“Oh my God,” Mallory said, her skull thumping hard on the headrest. “Alex kissed you. You kissed Alex.”
“Twice,” Kate said, voice edged with shock. And maybe awe?
“But that was it, right?" Mallory grimaced. "Two innocent pecks from Santa?”
The pause was so pregnant it had cankles.
“Um, not exactly.”
With a resounding smack to Mallory’s arm, Kate said: “You owe me 20 bucks.”
My eyes darted to the rearview mirror. She wore a satisfied grin, relieved to not hold my secret. Or maybe simply enjoying Mallory’s dramatic reaction.
“It was obvious at Cruz’s self-defense class that he had a crush on you,” she said as Mallory rummaged in her purse, slapping a bill into Kate’s outstretched palm. “But I didn't think you’d bother. He’s easy on the eyes, but nothing else about him is easy.”
“Please don’t joke about my brother being hard.”
“You asked her to call him. You brought him to her yoga class, then happy hour. You dragged him to the tree farm. This is essentially your doing.”
“Is this Stockholm Syndrome? Blink twice if he’s holding you hostage.”
“You asked her to defend the Pride Lands!” Kate fired back, and I felt a rush of surprised relief that she was backing me up. “You can’t call her Nala and not expect ‘Can You Feel the Love Tonight’!”
Mallory emitted a long, pained groan. “I hoped she was social-working him. Nobody needs to be social-worked more than Alex.”
We all hummed in agreement.
“Cut the crap, Mal, you told me that he was different around her," Kate said then told me, "She called me on her tipsy walk home when you told him you were transgender. She was worried he was going to freak out, and shocked when he just sat there mostly silent. She said he was so …”
“Anti-Lex,” Mallory lilted in a mesmerized tone, then pulled her left leg onto the cloth seat. “He was softer with you. And so worried when you had your flashback. I thought he felt guilty, but …”
“He brought apology burritos and crashed on my couch that night.” Or he planned to, anyway, until I asked him to stay and he held me while I cried … but she’d go apoplectic if I shared that.
“I didn’t expect to like him,” I whispered my confession. “He was a total jerk at first. But as Santa, he was attentive to the kids. He pays attention when I talk about work and my family. And you might not believe this, but he can be funny, in a self-deprecating way. And Mal?”
She curled up in the passenger seat, her expression an odd mix of disbelief and hope. I told her the one fact I knew she couldn’t argue: “I feel safe with him.”
Silence descended in the truck as Mallory’s experience of her condescending brother crashed into this portrayal of a compassionate man.
I considered whether to tell her about his notebook.
It was right on my table next to a shiny copy of The Body Keeps the Score, the go-to book about therapeutic treatments for trauma, with his chicken scratch notes along the margins. The bookmark was the receipt from the book purchased four days ago in New York City.
He’d barely slept, but he’d gone to the bookstore — or possibly sent an assistant, but the receipt also listed two candy bars and a fancy pen.
Then I picked up the silver-edged notebook, peeled open the cover, and turned the first thick page to find …
Legal notes. Why would these scare me off?
His slanted handwriting pressed hard into the paper, blocky and masculine. The right margins of most pages had blue ink in a feminine script.
I skimmed, not sure how these client notes were relevant, until …
‘Heart attack,’ underlined, followed by bulleted questions, in the exact order he’d asked when I called back. Next came a list of additional research to complete, followed by the messy note he’d scribbled in my truck: ‘6-8 weeks of cardiac rehab.’
Legal notes again, but no blue commentary. A few lines about somatic therapy. More work. Sensory processing. More legal. Then …
‘Transgender,’ circled, underlined twice.
My whole body tightened. I tabbed ahead. counting … 17 pages.
As I read, my nervous system relaxed. I sat on the loveseat, pulled a blanket over my legs, and relived his research, unraveling his self-education: words scrawled, defined, circled. Dead names, hormone therapy, gender-neutral language, surgery, cultural acceptance, bathroom legislation, vocal training … all with little questions that seemed to be about me. 'How did she choose Grace?' and 'Pill, patch, or injection?' he wondered. Arrows pointed, spinning into more circles and underlines. His handwriting grew sloppier. How long had this taken him?
The next few pages were legal again, with blue conversations in the margins. That must be his trip to New York, the blue script was probably Victoria. “Man up and finish this already,” she’d scrawled.
Next came jotted steps to guide a person through a PTSD flashback, which I recognized from The Body Keeps the Score.
The final page was a simple list: my brother’s names and estimated ages, with the question: birthdays? Foods I liked, with carnitas starred. Movies that Mallory and I had watched.
My eyes welled up.
I shot him a quick text that he hadn’t scared me off, then picked up a purple pen and started writing. Before yoga class this morning, I’d left the notebook in the Clarkes' mailbox and texted him to check it.
But no, I couldn’t tell her all that. I didn’t want to betray his trust.
I simplified my explanation to his sister, enough to know he was serious: “He’s reading The Body Keeps the Score.”
Mallory’s voice was hushed. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
