“Does that upset you? That I care about him?” Cal asked, his inquiry more earnest than accusatory.

“Why would it?” I huffed, my response the polar opposite.

The way he regarded me with boundless empathy in his algae green eyes placated the defender who rose inside me, making the moment so serene it became nearly obscene and caused prickles of heat to spread across my cheeks. I was wearing more layers of clothing than I had ever worn on the beach, yet I was thoroughly exposed, naked under his gentle gaze.

“I care about a lot of people,” Cal stated. “I’d like to care about you too, even if you don’t.”

“Even if I don’t want you to?” I attempted to clarify, as he stood up and brushed granules of sand off his grey slacks.

“Even if you don’t care about yourself.”

“Who said I don’t care about myself?” I bristled, shifting onto my knees, palms clenching into mounds of the beach below them.

“You did, the first time we met a few years ago,” Cal replied, smiling sadly before he did something I hadn’t expected, never thinking he remembered me or that night. Repeating the words I’d said to him, he forced me to ingest them and grow sick as they festered in my stomach. “I don’t know why you think I’m like you …” He moved closer to me, placing his hand on my cheek. “But you are like me, aren’t you?”

“I am,” I whispered back, closing my eyes as he gave my face a pat.

“And you’re okay,” he stated, as if he really believed it.

I watched as he walked away, taking the rest of the daylight with him. Overcome by my admission, I laid supine in the sand, recalling the heat of his hand as the cold lake air shrouded me.

9

December 1931

There was something to be said for belles who owned who they were, even though they were bitches. Chicago was crawling with fakes and phonies, but the faggots of Towertown were neither. Abraham, Cal, and even the droopy drag queen, Rosie, lived in their skin instead of shedding it like the smarmy snakes surrounding me.