Chapter 1: Tristan
When I first met Cyrus, it was at his parents’ funerals; they had died tragically when he was seventeen in a car accident right after he graduated high school. My mother used to talk about the Wellers and Cyrus all the time, but I had never actually met them. I could tell Cyrus didn’t like my mother the minute we arrived at the funeral, but he didn’t say anything.
“Why did Cyrus have to come to their funeral dressed like that?” she commented, rolling her eyes at him.
I glanced over at him. He was dressed in a modest black suit with a red tie, nothing outrageous or anything, so I didn’t know why my mother had a problem with it.
“What’s wrong with what he’s wearing?” I asked.
“She’s supposed to be wearing a dress,” my mother hissed.
“Cyrus is the Weller's daughter. I would be embarrassed if you came to my funeral in a dress,” my mother commented. “She even cut all her hair off.”
“So, he’s trans?” I reply.
“She’s confused, is what she is,” she comments.
A priest read a short speech, and sad music was played before people gathered around the grave to place some roses inside. People were gathering and reminiscing about the Wellers. I looked around for Cyrus and spotted him leaning against a tree with a bottle of wine, which must have been a gift from someone. He was only a quarter into it.
I approached him. He glared at me as if he knew I was my mother’s son.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I stated quietly, not wanting to cause a scene.
“You’re not going to make fun of me for my clothes?” he comments.
“There are many worse things you can show up to a funeral in, bright red, or pink, or white, or non-traditional, or inappropriate clothing, for example,” I commented.
“Yeah, well, according to some, this is considered inappropriate,” he retorted, taking a swig from the wine bottle.
“Do you need someone to take you home?” I asked politely.
“I’m fine,” he hisses.
“Not when you’ve been drinking, you aren’t,” I comment, snagging his keys off his belt loop.
He glares at me again.
“You sure your mother would be okay with you driving me home?” he questioned.
“Her opinion doesn’t matter, I’m an adult,” I reply. “Come on. Where’s your car?”
He led me down the cobblestone path of the graveyard, past all the graves of the other dead who had already been laid to rest, to the parking lot. We walked across the blistering asphalt under the heat of the sun to a black sedan. The seats inside were leather, so they were hot when I sat down on them, and my dark suit wasn’t helping.
Cyrus got in the passenger seat, loosening the red tie around his neck and pulling off his suit coat. I did the same before starting up the car.
“Address?” I asked.
He pressed a few buttons on the dashboard before the route showed up, and I followed it.
When we arrived at the house, Cyrus stumbled up to the front door, and I followed him, making sure he didn’t hurt himself. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. I followed inside cautiously, looking around. The house was so quiet and empty, I could only imagine how it felt here alone for the past week or so while he prepared for the funeral.
My phone rang in my pocket; it was my mother, of course, probably wondering where I’d gone.
“You can go, thanks for the ride home,” Cyrus comments, glancing from the phone to me.
“You really shouldn’t be alone, it’s not good,” I reply quietly. “I’ll take this and then come back, okay?”
Cyrus shrugs as if accepting I wasn’t leaving. So, I stepped back outside and answered my phone.
“Tristan, where did you go?” my mother questions.
“I drove Cyrus home so he wouldn’t get in a car accident,” I replied.
“Was she half-drunk? Couldn’t even wait until after the funeral? She’s an utter disappointment. I don’t know what her parents were hoping to do with her,” my mother comments.
“He just lost his parents, you don’t expect him to go off the rails a bit? Or have a drink?” I question.
I knew if my parents died, I’d want to have a drink.
“She’s not even eighteen, she shouldn’t be drinking,” my mother throws back.
“Teenagers drink to deal with things, too; it’s not just adults. It’s not the right way to deal with things, but until he wants to talk, at least he’s not ignoring it,” I comment. “That’s why I drove him home so he wouldn’t get into an accident.”
“When are you coming home?” she asks.
“I’m going to make sure he’s alright before I leave. I’ll see you later, Mom,” I finish.
“Stop saying he, she’s a woman—” she starts, but I hang up before she can finish.
I go back inside the house to look for Cyrus. I find him in the kitchen with the bottle of wine and a glass.
“Do you want some?” he asks.
“No, thanks, I’m good,” I reply.
“Suit yourself,” he comments.
“Do you want to talk about how people have been treating you, and how it's making you feel?” I ask.
He pauses, looking into the wine glass, the wine is a few shades darker than his tie.
“They act like this started after they died. I’ve always been like this. I was going to come out to my parents that night, actually. Mainly, because I didn’t like going to all the parties in dresses and with long hair and makeup. But I didn’t get the chance to, in the end, their opinion wouldn’t have mattered either way. I would have loved for them to accept me, but I’ll never know the answer now. Either way, I’m not going to hide or lie anymore. I am who I am,” he reasons.
“You only didn’t like wearing dresses, and doing your hair and makeup, what about all the men they introduced you to? Are you into girls or guys?” I inquire.
“Their taste in people was fine, but none of them would like me for who I truly am,” he comments. “People with status like us usually aren’t open-minded.”
“I’m bi, my mother doesn’t seem to mind, but that might be because she thinks there’s still hope,” I reply quietly.
“What? That you’ll end up with a girl? That isn’t good, that’s toxic,” he comments. “What if you don’t? What if the person who makes you happy doesn’t make her happy?”
“It’s not about her, it’s about me. It’s my life,” I reply.
I wished I had kept thinking like this, but I didn’t.
“You should put the wine away and get some rest,” I add, gently picking up the bottle.
I wasn’t going to bash him for underage drinking; we all do stupid things as teenagers, including me.
He looks up at me, unhappy.
“Come on,” I say, opening the fridge and sticking the bottle inside.
He sets the glass down on the counter before he leads me to his room, which reminds me of mine, trapped somewhere between teenagehood and adulthood. With posters of bands, TV shows, and movies decorating the walls, a bed in the middle against the window and bookshelves lining the other walls. He pulled his tie off and threw it on the ground with his suit coat before sitting on the bed. He pulled off his socks and crawled into the bed.
I pulled the blanket up to cover him. I took a step back towards the door.
“Tristan,” I heard Cyrus speak quietly.
I looked back at him in the bed, vulnerable and sad. I wanted to help him, but I didn’t know what to do for him. I didn’t want to leave yet; obviously, he didn’t want me to either.
“Can I have a hug?” he asked, embarrassed, not meeting my eyes.
“Sure,” I replied, sitting on the bed.
He leaned closer to me and wrapped his arms around my neck, and I could feel him break down in my arms. He was shaking and started crying, and I just held him and comforted him. I leaned back against the headboard of the bed as he attempted to calm down. Even when he stopped crying, I hesitated to let go. Eventually, he fell asleep in my arms, and I didn’t mind, though. I moved his hair out of his face as I watched him sleep. Eventually, my own tiredness made me pass out, too. When I woke, Cyrus had moved away from me but was still asleep. I didn’t know if he had woken up and moved or done it in his sleep.
He looked cute, and I still wasn’t ready to leave. I got up and collected his suit jacket, tie and any other clothes littering the floor or his furniture in his bedroom. I took them in a basket and started looking for the laundry room, and found it off the kitchen. I threw his clothes in with some soap and turned it on. I went into the kitchen, loaded up the dishwasher and turned it on, too. I went to the front door and checked the mailbox, pulling out the mail and bringing it inside.
I paused in front of the mantle in the living room, which was littered with photos of Cyrus and his parents, both old and new, I saw what he looked like before but I could also sense he was hiding and unhappy in many of the photos, I noticed in his graduation picture, he had a suit on rather than a dress, too. Maybe his parents had sensed he was unhappy with who he was and were attempting to give him space to figure out who he was in his own time. I picked up the photo and felt something sticking out of the back. I turned it over, and there was a paper sticking out of one of the corners of the frame.
I pulled the back off and pulled the paper out. I opened it, and it was a handwritten letter. It seemed to be from his parents. I skimmed over it. It was from his parents.
To Cyrus, our beloved child,
We know the last few years haven’t been easy, things are changing, and you are growing up. But no matter who you are or what you become, just know that no matter what, we will always love you. No matter whether you want to wear suits or dresses, like girls or guys, or want to be a girl or guy or something else. You will always be our child, no matter what. Don’t listen to what others have to say; what matters is that you are happy, that is all we want for you.
With Love, Your Parents
“You’re still here?” I heard Cyrus echo.
I turned, surprised by him.
“Have you read this?” I asked.
“What is it?” he asks.
I hold it out to him, and he takes it and starts reading. I can see his eyes gloss over again.
“They loved you, all they wanted was for you to be happy, Cyrus,” I whisper.
He wiped his eyes.
“It’s okay, things will get better,” I murmured, taking him in my arms again.
And they would for a bit.
