Page 22 of The Most Unusual Haunting of Edgar Lovejoy

“Because I want you to get the full effect of the whole outfit on you as opposed to forming opinions about the individual pieces in the abstract.”

For the first time, Edgar was struck by how much thought Jamie was putting into this.

He’d gotten the sense this was a fun excuse for Jamie to dress him up, see how he’d look.

And he’d been fine with that. More than fine.

Jamie’s eyes on him, no matter the reason, were very welcome.

But although he had no doubt Jamie was having fun, this was something more.

Jamie dressed to express themself—gender, personality, interests, style, opinions. It was something that had drawn him to Jamie when they’d first met, the sense that Jamie knew exactly who they were and had no interest in hiding it.

Now Jamie was trying to give Edgar the chance to stop hiding. The chance to show himself to the world instead of trying to be invisible. It was a scary but intoxicating proposition.

Edgar looked around. He’d never seen a ghost in Allie’s shop. She’d never seen a ghost here. It would probably be okay.

“Okay,” Edgar said and forced his eyes closed. Jamie’s warm hand on his cheek was calming, and he pressed into it.

“Thank you.” Jamie’s voice was velvet, and Edgar shivered. “Okay, here’s outfit number one.”

Jamie handed him the garments one at a time, and Edgar changed, his equilibrium off with his eyes closed. Jamie caught him a few times when he would have lost his balance, hands lingering a bit longer than necessary.

They adjusted his waistband and grazed his hip bone. Fingers ran through his hair and sent frissons from his scalp through his whole body. He thought about the other night, when Jamie had touched him so sweetly, he’d wanted to scream.

A whiff of Jamie’s delicious scent, and then a gentle kiss feathered across Edgar’s cheekbone.

“Okay. Open your eyes, and look in the mirror.”

Edgar blinked blearily as his reflection came into focus.

Only he didn’t look like himself at all.

Seafoam-green joggers ended in elastic at his anklebones, and his feet were shoved into too-small black-and-white-checkered sneakers.

The shirt reminded Edgar of old pictures of Breton sailors, with its wide neck, three-quarter-length sleeves, and thick horizontal navy and white stripes.

At first, he couldn’t tell why he looked so different; then he realized Jamie had pushed his hair forward where he always combed it back. It was just long enough to fall over his forehead, and it made him look both younger and less somber.

“Wow, I look…”

“Damn,” Jamie said, eyes drinking him in. They cleared their throat. “So what do you think?”

“I like how you did my hair.”

“Oh, good. I just thought I’d try it. But if you train your hair that way after you shower, it’ll start doing it on its own.”

Edgar imagined himself as a head of hair and Jamie training him into what they wanted him to be. It made his chest heat.

Flustered and at a loss for anything to say, Edgar blurted the only thing that came to mind. “You can see my—” He touched his collarbones. “It makes me feel…” Vulnerable. “Weird.”

Jamie kissed his cheek softly and went back to flipping through the rack.

“Exposure doesn’t have to feel vulnerable. If you choose when and how you let people see you, it can feel powerful.”

Edgar considered what it would feel like to dress for Jamie rather than for the ghosts. What it would feel like to someday, just maybe, be able to believe something like exposure doesn’t have to feel vulnerable.

“Like burlesque?” he asked, remembering Jamie’s description of the power they felt when they chose to reveal their body for the audience.

“Exactly. Okay, what else do you think?”

“I don’t really like the color of the pants. It reminds me of a baby’s room or something? But I like the elastic at the ankle. That would be convenient for biking especially.”

Jamie was nodding, listening intently.

“The shoes are too small, but I would maybe wear them if they fit. Especially in the summer. They’d be cooler than boots.”

He stared at the shirt. Kept coming back to it.

Jamie put their hands on Edgar’s shoulders.

“Why don’t we put the shirt over there and revisit it later?” Jamie suggested.

“Um, okay.”

Jamie leaned in until their lips were an inch from Edgar’s. “Can I tell you something?” they murmured.

Edgar’s heartbeat sped. “Uh-huh.”

“This shirt looks so hot on you. It’s the tiniest tease, but it reminds me that you have a body underneath your clothes and that I want to reveal it.” They kissed the corner of his mouth. “To strip your clothes off and see everything they hide.” They kissed his cheekbone, lips lingering sweetly.

Heat pulsed at the base of Edgar’s cock. “What…what happens when you look at the clothes I usually wear?”

“Oh, I want to do the same thing. I just want the clothes to land in a donation bin rather than on your floor.”

Edgar laughed and groaned at the same time, erection making the pants suddenly far too tight.

Jamie’s eyes traveled down his body, and they bit their lip. “All right, next outfit.”

They tried on outfit after outfit, and they were laughable, ugly, fine, and silly by turns.

But something started to happen the more clothes Edgar tried on.

At some point in between the drop-crotch shorts (laughable), the neon orange jacket (ugly), the gray plaid trousers (fine), and the lavender and brown paisley (silly), Edgar stopped evaluating the clothing based on how different each piece was from what he usually wore.

His polo shirts and plain-colored T-shirts didn’t have to be the yardstick if he didn’t want them to be.

When he opened his eyes to find himself in a utility kilt and beret, Edgar laughed. “This is fun,” he said. “I can’t believe I’m actually having a good time doing this.”

“Wow, thanks,” Jamie said, feigning offense. “So you’re into the kilt, then?”

“Absolutely not. I look ridiculous. Besides, I’m not even Scottish.”

“Noted. Are we keeping the beret?”

Edgar shot them a look, and they laughed.

“Okay, okay. Next step: I want you, using everything that we have learned here tonight, to put together an outfit of your own.”

“Yes, sir,” Edgar muttered and made his way into the bowels of Magpie Vintage.

What had he learned about his style? He didn’t like anything scratchy or stiff or that had tight collars. He disliked the color purple. And there was something a little bit—dare he say sexy ?—about the idea of titillating someone with his body.

The number of choices was so overwhelming that Edgar finally picked a rack, closed his eyes, and ran his hand along the clothes until he felt a texture he liked and pulled it out.

The T-shirt was worn soft and had the characters from Super Mario Bros , on it.

Edgar smiled. When they were kids and their dad had brought home a vintage Game Boy, Allie had said they were like Mario and Luigi. Poe had demanded to be Wario instead.

He found black jeans and a pair of sneakers and brought the armful back to Jamie, who was on their phone. They slid it back into their pocket when they saw him.

“Good job,” they said, and Edgar’s stomach thrummed with warmth. “I’m gonna close my eyes this time, and you tell me when you’re dressed so I can get the full picture.”

“Uh, I don’t think it’s gonna be that good.” Edgar eyed the jeans and T-shirt. Not creative. Not that much different than what he usually wore. “I don’t think I did a very good job. Maybe I should try again.”

“You can try as many outfits as you want, but this is just to see. You’re not getting graded or anything.”

“No, I know.” But Edgar wanted Jamie to feel like he’d listened, like he’d tried.

“Please show me this one?” Jamie asked, blue eyes soft. There was no way Edgar could deny them. He didn’t want to.

“Okay, yeah. Sure.”

Jamie smiled and closed their eyes.

He pulled on the jeans first. They were a little snug in the crotch and short in the leg, but they zipped.

The shoes were uncomfortable. When he pulled on the T-shirt, it was clearly too small.

But instead of stripping it off and looking for a larger size, Edgar pulled it taut over his chest and stared at himself in the mirror, wondering what Jamie would see when they looked at him.

“You can open,” he murmured.

“Will you tell me about what you chose?” they asked, voice giving nothing away as they looked him up and down.

“I, um. The jeans are too short. This shirt was soft, so I picked it. But it’s too small.”

“Is it?” they asked, voice neutral again.

The shirt was tight. It skimmed the waistband of his jeans; his biceps strained at the fabric.

And Edgar couldn’t look away from himself. “Isn’t it?”

Jamie moved in front of him. They tugged the sleeves up so the hems were above the swell of muscle and bent to cuff his jeans.

“The shoes suck,” Edgar said.

Jamie stood beside him. They slid an arm around his waist and tucked their hand into Edgar’s back pocket. Then they pointed at the mirror.

“If you saw those two walking down the street, what would you think of them?”

“I would think…” Edgar stared into the mirror. “I would think they were gay.”

“Would you think that one’s shirt was too small?”

“No, I’d just think it was tight.”

“Why?”

“Because he wanted to look good for his—” Edgar cut himself off, heart thumping in his ears. He felt a bit dizzy all of a sudden.

“Finish the sentence,” Jamie commanded softly. They looked at him steadily, eyes warm, expression telling him that however he finished the sentence was okay.

“Boyfriend?” Edgar said, so low his voice was barely more than breath.

“Yeah?” Jamie asked, turning Edgar to face them. Their eyes burned, and there was a flush high on their cheekbones. “Is that what you want?”

Edgar had lost track of whether they were referring to him or to this hypothetical couple he was seeing on the street, but the answer was the same in either case.

“Yes.”

Then Jamie was kissing him and kissing him. He was pressed back against the cash wrap, and a pile of folded clothes toppled to the floor.

Edgar was burning up. Jamie’s clever hands slid up his back and down his pants.

He’d never felt anything like this before—the vulnerable squirming electric shiver of being the object of desire.

Visions flooded him. Of wearing an outfit that would make Jamie look at him and think of sex.

Think of undressing him. Think of revealing inch after inch of flesh to their ravenous mouth.

An outfit that Jamie would want to tear off him after they shoved him against the wall and—

“Jesus Christ, you just got so hard,” Jamie groaned. “What are you thinking about?”

Edgar was lightheaded with lust and confusion and fear and want and maybe . “You, um, looking at me.”

“Hey, hey, c’mere,” Jamie said. The tone of their voice had shifted instantly from lust to comfort. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”

Edgar kept his eyes shut and let Jamie ease him down to the floor. The lights in the shop were suddenly far too bright, and the music pounded in his temples.

“How do you sit in this shirt?” Edgar muttered as inches of his back were exposed.

“Hotly,” Jamie said. They knelt before Edgar, looking concerned. “Did you see…something?”

Edgar shook his head. He hadn’t seen a ghost. He’d seen a version of himself that it had never occurred to him to want. But now that he’d seen it— did he want it?

“Can you tell me what’s up, babe?” Jamie sank to the floor beside him. They were awkwardly leaning their backs against the cash wrap, the fallen clothes making an uneven surface.

When Edgar opened his eyes, Jamie’s fingers were intertwined with his, and Jamie’s soft blue eyes looked concerned.

“I don’t exactly know.” Edgar spoke slowly, trying to figure out what he meant as he went. “I never thought of myself like this. Like a…like…”

“The object of someone’s desire?” Jamie offered gently.

“Yeah, exactly. How did you know that?”

Jamie smiled at him fondly. “We teach women it’s their job to make themselves desirable so they can be chosen by a man, and we teach men it’s their job to choose.

It’s more complex when you’re queer or trans though.

The categories blur. Who does the desiring, who’s the desired. It’s not bound to gender.”

Edgar nodded, mind racing. He knew all this, of course, but knowing it and feeling it weren’t the same thing.

“And what do you prefer?” Edgar asked.

Jamie smiled. “I enjoy being the object of another person’s desire when I’m in the mood for it. And I also find it hot to do the choosing. It all depends on my mood. And the other person’s, of course.”

Jamie began gathering the fallen garments and refolding them. Edgar got the impression they were giving him a chance to collect himself.

Edgar thought about how he’d felt when Jamie told him how hot he looked, how debauched. The squirming humiliation that was quickly replaced with relief when he let himself let go of the feeling that there was anything he was supposed to want, to need, to be.

“I think I like it,” he said softly. But of course Jamie heard him. They knelt in front of him and lifted his chin.

“You like being the object of my desire?” they purred. “You like turning me on with how hot you are? How much I want you?”

His breath came shallower, and suddenly he wished he hadn’t said anything, because Jamie was looking at him like they saw him. Like they really saw the writhing agonized need deep in his guts and liked him anyway. Maybe liked him more because of it.

“You…you like it that way too?” Edgar asked, feeling silly, because hadn’t Jamie just said so? He closed his eyes.

“I do, Edgar. I like you . A lot.”

Edgar opened his eyes, needing to tattoo this moment on his heart for later when he was once again unsure. Afraid of the world and of himself and of the things he wanted from Jamie.

“You know I don’t give a shit about your clothes, right?” Jamie said.

Edgar was confused.

“You’re so fucking hot, Edgar. I just want you to like what you wear because you deserve it. Because you deserve to express yourself and not be afraid. That’s all I want.”

“Easier said than done,” Edgar joked. But it didn’t come out sounding the way he’d intended.

Jamie slid a warm palm up his spine and rubbed his back. Then they tugged at the hem of his T-shirt, which had ridden up.

“Well, FYI, I am very much in favor of adding this shirt to your wardrobe. Even if you only wear it at home. For me.”

A fizz of energy rushed from Edgar’s stomach to his chest. He’d never imagined himself wearing anything like this, but now he was already imagining the next time he’d wear it for Jamie.

For his boyfriend.