Page 69 of Peppermint Bark

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?”

“Well, at first, I thought …” my voice trembled. “I thought a man like him wouldn’t want someone like me.”

A heavy silence enveloped the car, their unspoken responses speaking volumes. “I thought it was flirtation, an unrequited crush. When he left, I thought I’d never see him again.”

Kate’s curious eyes gleamed. “But something happened yesterday?”

“He took a cab straight from New York to my place, showed up at 3am. I told him I had to talk to you because your friendship —”

Mallory’s forehead dropped against the dashboard, hard enough to bruise.

Ignoring Mallory’s drama, Kate propped her elbows on the headrests and leaned so far forward that she might as well have climbed into the bench seat.

“Did he kiss you, Grace? Really kiss you?” Kate’s eager voice brimmed with delight. Mallory’s head tilted, caught between curiosity and dismay.

My cheeks flushed, heart pounding. Kate nudged my shoulder. “Come on, she’ll survive. How many of her hookup stories have we endured? Tell me the truth. He kissed you, didn’t he? How was it?”

“It felt like ...” my fingertips brushed over my bottom lip, “he somehow studied how I always dreamed of being kissed and wanted to ace the exam.”

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