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I’m stumbling through the back window of Monty’s bedroom at nearly two in the morning when I trip over Felicity. She’s sitting leaned against the wall, her legs outstretched, something intellectual-looking pulled up on her laptop screen and her glasses perched on the end of her nose, and I curse as my foot catches on her ankle and I’m sent crashing to the hardwood floor.
“Good, you’re back,” she says, as if she’s expecting me. As if it is me who normally climbs into Monty’s bedroom in the dead of night. One can only dream.
“What?” I’m in the process of dislodging myself from the pile of laundry I’ve fallen into and a little bit buzzed, and she’s really not making any sense.
Felicity is on her feet, peering out the window and into the darkness of the Montague manor’s back garden with the same hawkish stare one might fix on a particularly irritating insect. “Where’s Monty?”
“Well, when I left, he was in the back of Richard Peele’s house working a hand up Theodosia Fitzroy’s shirt,” I say, trying not to sound bitter, but the words come out a bit choked up. Goddamn, I’m never drinking again. “I was just coming back for my keys.”
There’s a split second during which Felicity whirls around to stare at me before her face twists into an absolutely ferocious scowl. “I’m going to kill him.”
“Why?”
Felicity splutters. “He’s cheating on you?”
Which was not what I was expecting her to say. “He’s not — we’re not—”
“You have an open relationship, then?” she demands, which really, seems a bit more invasive than is necessary. “It was his idea, wasn’t it? You don’t have to go along with it if you don’t want to. Really, you could do far better—”
“We’re not together,” I cut in, before she can get on one of her full-blown rants. “We’ve never been together.”
Whatever further words of condemnation were on the docket for this episode of Monty’s antics die in her throat. “ Really ?”
I nod. God, how I wish I could say no without it being a lie. Yes, Felicity, I’m with Monty. We go on dates to the library where he reads poetry to me in funny voices, and he brings me flowers and kisses me for good luck at my concerts, and I don’t have to watch him make eyes at someone he hardly knows for twenty minutes at parties before he abandons me to stick his tongue down their throat.
She must notice the way my shoulders sag, for she winces a bit. “Sorry, then. How long has he been with Theodosia, then?”
“He’s not . That’s the worst part—I wouldn’t even mind if he at least had someone to make him happy—” That’s a lie. “—but it’s just this endless loop of people who don’t give a fuck about him except for the fact that they think he’s good-looking.” This might be selling it short. Sinjon Westfall, of blue eyes and nice arms, (I remember being fifteen and struggling through push-ups in hopes of having nicer arms) was apparently very gentlemanly. And Monty still texts Jeanne sometimes, although that could be out of guilt after that disastrous gala. “I just don’t get it.”
Maybe I should be more concerned about the fact that I’ve essentially confirmed to Felicity that I’m hopelessly in love with her brother, but I’m too tired to really care. I prop myself up on a stack of Monty’s skinny jeans. The room is too large and plain and empty for it to really be his. Most of his things are at my flat at this point. More than once, I’ve considered asking him to move into my spare room, but that would just mean trying to ignore him coming home at four am with his shoes in his hands. I don’t think I can handle seeing Monty in the mornings, with his hair tousled and his lips swollen and little bruises scattered across his collarbone, if he’s still waking up the next room over and I’m still waking up to cold sheets.
Felicity hums a little. “Neither do I, although I think that’s more to do with the fact that I’ve never understood the concept at all.” When I stare at her blankly, she tacks on, “Attraction, I mean. It all seems rather messy, you know, flirting and touching of body parts and all that.”
Dear God, I would really do almost anything to not be having this conversation. It’s fucking mortifying, listening to my best friend’s little sister talk about how confusing sex is. “Right, er. Yes.”
“What do you mean, ‘yes’? You’ve been moony for Monty for years, and you actually speak to him voluntarily, how could you possibly—hold on, you’re ace too?”
“Ace?” I ask, not even bothering to contest my apparently obvious pining for Monty.
Felicity is tapping furiously at her keyboard. “Asexual.” She flips the screen around so I can read it. She’s pulled up to a purple website with ‘The Asexual Visibility and Education Network’ printed at the top next to a black and white triangle and is scrolling through an FAQ page, but stops at the look on my face. “Sorry, am I overstepping? It’s just, I had absolutely no one when I was figuring this out, so I thought—”
“No, no I— sorry, it’s just— can I maybe have a little space?”
Felicity hands off the laptop to me and turns to leave. “Absolutely.”
I spend the next half an hour clicking through the overview and frequently asked questions. It’s absolutely mind-boggling, the sheer amount of information, but leave it to Felicity to find the absolute best research sources.
“ Many asexual people may experience forms of attraction that can be romantic, aesthetic, or sensual in nature but do not lead to a need to act out on that attraction sexually. Instead, we may get fulfillment from relationships without sex, but based on other types of attraction.”
“ Is it possible to be asexual as well as lesbian, gay, or bi?
Yes, as asexual people may still experience romantic attraction or desire that may be homoromantic, biromantic, or panromantic and find it useful to identify as such.”
“Not everything is a perfect fit. You may feel mostly asexual, but not entirely. You may feel slightly sexual on an infrequent basis, but not enough to fit in with other people you know. You may relate more to the asexual community, despite not quite being asexual yourself. This is what we call the gray area – not quite asexual, but experiencing many of the same things that asexuals do and most sexual people don’t.”
It’s all rather useful, and, frankly, relatable. I think it’s a little comforting, knowing I’m not the only one left out of some elaborate joke. Pieces of my school years are finally fitting together—how disgusted I felt when I accidentally stumbled across a rather erotic scene in an otherwise excellent historical biopic, the way it seemed like everyone around me was intent on pairing off horizontally while I was content to play the violin and daydream about curling up with Monty (never anyone else) next to a warm fireplace and talking about nothing. I didn’t even realize how out of place I felt until I saw other options.
But there’s also the issue of Monty . Monty, the emotional monkey wrench who’s keeping all of this from sliding into place perfectly. Because, as long as it took me to come to terms with it, I am ridiculously in love with him, and accompanying that love is a burning jealousy that it is Theodosia and Richard and Jeanne and Sinjon that get to leave those little marks on his hips and kiss him so hard he wouldn’t notice the world ending and have his hands all over them instead of me. Which is rather unfair, given that I’ve never actually expressed any of this to Monty, but nevertheless. So, when I come across a particular entry, I’m thrown for a loop.
“ I'm only really attracted to people after I get to know them. What does that mean?
It’s common for people to choose not to have sex with others until they meet certain criteria or reach a certain point in a relationship. However, a small minority of people simply do not feel any general sexual attraction towards anyone until a close bond is formed. An increasing number of people who experience that are identifying as ‘demisexual.’”
“Demisexual,” I say aloud, letting the word roll over my tongue and out into the open air. And then, after reading a footnote about romantic orientations, “Demiromantic?” And then, “Shit.” Because this is making an almost distressing amount of sense. If I am only attracted to people who have dug their roots into my very soul, and Monty is the only person who has ever managed to really get that close to me, then how am I supposed to get over him? How do I learn to be content with a two-bedroom flat and proximity that is equally painful and exhilarating and watching an endless parade of hookups swan in and out the front door?
There’s a rustling out in the garden that can only be from a drunken Monty clomping through the hedges, and sure enough, he emerges, red-faced and grimacing at the light from the window. “Percy!”
I wave, and since he’s probably too tired and not quite lucid enough to notice, I allow myself a moment to stare as he climbs in the window. Monty’s shirt is rumpled and on backwards, and his nose is scrunched until I offer him a hand. His eyes soften, and a single dimple appears. Damn his dimples. They’re going to kill me one day.
“How was Theodosia?” I ask, because I am a self-destructive fool who is dead set on raining emotional turmoil upon himself.
Monty waves his hand, as if to clear her name from the air. “Oh, fine. You left.”
“Well, yes. You seemed preoccupied.”
“Not really,” Monty says, the words pitched with a bit of a whine.
I sigh. “Monty.”
“Oh, come on Perce! Like you’ve never wandered off for a bit of a romp.”
“I haven’t, actually,” I snap, and I know this isn’t fair, but damn, it hurts. “It’s just you, and all these people who don’t care , and I’m left standing there alone.”
“Percy, what does it matter to you what I get up to in back rooms at parties?” Monty asks, staring at his ankle hooked over mine in front of us, and his voice is so soft that I almost tell him. I almost say, Because I love you, you sod. Because I don’t want you to get used by Richard fucking Peele, even if it doesn’t bother you. Because I’m fairly certain you are the only person I’ve got it in me to feel this way about.
Instead, I duck my head and say “It shouldn’t. I’m sorry.”
“You haven’t got to apologize. You’re allowed to have your own feelings, darling.”
Goddamn, he takes up so much space in my heart that it’s hard to breathe. I lean into his shoulder and puff out a sigh. Maybe I am not the person who will get to leave Monty flushed and grinning at the end of the party, and maybe I am not the person who will make him breakfast in bed or walk down the aisle to him, but I am going to be the person who loves him the most, and maybe that will be enough.
“Thanks, Monty.”
…………
“It’s just you, and all these people who don’t care, and I’m left standing there alone.”
If you wanted me to stay, darling, all you had to do was say the word.