Elliot Page

Nikki and I skirted around our chemistry, hovering and ducking. We’d
hang out constantly, it felt romantic at times. I was nearly certain it was not
just me, but maybe it was, maybe I was the only queer.
I remember sitting together in her mother’s beige Toyota Camry at
Dingle Park, not wanting to drive home just yet. The sun was setting, just
about to disappear for the night. We sat in the quiet, staring out at the Arm.
I thought we might kiss. Eventually, the sun winked from the tip of the
horizon, saying its final goodbyes. I smiled at her, she smiled back. I
remember how beautiful she looked. I could hear my heart and hoped she
couldn’t also. A few beats went by and we both exhaled, circumventing
once more, we turned our heads to face forward. We waited in the car until
the night took hold.
Moments like these hid in our friendship, tucked away, unnamed.
Another time we were huddled in a small tree house in her backyard. The
classic kind, just wood, a small trapdoor. Nikki’s dad had made it for her.
He had died when she was eight.
We smoked a joint, getting lost in conversation as the crickets joined in.
The house was dark, except for the living room, the light radiated out.
Inside, her mother watched television, distracted by the flickering glow. Our
faces were close, Nikki looked right at me and I looked right back. Time
stopped, the corners of our mouths offering the tiniest beginnings of a grin.
We did not move.
Lean in, I thought. You just need to lean in.
I didn’t, neither did she, and the moment passed. We climbed down
from the tree.
So many times where all I had to do was lean in, lean in to her and to
myself, but I couldn’t. And eventually, I lost my chance. One evening, we
lay on her bed talking. Her arm was around me, allowing me to nestle into
her, the closest we’d ever been. I glanced up, a new angle. Her neck
stretched as she looked to the ceiling, her chin pointed proudly. Nikki’s eyes
moved downward, her head following behind, a new angle for her, too. Her
lips, pink and full. I wanted them on my mouth.
“Nikki?” The door opened.
Immediately disconnecting, we created space in between. This was
useless, we had already been caught.
Slowly, we began to drift apart.
The lead of the school musical asked Nikki to prom shortly after. He
was tall, handsome, popular, friends with everyone, the kind of person who
can move their way in and out of various groups and cliques without having
to mutate. Talented, smart, funny … desirable.
Nikki said yes. The moment I found out, I felt my heart split. Earlier in
the year she and I made casual remarks about going together, a hidden
moment that evaporated like the rest. Yet some small part of me believed
we would. I wanted to yell, to say go with me, to say I love you, but nothing
came out. The image of someone else’s lips on hers stirred a new sensation.
Pumped by the heart, jealousy revealed itself, cycling through my body.
Nikki and I did not completely lose touch. Years later, she told me she
had felt the same.
I resent that we were cheated out of our love, that beautiful surge in the
heart stolen from us. I am furious at the seeds planted without our consent,
the voices and the actions that made our roads to the truth unnecessarily
brutal.