Page 35 of Peppermint Bark

Mallory squeezed my leg again, her expression hopeful.

His assistant Connor suggested sharing the relevant facts so I ran through the timeline quickly, like tearing off a bandaid: “I figured it out eight years ago, from a Human Sexuality class at Syracuse. After my dad cut me off, I took a semester off and transferred to the University of Vermont. I changed my name six years ago, started hormones five years ago, and had surgery three years ago.”

The server checked in and Mallory bought me some time by flirting. While she was distracted, he asked, “Is that what you tried to tell me in the sensory room?”

I nodded and his fingers rose to his bottom lip. Was he reliving how he kissed me … and wondering what that meant about him?

“You want a refill, Alex?” Mallory asked brightly, and he shook his head. Mallory told the server, “Two more margaritas. Use Elysian because he’s paying.”

He smirked, resting his elbows on the table. “But how do you know?”

People ask plenty of passive-aggressive or ignorant questions in the name of curiosity: “So will you fully transition?” or “But what’s your real name?” or blatantly asking what’s in my pants. Questions they’d never ask a cisgender person.

This one, ‘How do you know?’ appears curious but it’s laced with skepticism. It’s a polite way to say, ‘Prove it.’

I used to hate this question because people expect an impressive revelation, not the truth of quiet soul-searching and introspection. I rested my elbows on the table to mirror him and asked, “How do you know you’re a man? Not your body or what you wear, but inside, how do you know?”

“I …” He finished his beer and flipped his palm upwards. “That’s who I am.”

I lifted my hands to say, ‘Well, what is there to add?’

When the drinks arrived and Mallory slid one to me, Alex looked at his sister with wide eyes. “When she told you … ?”

“I apologized and thanked her for calling me in,” Mallory said. “I offered to buy her a drink to learn how to support her, and the transgender and LGBTQIA+ students in our studio. Not that I expected her to speak for the whole community at large. I just wanted her perspective.”

“We came here for beer,” I lifted my glass and took a sip to calm my nerves, “and talked until the bar closed. She shared her vision for the studio, to make it the best in town and expand to new locations, but she couldn’t do it alone. I shared what I’d learned while studying business before switching my major to social work.”

“By the time the bartender kicked us out, we were both hammered, bloated on French fries, and obsessed with each other.”

“Drunk on the joy of a new friendship.” I lifted my glass to cheers, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “When I showed up the next day, a trans flag decal was on the door.”

“The pink and blue one,” Alex murmured.

“Within a week, Grace was my assistant studio manager.”

“She told me, ‘Write your own job description, and good luck with your awful boss.’”

Mallory turned a critical gaze on her brother. “Here’s what I told Grace that night: If anybody — and I mean anybody — gives you shit or demands private information about your pronouns or deadname or anything, I’ll chew them out. If they disrespect you in our studio or anywhere that I consider home,” she made a circle with her finger to indicate the studio, the bar, the town, the state, ”they’re not welcome there.”

As her fierce protectiveness locked onto her brother, his expression shifted. By defending me and saying whatever got him into her studio, she’d earned his begrudging respect. The shift seemed to surprise both of them.

He finished his beer and dropped cash on the table as he said with an air of detached generosity. “You two stay and enjoy your night.”

Mallory tried to yell after him to stay. I put my hand on her forearm, remembering his assistant’s advice: state the facts, allow time to research, schedule follow-up, and expect nonstop questions.

“Hey Alex, we’re getting another Christmas tree for your mom on Saturday, to raise her spirits. Want to come?”

He blinked, glanced out the door, then threw that crooked grin like a grenade. “It’s a date,” he said before exiting into the cold December night.

Chapter 14

Alex

Hunched over my laptop, a heavy weight on my shoulder startled me. I jolted upright at Dad’s concerned face. “You’re not usually up this early.”

Early? It felt like midnight, but … oh shit, the clock read 5:30. I hadn’t pulled an all-nighter since law school. I concealed my surprise with a groggy eye rub.

I’d turned the dining table into a makeshift desk: laptop front and center, flanked by my trusty black Montblanc notebook and an almost empty coffee mug. The mess resembled the inside of my skull, which felt shaken up when the word ‘transgender’ passed over Grace’s rosy lips.

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