26. Blaise

TWENTY-SIX

I have a sweet,considerate, generous boyfriend who loves me, and I hate it. Okay, no. I don't hate it—I love it. I love him. But I hate that he insisted on lending me his car, and I hate that I gave in and took it. Because really, it is the sensible short-term solution.

But aside from the battering to my pride—which is considerable—it also highlights the different lives we've lived. Jordan has no money worries. He has a decent model car that his dads bought new for him when he got his license. It's not fancy or flashy, but it's a goddamn new car that they bought for a sixteen-year-old. My car was actually my mom's old car, and when I say "old," I mean it. She bought it secondhand (or maybe thirdhand) when Dad left and she had to sell the perfectly good, nearly new BMW he'd bought her in order to pay her lawyer and some of the bills. She said at the time that a more modest car suited her better anyway, but even though she wasn't a flashy person, I didn't believe it. She was socking as much cash aside as she could to give me a head start, because she knew Dad wouldn't pay for college for his queer son.

Which is point number two… my mom loved me, but she's gone, and Dad's not in the picture. Jordan, on the other hand, has a swarm of loving family who embrace the queer part of him and are constantly in and out of his life. Seriously, he's living across the country from them all, but they may as well be next door. Messages, emails, social media, the occasional phone call… all things that keep him dialed into the lives of his many sort-of relatives.

He loves his sport. I… well, I don't hate it. I'm actually kind of starting to love it too. As long as he never makes me play. But I want to design costumes for a living. Fabric and fashion and style are my milieu. How can that possibly blend with cleats and dirt?

"Blaise, there's practically steam coming out of your ears," Harold says. "What's troubling your little head badly enough to put those bags under your eyes?"

I raise a brow. Bags? "Bitch."

"True," he agrees. "But so was my statement. Now come on, you dragged me here to the mall to eat a sandwich with you, so tell me what's on your mind."

I sigh. "I'm just… annoyed by life."

"Now who's being a little bitch?" he asks. "Annoyed by life? Honey, so are we all. Be specific, so I can help you fix it."

"It's Jordan." I go for broke.

Harold sits back, shocked. "Jordan? That's not what I expected you to say. What happened? Is he sick? Oh my god, he cheated."

"What? No!" No matter what relationship doubts I have, Jordan's fidelity isn't one of them. "Why would you say that?"

He shrugs. "What the hell am I supposed to think? Jordan's the last person I would have picked to be your boyfriend, and yet somehow he's perfect for you. So… what's the problem?"

"He…" I pause. This is going to come out all wrong. "He lent me his car."

"Yeah, I know. Does he want it back or something? Is he being all overbearing about how much you drive it and what gas station you go to?"

"No, none of that. I offered to keep track of mileage and work out some kind of reimbursement, but he laughed it off."

"Okaaaaay." Harold rolls his wrist, asking for more detail.

"It's not just the car. That he lent me to use for as long as I need it. He also asked around his team if anyone knew someone selling a car, and when they didn't, he made flyers and put them up on all the student noticeboards on campus."

"This isn't clearing anything up. Are you… getting nuisance calls because of the flyers?"

I shake my head. "No, he put his number on them so he could weed those out. But, like… that author who wants me to design costumes for her sent me the contract, and Jordan suggested I show it to his friend Cara, who's apparently a lawyer? Junior associate or something at a firm with six names in it. And then he called her, and she said to send it over."

"Free legal advice about a contract? That's great," Harold encourages. "What did she say about it?"

I pull a face.

"Blaise… no. You haven't sent it? Why not?"

"Because of Jordan!"

Harold, who's been one of my best friends since freshman year and helped to get me through the mess after Mom died, shakes his head. "You're going to need to explain this one to me, because I don't see the problem. Jordan was the one who suggested it. He set this up. Why would he be the reason you don't want to— Oh my god, Blaise, did you cheat? Because if you did, so help me, I'm going to throw red wine all over that shirt."

"Of course I didn't… Wait. What red wine?"

He pats his insulated water bottle smugly. "Never you mind. So… you didn't?—"

"Nobody cheated," I interrupt, just to keep the story moving. "But don't you see how Jordan's doing all the giving in this relationship, while all I do is take? It's unbalanced. Just like we are."

Harold puts down the remains of his sandwich. "I'm not the best person to give relationship advice," he begins slowly, and I snort.

"I'll say."

"But," he glares at me, "I think the point of a relationship is that you support each other during the bad times. And that it works in cycles—so you might need a little more from Jordan now, but who's to say he won't need you later on? You can't tell me you didn't give him a lot of support when he was working out his sexuality. And you've basically… okay, not gone back into the closet, but you're behind one of those weird hippy bead curtains because him coming out to the whole campus would be a debacle. So, you see—you give too."

I can't argue with those points, but at the same time, I'm not convinced. "It's just… what I give, it's… emotional. He's giving stuff that saves me money, a lot of money. And he has a lot of money. I don't want that to be a thing between us, but I can't help feeling like it's getting to be."

"He's saving you money, but is it costing him money?" Harold points out.

Reluctantly, I shake my head. "Not since I told him I'd lock him outside if he tried to Uber to my place."

"So what's the big deal then?"

"It doesn't feel right!" My voice rises in frustration. "I don't want him or anyone thinking I'm with him for what he can give me." I know he wants to offer me money for a new car. Hell, it wouldn't surprise me if he found me something that was an "amazing bargain" that he was actually subsidizing. He hasn't—yet—because he knows me and I don't want that.

Except part of me really wishes he would. It would make things so much easier. And I'm tired of everything being hard. What would it be like, for once, if I didn't have to work for something? For bills to be covered, for my family to accept me, for my goals to be achievable?

Even thinking it makes me feel like shit, because I'm so much luckier than most people. Things are easy for me, relatively speaking. I like my life, and I don't think I'd want a silver spoon.

There are just times that I can't help wishing for an easier way.

I look up and see Harold watching me. "Send the email, Blaise. Nobody thinks you're with Jordan for any other reason than that you two belong together, and you're doing him and all of us a disservice by thinking otherwise."

"Yeah, I know. But?—"

"No. Send the email to his friend. Get her to look at the contract. And start the next step to not needing Jordan's car, so you can get past whiny diva mode and let those of us who know how to do it properly take back the role."

I stare at him for a second, then dissolve into laughter. "I hate you sometimes."

"I'm waiting for you to send that email."

Sighing, I pull out my phone, find the email from Halle's agent, and forward it to the email address Jordan gave me three days ago, along with a short note introducing myself and thanking her for the help. Then I show Harold the screen with the email clearly marked Sent. "Happy now?"

"Ecstatic. Now finish your lunch, and then you can use your employee discount to sell me the lemon paisley shirt I saw when I came to get you."

Some things never change.

Jordan doesn't come over that night—he's got an assignment due tomorrow that he needs to finish—so I'm alone, lying on the couch eating dinner and mentally adjusting everyone's outfits on the TV, when my phone rings.

It's a Chicago number, which is unusual enough to make me consider answering. Wrong number or telemarketer? Or it could be a scammer, giving me the opportunity to take all my current frustration out on someone who actually deserves it.

I answer. "Hello?"

"Hi," a cheerful female voice says. "Is this Blaise?"

Not a wrong number, then. "It is. Who's calling?"

"Hey, I'm Cara, Jordan's lawyer friend. And according to him, kind-of cousin, though we're actually not related in any way. He's a little weird sometimes."

I huff a laugh. "In the best way, though. Hi, Cara. Thanks for doing this—I hope Jordan didn't bulldoze you into it."

"Nah, he never bulldozes. He's just so charming you have to give in. But this was one of the easier things he's asked me for. Seriously, Blaise, this contract is beautiful."

I blink. "It is?"

"Yup. I showed it to one of the senior associates, just to prove to myself that I wasn't losing my mind. It's extremely fair. You retain full copyright of your designs, which the author will license from you—that's a big deal, since they're based on her IP. They've even got a clause saying you'll be clearly acknowledged as the designer on all packaging, marketing, and promotional materials, including the website listing. She must really like you."

"That's…" Wow. "So there are no problems with me signing it? Nothing that might come back to bite me later?"

"Nope." She pops the p. "Unless you wanted to negotiate the fee?"

I shake my head before realizing she can't see me. "No, that's more than fair. I probably would have quoted her less, to be honest."

"Don't tell her that. What about the timelines—are you okay with those?"

Halle has allowed six months for four costumes, which is doable around my current workload, but if something comes up, that might throw me off track. "I think so, but what happens if I fall behind? Is there a penalty?"

"Not like you're thinking. You'll get a deposit of 25 percent per costume when the contracts are signed, so you can start work. Another 25 percent will be paid as each design is completed and approved by the author. The final 50 percent payment comes after you deliver fully completed designs with all the agreed-upon materials, including one sample costume and the written instructions. So the longer you take, the longer you wait to get paid. There's also an expiry clause—if you haven't delivered everything twelve months after the signing date, the contract becomes defunct. You get to keep any money she's paid you, and she gets to keep—and use—anything you've given her, but unless you agree to an extension before that?—"

"It's over. Okay, got it. That sounds workable to me."

"Then my advice to you is to go ahead and sign."

"Thank you, Cara. I'm so grateful for your help—and again, I hope it wasn't too much of a bother."

She hesitates. "That's… Listen, Blaise, we don't know each other, so feel free to tell me to fuck off, but Jordan's really into you, and Mila says her dads liked you too… so in the interest of you being future family, it's never a bother when family asks for a little favor."

My throat goes dry. "Uh… that's kind. I-I…" Fuck, I'm losing it. "I don't have a lot of experience with that kind of family. And I really don't want any of you to think I'm taking advantage."

She's quiet for another moment, then asks, "Family kick you out for being queer?"

"Not exactly, but… yeah." Because if Mom and Dad had stayed married, I'm honestly not sure how my coming out would have gone. I like to think she would have stuck up for me, but chances are, she would have gone along with Dad's wishes and snuck me money on the side.

"I can't relate to that, but I can tell you that nobody thinks you're taking advantage. The family phone tree and group chat have been active, and everything that's been said about you is good. So just keep making Jordan this happy, and don't worry about the details."

If only life was that easy. "Thanks, Cara," I say instead, and end the call.

I might still be unsure of my footing with Jordan right now, but at least I have a contract that's going to get me one step closer to making up the ground I lost.