“You’ve been here before?”
“Yeah, I would hang out here with my cousin Justin, but it was an unfinished man cave, not nearly this nice.” He pointed to the wall opposite my couch. “There was a flat screen over there, and a smelly futon. The kitchen was only a mini fridge and cabinet for Doritos.."
As I heated the kettle, he jolted upright. “I think I lost my virginity here.”
Cue the record scratch.
It was weird enough that Alexander Clarke was in my apartment. But now he was talking about having sex here. In my place. He thinks, maybe. How could he not be certain? Isn’t losing — isn’t doing that kind of a big deal?
“You’re not sure?”
He kept staring at the wall where the futon had been. “Justin and I were hanging out. His girlfriend came over with her friend. They left and the other girl stayed behind … shit, what was her name?” He didn’t remember her name? Before I could disguise my alarm, he chuckled. “She made it clear what she wanted and I went along for the ride. Not my finest hour.”
He stood and strolled to the kitchenette. He must have clocked my dismay because he smirked, “I’m guessing your first time was more memorable?”
I swallowed, tearing open a hot chocolate packet. “You could say that.”
His eyes twinkled. “Who was the lucky guy?”
My fingers jolted, spilling powder all over the counter. His playful expression sobered instantly. “Unless … did he hurt you?”
“No, it wasn’t like that,” I said quickly, sweeping the powder into my hand and rubbing it into the sink. “Her name was Shannon.”
His cheeks flushed as he leaned his hip into the counter and he cleared his throat. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed.”
I shrugged, handing him a hot chocolate as I remembered Shannon’s warm brown eyes, curly hair, and soft smile. “We met in college. I thought … I thought she understood me.”
I ran an apple under the faucet, stabbing it onto the pointy corer tines and feeling the pulse of the skin peeling off.
We met in Vermont before I transitioned. She wanted to take me home to meet her family, and asked to meet mine too … so I’d had to tell her my dad kicked me out because I might be transgender. I worried she’d reject me too, so her sweet response surprised me: “It’s your heart I love, not your body.”
She supported me … at first at least.
She taught me how to do a perfect winged eyeliner and shared her wardrobe — well, her flannels and Doc Martens, but never her sundresses or heels. She’d gone with me to bank my sperm before I started hormones and given me my first estrogen shot. For four years, she’d been my everything …
Until she wasn’t.
“She was the first person I thought I could truly be myself with. But things changed …“ I breathed through the pressure in my chest. “I changed.”
When we graduated and I got a job offer in Saratoga, she agreed to move here with me. We rented a small apartment, living frugally to save for a house to start a family. In addition to our new house fund, I had my own savings account for bottom surgery.
When I hit my savings goal, thrilled to finally align how I looked with how I felt, Shannon was appalled. She didn’t understand why I needed to change my body when she loved me as I was, and called me selfish for stealing from our future dreams for something so vain.
I tried to explain that it wasn’t about her and I’d still been contributing to our housing fund … and eventually, she came around.
Or I thought she did.
I tried to keep my voice from cracking. “But her feelings changed.”
After she brought me home from surgery,and took care of me until I was walking again, she said she agreed to be my girlfriend but not my nurse, and I was on my own for any future surgeries or medical visits. I went to my follow-up visits alone, or when I needed a ride home, one of the social workers drove me.
For a while, things with Shannon were normal again — to me, at least.
Until a week before Christmas, three years ago. We planned to spend the holidays with her family in Vermont, but she’d let a complaint slip about taking care of me after surgery. Apparently she still called me her boyfriend, chalking up my long hair and feminine style to 'a phase he's going through.'
After she slipped, her parents didn’t feel comfortable with me around her younger brothers, as if being transgender was contagious. “Her parents didn’t like me.”
“Her parents were idiots,” he said emphatically. “And so was she, if their opinions mattered enough to let you go.”
Easy for him to say, he had Bruce and Helen as parents. He couldn’t understand what it was like to face rejection over choices that felt as natural as breathing.
I hadn’t wanted to admit it, but things hadn’t been working with Shannon. I believe she loved me, but she wanted our sex life to stay the same when my desires had changed. Eventually, we stopped having sex altogether, and our once-passionate relationship devolved into a strained friendship. But she still wanted kids so I hung on longer than I should have, because I didn’t know if anybody else would choose to have a family with me.
Focusing on the apple in my hands, I said, “She dumped me before I was supposed to teach a yoga class. Mallory saw my face and took care of me.”
I’d tried to hold it together, but Mal found somebody to cover for my class. She hugged me and said, ‘Quit the bullshit, Gracie, tell me what’s wrong,’
I’d burst into tears and told Mallory how Shannon had been wrong when she thought she would still love me as Grace. And she wasn’t coming back after Christmas, leaving me with two weeks to find a new place to live.
I'd cried, ‘I just want my mom.’
Mallory said softly, ‘I can give you the next best option.’
Alexander didn't fill the silence like most people. He watched my hands turn the apple, the core remaining on the skewer as I slid off the spiraled fruit. I placed it onto a cutting board and used a paring knife to slice it into smaller bites. Slice, slice, slice, watching every glint of the knife through the white flesh.
“Mallory took me to your mom, who fed me Rocky Road ice cream and called Carol about this place,” I used my knife to gesture around the apartment. “And she invited me for Christmas. Mallory suggested I bring pie, knowing your mom would appreciate it.”
That Christmas had been my first time making it alone. Since then, I’d made dozens of them by myself, whenever somebody needed to be thanked. I’d built quite a one-woman pie-making system in my tiny little kitchen.
