I sat on the balcony with my laptop and a glass of sweet tea, enjoying the crisp fall weather and nursing what remained of a hangover while I tried—and failed—to finish a paper on Absalom. We’d gotten in late last night, and Virginia had left early this morning, before Dad even woke up. Part of me wanted them to meet, but another part of me was glad they hadn’t. The night with Bee had been great, but not everyone was Bee.
I sipped my tea and stared at the blank Word document on my laptop’s screen. The sun was setting, casting an orange glow over the parking lot below and the woods beyond. I thought of the cicadas, long gone by now, and listened to the rustling, howling wind that had taken their place. Grant’s shift at Krystal would be ending in a little over an hour. The thought that had been bubbling just under the surface for weeks arose once more, unbidden: What if I told Grant the truth?
“I can’t do it,” I said to nobody in particular. I’d been able to tell Bee because I’d gotten swept up in the moment, and because I knew that even if she didn’t understand, she’d try to. But what about Grant? Was it crazy that I wanted to tell him everything? Was it crazy that I felt like I couldn’t keep seeing him without at least trying?
I sat up straight again, took a deep breath, and opened my eyes to see the blank Word document still waiting for me. The cursor blinked over and over, like a promise, or a threat.
Dear Grant, I wrote after a moment. This is the story of my life. When I was born my parents named me Andrew Hardy and the doctors wrote “male” on my birth certificate. They had no idea who I would grow up to be.
*
I stood in the employee parking lot behind Krystal, my stomach in a knot. I had already been waiting for an hour, but it felt like ten hours and like five minutes all at once. The envelope in my hands was thick and crumpled at the corners from my constant fidgeting.
Inside it was a letter that told him everything: my birth name, my suicide attempt, how long I had been on hormones, the effects hormones had had, and the bathroom assault that pushed me into his life. Everything.
The back door opened, casting a warped rhombus of light across the pavement. I clutched the envelope tighter.
“Night, Greg,” Grant said, and I could see the sweat stains on his back. I thought of how he’d looked that first night with his shirt off, and of how he always smelled when he got sweaty, like dirt and salt and things I couldn’t name.
“Hi,” I said. He took in one sharp breath and stopped, his eyes glinting in the reflected light of a passing car. I opened Dad’s car door so the interior light revealed me and waved. I crossed into the darkness to meet him, feeling gangly and awkward, and gently pressed the envelope to his chest.
“You’ve shared some things with me, and now, I want to share some things with you,” I told him softly.
“Thank you,” Grant said. I saw the outline of his head lean down and then back up. “What is this?”
“It’s everything,” I said, my mouth and throat dry. We were both silent for a moment. “Just, ahead of time, I wanted to let you know—if you’re upset with me for letting things progress like they did, for being with you … I’m sorry for that too, and I understand.”
He stood there for a long time, unreadable in the darkness. My heart started racing again and my stomach flipped back and forth, so I focused on the pavement beneath us, tracing its infinite cracks. When I looked up again Grant was gone. My heart hammered for one horrible moment before he came back outside, carrying the unopened envelope and a metal bucket.
The small flame of a butane lighter flickered to life. The orange glow flared brightly as Grant held the lighter to the envelope and it caught fire. I gasped and started to ask what he was doing, but he dropped the envelope into the bucket, where its warmth and light bathed both of us. I felt myself starting to cry until I looked at his face and noticed he was smiling.
“I’ll never regret being with you,” he said, reaching out for my hand. “And I could never, ever hate you, no matter what.”
“But—” I said.
“I never needed to know,” he said, shaking his head. “I just needed to feel like you’d given me a chance.”
He pulled me around the fire, wrapped me in the tightest embrace I could remember, and kissed me like the fire burning brightly beside us.
SIX MONTHS AGO
I took a dose of hydrocodone when I was done dilating. Everything between my thighs and my hips felt like it had been run through a wood chipper, the dilation ritual was a degrading chore, the painkillers reminded me of the time I tried to kill myself—and I still couldn’t have been happier. I was finally a girl on the outside too; there was nothing separating me from my body anymore. As the painkillers kicked in I swung my feet off the bed, winced, and shuffled slowly into the hall. I stopped halfway to the bathroom when I heard the soft sound of crying from down the hall. I made my way to the den and found Mom huddled up on the floor beside a single dim lamp, photo albums spread open around her.