couldn’t be that way. And then, simultaneously, there was this . . . fascination I had with men and masculinity. It went beyond finding them interesting in either a romantic or a sexual way, too. It was like . . . like they beckoned me, somehow. Like I knew those things were the key to finding myself.”

He paused and shook his head. His eyes remained unfocused, continuing to have a faraway look in them. Andrew’s chest pinched, and he had a brief thought that he ought to comfort Edwin, but something stopped him, some confusion or hesitancy keeping him rooted to the spot while his brain worked hard to make sense of what Edwin was saying.

“It wasn’t until my father passed and I tried on one of his suits while I was in mourning that I realized what that strange feeling was,” Edwin continued. “And even then, even when I sort of realized it, it still took me a while to let myself know it.” Edwin fell silent. Andrew’s chest pinched again. This time, he squeezed Edwin’s hand. Edwin’s lips curled into the smallest, sweetest smile, and he squeezed back. “So, well, that’s why intimacy has been hard for me, Andrew. And why we probably can’t . . . continue to be together.”

Edwin grew quiet.

Seconds passed.

And then minutes.

Every moment of it felt like eternity. But still, Andrew couldn’t force himself to speak. Out of every possibility that he had considered to explain Edwin’s behavior—his hesitancy to become something romantic, even in secret; the obvious and endearing curiosity he had regarding Andrew pleasuring himself; his reluctance to ever let Andrew touch him or pleasure him or even cuddle him without his waistcoat on—this explanation had never once entered Andrew’s mind. And now Andrew couldn’t figure out what to do with Edwin’s confession. Or even whether there was anything to do. After all, he still liked Edwin.