Page 72 of Peppermint Bark

“They already think I’m a selfish bastard, they damn well better believe I found the prettiest girl in town to share my bed.” I laid down on my back, slid my arm under her neck, and reached over for the blanket I’d put on her top layer to turn our two twins into a makeshift king. “Now get over here, woman.”

She rolled her eyes and curled into my side, her head resting on my shoulder. As her soft curves pressed against my side, relief flooded my body. I wanted more with her, but I didn’t need anything more than this. And as far as I was concerned, with my family in the cabin, sex was off the table. I would have to be content to hang out, then we could pick up where we left off back at her place in a few days.

“It’s surreal, being here with you instead of Nick. You’re a much better cuddler, but don’t tell him, ok?” She laughed as I pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, sliding a hand under her sweatshirt to run circles over her lower back. “Did you share a room with Elijah?”

“My whole childhood,” she said. Her fingertips fidgeted with the drawstrings of my sweatshirt. “Three-bedroom house, four kids. My parents planned to have two kids, so not only was the third pregnancy a surprise …”

“Twins.”

“Levi moved into Isaac’s room so Elijah and I could share. I never remember sleeping in a room without him. Side-by-side cribs, then into bunk beds.”

“Top or bottom?”

“Top. Maybe the only time I liked topping.” She covered her mouth with a cute giggle. “Sorry, three hours in the car with Mallory loosened up my filter. Plus your dad’s overzealous wine pour at dinner …” She pushed on as if she could erase what she’d shared. “We roomed together at college, too, until he studied abroad. I don’t think I slept in a room alone until …”

My fingertips trailed along her side, sliding slower and longer with each pass. It seemed to soothe her, even as the softness of her skin and the curve of her waist aroused me. Unfair.

Her hand released my drawstrings, sliding underneath to graze the bare skin of my stomach, muscles clenching against her cold fingertips. She murmured a sleepy, half-hearted apology.

“Why is it,” she asked in a dreamy rasp, “that your chest hair is so sexy, but I hated mine enough to get laser hair removal?”

Obviously I liked her calling me sexy, but didn’t know how to respond without sounding dismissive or offensive. When I said nothing, she laughed nervously. “Sorry, is that weird? The only person I talk to about this is Mallory.”

“I know, everything’s about sex with her,” I scowled.

“Not just sex, she’s … she’s uninhibited about her body. It’s a refreshing change from how I grew up,” Grace said carefully. “I always heard that since we were ‘formed in the image and likeness of God,’ anything self-critical was an insult to God. So imagine the feeling that you didn’t belong in your God-given body.” Her hand grazed high, running circles around my chest hair. “Mallory helped me see my body as a collection of muscle and bones and tissue, not an indicator of my self-worth. Her irreverence helped me to detach my identity from my anatomy.”

I wished I could see her face, but didn’t want to disturb the safe space she’d found. The darkness seemed to bolster her courage.

“In college, I learned that gender was a social construct, not an anatomical fact. I read about people who were transgender, or didn’t fit into the gender binary … even then, I didn’t instantly recognize myself. Even after starting hormones and beginning to pass as a woman, I still didn’t feel ‘trans enough.’ Then one day, Mal was complaining about her cramps, and I snapped that I’d take her period because then I’d be a real woman. And she said, ‘Gracie, if I choose not to have kids, would I be less of a woman? Is pregnancy the indicator?’ And I replied, ‘Obviously not.’ And she gave me that ‘I know I’m right’ look.”

“I’ve seen that look way too much this month."

She laughed generously, a laugh that made me feel proud for causing it. A laugh that challenged me to loosen up so I could hear it more.

“Mallory helped me embrace my femininity and sensitivity, even if growing up, society told me not to.” She paused, weighing whether to continue. A laugh bubbled up against her will as she confessed, “And when I told her that I could have both types of orgasms and the one on estrogen was better, she yelled, ‘Don’t tell the Republicans or there will be an estrogen shortage!’”

Her laugh filled the room, that magical sound that felt like it was coming from her toes up through her body, and I joined in, a full-bodied belly laugh. Her head bounced on my shoulder and she clung to me as our laughter blended to fill the room. She released me to wipe tears out of her eyes.

After her laughter subsided, I asked, “So about both types of orgasms …”

Her head burrowed into my shoulder. Although her fingertips were cold and I felt her chilly toes through her socks, the warmth of her face could have heated the whole cabin.

“What, Mal gets the details and I don’t?” I said in mock exasperation.

“She’s curious, she’s not trying to get into my pants!” Her hand covered her face, but her belly shook with laughter.

“Exactly, the one who wants to give you the orgasms should be the one who knows!” I said in a hushed cry. “Is one of them more masculine, and the other more feminine?”

“Yeah, you could say that. One’s more like jerking off and coming fast, like lightning. And the other,” she stifled a yawn, “started after a few months on estrogen, every nerve ending lights up like fireworks.”

As the moonlight peaked through the window, I saw her eyelids drooping. I kissed the top of her head. “You should sleep, tomorrow will be a long day skiing.”

She tucked closer, a soft smile on her lips. “You should too, Alex.”

“It might take me a while.”

Her eyes blinked open in confusion, then glanced down our tented blanket.

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