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He thought about the lighthouse. About how light doesn’t ask permission to shine. About how some beacons are built for ships, and some are built for sons coming home.
Luca shuffled the deck. “I’m a surprise.”
“Let them,” Luca said. “I’ve got snacks and zero remaining fucks.”
Later, as the adults watched football and the younger cousins played on tablets, Samira and Luca walked to the old pier. The salt air was sharp and clean. Gulls argued over a crab carcass. The lighthouse at the far end of the bay blinked its steady, lonely rhythm. big dick shemalegals
Luca took a slow bite of green bean casserole, chewed, swallowed, and said, “Hungry. Pass the gravy?”
That afternoon, over leftover pie, Luca taught Samira’s youngest cousin how to do a simple card trick. The cousin, age eight, looked up at Luca and said, “Are you a boy or a girl?”
“I’m not good at this,” she said. “The words. The pronouns. I look at you and I see the baby who wore yellow rain boots and collected shells. That’s my fault, not yours.” He thought about the lighthouse
“Luca,” she said, carefully, like a word in a foreign language she was learning to love. “Thank you for making him laugh.”
Luca was a lighthouse in human form: tall, calm, with a cascade of purple-and-blue hair that he tucked behind one ear. He was nonbinary, used they/them, and moved through the world like a question mark that had decided to become its own answer. They carried a battered copy of Stone Butch Blues in their backpack and had a habit of drawing constellations on Samira’s forearm when he was anxious.
“They’re going to stare,” Samira warned, his hand on the car door. Luca shuffled the deck
“They are.”
“Luca,” Samira said. “They’re my partner.”
Samira nearly choked laughing. Nasrin’s lips thinned.
This year, he brought Luca.
