“You’re still changing?”
At that, he shrugs. “There’s no telling, although I think it’s mostly slowed at this point. It’s not like I can go to a doctor or something and get a test. Not that I’ve tried. I don’t think anything good could come of involving a doctor. You understand that, right? You can’t tell anyone that you know me. You can’t tell anyone ever.”
“Yeah, of course. I’m not an idiot. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter at this point anyway. If you wanted to, you could ruin me.”
I shake my head. “I would never do that.”
He gives another little smile. “Sure, Jules.”
A moment lingers between us, and I realize I’ve scooted a little closer to him. When did that happen? I’m not at the edge of the couch anymore. I’m leaning forward now, my knees pointing toward him, now inches away.
I set my coffee on the hardwood floor.
“When did the changes start?”
“When I was around twenty-one or so. You’ve seen the picture. That’s me up there on the wall. Was me. Still is me? I don’t even really know anymore. I keep it there as a reminder.”
“A reminder of what?”
“Of who I no longer am.”
I swallow hard and nod. I think of the old portfolios of my face and my body. Of a person who now only exists in print but nowhere else. “Were you happy before?”
“What do you mean?”
“In the picture, were you happy?” Because to me, I can’t quite tell. In the picture, he’s smiling, but his eyes . . . his eyes belie something else entirely.
“I have no idea how to answer that question. Is anyone happy?”
I scratch my head. “I think some people might be.”
“Are you?”
I shrug. “I wouldn’t know anything about it.”
“Yeah.” He nods. “Can I tell you something weird?”
I laugh at the absurdity of his question. “Weirder than this?” But also, I’m excited that he wants to confide in me. I want to know everything.
He chuckles quietly, his chin down. “Sometimes, I ask myself if I feel more like me now than I ever did before. Here I am, a freak of nature. I can’t even leave the apartment. I haven’t left in years. And I can’t hide it anymore. What . . . I’ve become. But also, I’m still me.”
I inch even closer. I want to put my hand on his hand. To comfort him because I understand. I understand the confusion between what’s on the inside and what’s on the outside and all the opinions and judgments others carry because of it. Part of me wants to withhold, and another part of me wants to confess in a way I’ve never done with another person before.
“You know before, when you said I look like a model . . .” It’s an obvious leading question. I know even bringing it up seems like I’m fishing.
“I remember.”
I lean forward like I’m sharing a secret, because I am. “Well, I am. Or, I was, I guess I should say. Ever since I was a little kid, and it’s what I did growing up and even after college. But the truth about me is that my outside has nothing to do with how I feel on the inside. My mother always used to tell me that appearance is what everyone will judge me on the most. That it’s my most valuable public asset. That so much of what we get in life is because of what we were born into. What we look like. And she’s completely right. And that’s why I don’t leave my apartment anyway. Because my outsides are a lie. And I can’t stand to be a liar.”
He tilts his head a little, and my eyes zero in on his neck. It’s shaped like the neck of a man, but there are three little slits alongside it. Of course there are. He has gills. But he must also have lungs.
“But you must go outside. You’re here, aren’t you?”
I lean back in the seat. Heat creeps into my cheeks a bit. “I had to make an exception.”
“For me?”
“I wanted to see you.” My voice comes out small but honest.
I sit on my hands. The urge to fidget is too great. He’s looking at me a little seriously now, and I think anyone would squirm a little under that light blue gaze.
When his gaze doesn’t falter, I lower my own. “What? What are you looking at?”
I sneak a peek, and he shakes his head as if coming out of a trance. “I’m not sure. You tell me.”
“Huh?”
“Who are you, Jules?”
I scrunch my face. “I-I . . .” I don’t even know how to begin to answer his question. Who am I? Am I the beauty? Or am I the beast? “I thought I was the one asking the questions.”
But he rubs his face with his hand, and again, I watch his fingers closely. “I think I have energy for one more question. You better make it good.”
I nod and ask the only thing I want to know. “When can I see you again?”
Chapter 13
