The Queerest [🗸]

evelyn perez is music

She runs a hand through her hair. "I never thought that I was capable of that." An exhale. "And maybe it's because I was so used to being with him, I couldn't really imagine us not being together. Like a habit or something." Her eyes glaze over before refocusing. A gentle laugh escapes her lips. "Sorry. That probably doesn't make any sense whatsoever."

A curl falls onto her face as she returns her gaze to the stove, shaking some sort of spice into the pasta. Reaching over, I tuck a curl behind her ear, my lips twitching. My heart skips a beat once her eyes meet mine.

Shaking my head, I allow my shoulders to fall. "Actually, I think that makes a lot of sense." I allow myself to shrug once more. "I mean," an exhale, "I could tell my parents relationship started deteriorating when I was in eighth grade. It took them years to admit that their relationship wasn't what it used to be, but they still felt some sort of obligation to each other because they were so used to each other." 

Shaking my head, I exhale. "So, yeah, they felt obligated to the relationship." A pause. "Until they didn't."

"Riya," Evelyn says, that gentle look in her eyes once more. Somehow, it's so much more, so much better than Ms. Olsen's look of pity that she sends me during our meetings. Pity pisses me off more often than not, mainly due to the fact that the person pitying me sees me as some poor, unfortunate soul above anything else.

Evelyn's expression is different. 

Instead of some sort of forced sympathy (i.e. "I feel bad for you but I can't relate"), this is more empathy. As though she's not pretending to understand completely, but not distancing herself from the entire thing to provide a pitying look paired with a hand resting on her heart.

She feels genuine.

"I like you," I say, seemingly out of nowhere. "A lot."

A smile appears on Evelyn's lips as she turns off the stove. She makes her way over to the sink, pouring any excess water away before finally returning to the stove and sprinkling parmesan all over. 

Exhaling finally, she turns to me. "I like you, too." A pause. "A whole lot."

"Yeah?" I ask, rummaging through her cupboards for two plates that I set down on the countertop beside the stove. Evelyn takes one of those fork-spatula-esque serving tools and fills both plates as we make our way over to the table.

Settling down across from her, Evelyn slides into her own seat, sliding cutlery over to me as the scent of melted parmesan fills the atmosphere.

"Yeah," she answers my somewhat rhetorical question as she twirls her fork, this starry-eyed expression flickering over her eyes like it never left. 

Fuck.

Her foot nudges at mine, and I can nearly feel my heart beating behind my chest. The sound nearly feels deafening. And at this moment, at this utterly perfect, all-too-soft moment, an utterly unprecedented thought occurs to me.

"I want to come out to my mom."

The words leave my lips quickly. I'm certain my mom already has some idea, due to the fact that I have nearly dozens of bisexual pins or pens, t-shirts, flags. All of that is most definitely on my online shopping history, and it doesn't necessarily go unnoticed when my packages arrive at our front door.

Still, I've never officially, unapologetically, clearly stated that I'm bisexual to my mom. I exhale. And it's not like I'm obligated to, but now, here, I want to. I genuinely think that I want to.

A smile rises to Evelyn's lips as she nods, her fork digging into her pasta. "Go for it."

So, I do. Slipping my phone out of my pocket, I raise it upwards, opening my messages with my mom. Evelyn's eyes stay on me, observing what exactly it is I'm trying to do.