by Nan Higgins
“You’re on Tinder?” she screeched. “Now that you’re done with puberty, you’re moving on to be a twenty-one-year-old frat boy?”
He grabbed the phone back. “Hey, not everyone can have a meet-cute like you and Reggie. This is what people do now. Can you stop mocking? I know it’s asking the impossible, but I need your help here.”
“Okay, okay, you’re right. I’m sorry.” She held up her hands, palms out. “No more mocking.”
Slowly, he slid the phone back across the couch cushion, his eyes never leaving hers. She picked it up again and saw a few really good pictures of him and read his bio, which captured how interesting and funny he was. She even laughed out loud a couple times.
She looked up at him after she finished. “It looks really good.”
“Thank you.”
“If you’re not getting responses on this profile, I don’t know what’s wrong with Tinder women.”
“Oh, I’ve gotten plenty of responses. I have dates set up with two different women next week.”
She smirked. “Is that a football field you’re standing on? Because you’re obviously a player.”
Tate furrowed his brows and frowned.
“Sorry. Unintentional mock.” It took all of her effort to remove the sardonic smile from her face. “So, what’s the problem? You need help picking outfits?”
“I need help deciding when and how to tell them that I’m trans.”
She felt the last of her smile leave her face. “Oh. Oh, wow, I hadn’t even thought of that.”
“The thing is, I had it in my bio that I was a transgender man, and I got no hits except for a few women who were only interested in me as some sort of fetish. I took it off as more of a social experiment than anything else, but then the response was so drastically different. It’s disheartening.”
She nodded. “It must be.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m happier being a trans man and finally being comfortable in my identity and my body than I ever could have been trying to live as a woman. Even if I had to spend the rest of my life alone, it would still be worth it.”
“I hardly think you’ll be alone forever,” she said. “We know tons of people just in this city who are trans and have successful relationships.”
“I know.” He sighed. “It’s just weird, learning how to date all over again. I’m nervous, can you believe that? I’m nervous about dating. That hasn’t happened since I was seventeen.”
She grinned again. “When you went on that date with Randy Jacobs?”
“God, don’t remind me.” He laughed. “He showed up in a silk shirt and shorts with white socks pulled up to his knees. I can’t believe I wasted time getting nervous for that.”
“I would’ve been nervous once I saw him in that.”
“Not me. I was just plain horrified. Longest night of my life.” He shook his head. “Seriously, though…what should I do? It feels dishonest to start dating these women without full disclosure. At the same time, I want someone to get to know me for me. I want to be more than my gender identity; shit, I am more than that.”
It hurt her heart to think of Tate struggling with being seen as a whole person. He was the best person she knew, and sometimes she couldn’t believe they lived in a world where he had to worry about whether someone would love him the way he deserved to be loved.
“I know you are. And as much as I want to help, I don’t think I can answer this for you. Just like I couldn’t talk you out of going on that date with Randy Jacobs. Your voice may be as low as it’s gonna go, but I don’t think you’re completely out of the puberty stage yet. It may take some trial and error to figure out when to tell the women you date, but you’ll get there. When and how to do it is completely your call.”
“I guess you’re right.” He sighed. “I’ll figure it out.”
“When is the first date?”
“Not till this Friday. Her name is Amanda; she’s seriously gorgeous and really funny. We’re going on a group date with some friends of hers.”
“I like that; it keeps things low key.”
He nodded. “That’s what I thought too. I was happy when she suggested it. We’re going hiking.”
“That’s a fun idea for a first date. Wanna meet for dinner afterward? You can give me the rundown on the date.”
“Sure, on one condition.”
“What?”
“Don’t utter the name Randy Jacobs to me ever again.”
She grinned. “No promises.”
* * *
“Ms. Craft?”
London looked up from her résumé to the receptionist who’d moved from behind his desk toward the door leading to the main part of the building. “Yes?”
“Ms. Robinson will see you now.”
London stood on legs that felt as if they were made of chewing gum. She steadied herself and walked toward the open door. The receptionist pulled the door wider and walked her through a living room area with a pool table and down a hallway with a long galley kitchen on one side and an office on the other. Next, they passed two sleeping rooms with half a dozen cots with white sheets and dark gray comforters. She wanted to keep up with the receptionist’s brisk walking pace, but she also wanted to take in the space around her.
“I’m Keith,” the receptionist said, smiling. “We’ve spoken on the phone.”
“Oh, of course. I knew I recognized your voice.”
“Yes, everyone has to go through me to get to the top here.”
“No truer words have ever been spoken,” said a woman’s deep, contralto voice. “London? It’s wonderful to put a face with the name. I’m Joan Robinson.” Her slate gray hair matched her eyes, and she had very pale, very smooth skin. She wore thick-rimmed bright turquoise glasses, the stems of which were attached to a delicate silver chain around her neck.
London wondered how old she was; her age could have hovered anywhere between forty and fifty-five. The imposing Joan Robinson stepped out of the room at the very end of the long hallway, took a few long strides toward them, and grasped London’s hand firmly, shaking it.
“It’s wonderful to meet you, as well.” She tried to match the firmness of Joan’s handshake. She wasn’t easily intimidated, but one look at this woman, and she knew she was a force. London straightened her spine a little. She could do this.
“Can I get you any water or coffee?” Keith asked.
“Oh no, thank you, I’m fine.” If he’d been a stranger or someone she met in a nonprofessional capacity, she’d be telling him how much she liked his handlebar mustache. Was that something she could say to a potential colleague in this kind of work environment? She had no idea. It wasn’t exactly the corporate office for a bank or anything, but it was still galaxies away from anything she’d ever done.
“I’ll leave you two to your meeting, then.” He turned to Joan. “Buzz me if you need anything.”
Joan ushered London into her sunny office and went behind her desk to sit, motioning to the two chairs facing her so London would do the same.
“I must say, I was pleasantly surprised to receive your email asking about opportunities with Compass,” Joan said. “You’re a bit of a local celebrity in the LGBT community, as I’m sure I don’t need to tell you. I’ve followed your career with some interest. Tell me a little about what prompted you to reach out to me and what specific kinds of opportunities you’re looking for.”
London felt as if her stomach were making zigzags in her body, first jumping toward her throat, then to the bottom of her spine, and back again. She worked with well-known designers and celebrities, and she hadn’t been this nervous in years. “Well, I’ve had a bit of an epiphany lately. I’m happy with my store, of course, and the national recognition and growth we’ve been getting has been pretty amazing. But I’ve been reevaluating goals…goals I set for myself a long time ago. At one time, I was interested in a career in marketing, and while marketing is certainly a part of my business, I’m looking to make it more of a focal point.<
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“Since you’ve followed my career, you know I built my shop up from nothing. I was quite literally a starving artist in the beginning, and now several celebrities have become fans of my work and include my pieces as party favors after awards shows. A lot of items from Hell in a Handbasket are included in the guest bags for people who appear on Julian Spencer Live, the late night talk show.”
“Yes, I knew most of that,” Joan said. “Very impressive.”
“Thank you. Compass is a respected organization in the community. You do such amazing work with these kids. I’d like to use my marketing skills to help reach as many people as possible. I have lots of ideas in terms of creative donor events and fundraising that I’m really excited about.”
Joan looked at London thoughtfully, a small smile on her face, then turned to the notebook on her desk—a lined, paper notebook. London hadn’t seen a computer anywhere in the room. Joan wrote a few notes with her black ballpoint pen, and when she was done, she took off her glasses, perched them atop her head, and said, “How about a tour? I know you saw some of the place when Keith brought you back, but I think an official tour is in order.” Before London could answer, Joan had risen from her chair and was making her way to the front of her desk.
London tried to hide her surprise. “Oh yes, I’d love an official tour.”
“The best way to take it, or the way I like to give it, is to come in as if you’re one of the kids.” They walked toward the front where London had come in, but instead of going back out to the lobby, they made a sharp right and ended up in a small room with a large bulletin board on one wall and a mammoth set of bookshelves filled with books on the other wall. Directly in front of them was a small red door leading outside.
“This is where our kids come into the building.” She opened a door by the bookcase, revealing a room with a table and chairs. “When we have new youth coming in, they’re often in crisis. This is a community center, but it’s also a place for teens to come when they’ve been kicked out of their homes, usually after coming out to their parents or refusing some type of ‘pray the gay away’ intervention. We bring them in here to talk with them about their options. The preferred option is always to get the kids back with their families after some family counseling, but that’s not always possible. We work with the county to get foster families who qualify to take in LGBT youth.”
Back in the living room, she pointed at the pool table. “I’ve never been any good at pool, myself. The kids fight over who has to let me be on their team when I decide to play. We have game nights in here, both board games and video games; in fact, one of your donations bought our Xbox and a lot of games last year, so thank you for that. Over here where there’s more space, we have our art classes. Painting, photo editing, writing, and anything else we can get the kids interested in.”
They walked farther down the hallway and stood between the kitchen and the bedrooms. “The kitchen is fully functional. We have volunteers who make meals, and we offer dinner every night of the week and breakfast and lunch on the weekends.” She looked at her watch. “We also have snacks available, and in about an hour when kids are off school, that kitchen will be packed with hungry teenagers.”
She crossed into one of the rooms with cots. “Since getting kids home with their families or into foster care often takes more time than we’d like, they can stay here until we make suitable arrangements. We have enough space to comfortably house eight children, and right now we have five, although that number is constantly changing. These aren’t the fanciest accommodations, of course, but you’d be surprised at what having a safe place to lay your head down can do for someone who needs it.”
London, who’d been taking everything in, blurted the first thing that came to her mind. “What can I do? How can I help?”
Joan smiled. “First thing’s first. You have a lot to offer, and I appreciate all of your experience and skills that could be put to good use. However, we do have a protocol in place, and as much as I’d like to help you work around that, that’s not what we do here. In order to fly, you must first learn to walk, if you know what I mean.”
“I…I’m not sure I do.” She’d been in a whirlwind of confusion since Joan had initiated a tour rather than respond to her speech. Nothing about this day had gone as expected.
“Well, we certainly do need volunteers, and your expertise would be a wonderful addition,” Joan said. “I’m certain our donors would be impressed to receive calls and marketing information with your name on it. But everyone who works at Compass must start at the bottom and work their way up. Everyone from the volunteers to the staff psychologist. You’ll start in the kitchen. At least one meal a week, you will be one of the volunteers preparing the food that is served.”
“But…I’m not what you would call a good cook.”
“All skill levels are welcome, and you won’t be alone. The others will help you. You’ll do this for one month, and then you’ll be evaluated to see if you’re ready to move on. If so, you’ll be assigned to your next area; if not, you’ll stay in the kitchen for another month.”
She pulled a business card out of a pocket in her jacket and handed it over. “I’m sure you’re familiar with our website. Here on the back of my card is the information to access our volunteer portal. Log in, and you’ll see what days we need kitchen volunteers in the coming weeks. Menus are planned a month in advance, so you’ll also be able to view what meals are being served on any given day.”
London stared at the card, not really seeing the information, and looked up to see Joan walking toward the door to the lobby.
“Dress code in the kitchen is casual,” Joan said, not seeming to notice London jogging a little to catch up. “You’ll definitely want to leave the business suits at home; you don’t want to ruin that lovely fabric. Comfortable shoes are also a good idea. The dinner shift takes about three hours from start to finish. The kids clean up after the meal, but they need supervision, of course.”
“But—”
Joan opened the door to the lobby, all but pushing London through. “I look forward to seeing you soon.” She gripped London’s hand in another firm handshake. “I’m one of the first to taste test the meals prepared by a new volunteer, so I’ll make sure to be here when I see you’ve signed up. Thank you so much for taking the time to see me today.” With that, the door closed, and Joan disappeared.
As London stood, gaping at the heavy door that had all but been slammed in her face, she realized that Keith was laughing.
“I see you’ve gotten the tour.” He chortled. “Welcome to Compass!”
Chapter Six
Orange, red, and gold leaves crunched under London’s feet as she walked from her car toward the storybook Cape Cod home on Sumner Street. It was always pretty, a pale yellow house with white trim, but it was especially charming at this time of year. The great oak and maple trees surrounding it seemed to constantly be losing leaves, and they made a patchwork of color on the ground.
A brown and gold sign reading “Bless this House” adorned the door, and it wasn’t until London knocked that she realized it had bells attached. The door opened, revealing a smiling woman with graying hair and the same luminous mahogany skin as her daughter.
“London! This is a nice surprise. I haven’t seen you since our barbecue on Labor Day.”
She was enveloped in an almost crushing hug, and she returned it, surprised at the pressure she felt in her chest. She absolutely adored this woman.
“Hi, Betty.” She breathed in the familiar scent of sugar cookies and peppermint. No matter what she was doing or where she was, Betty Williams always smelled like sugar cookies and peppermint. “Is Reggie home?”
“Yes, she sure is. I’ll get her for you. Come on in out of the cold.” Betty took London’s hand and guided her toward the kitchen. “Regina,” she called, her voice echoing through the house. “Regina!”
“Mama? Are you okay?” Reggie stopped when she saw London in her parents’ kitchen.
London exhaled a long breath when she saw Reggie. She’d been longing to see her so much, and now that they were face-to-face, London’s heart swelled with love and hope.
“Oh, I’m fine,” Betty said. “You just have a visitor is all.”
“I see that.”
London wished she could read Reggie’s face, but even after all this time, Reggie was a master at keeping her expression blank. London had hoped that Reggie’s referral to Compass might be an indication she was softening in her stance on their not speaking, but this unreadable face wasn’t a good sign.
“Regina, don’t you want to offer London something to drink?”
London hid a smile. She and Reggie would be staying together if Reggie’s parents had anything to say about it. They’d been crazy about London from their first meeting, and the feeling was mutual.
“Would you like some of Mama’s sweet tea?” Reggie opened the refrigerator. Betty and Herb had moved to Columbus when Reggie was just a baby. Originally from North Carolina, they always had sweet tea in the house. You couldn’t get sweet tea like Betty’s at any restaurant in the Midwest.
“I’d love some.”
“You two enjoy,” Betty said. “Feel free to stay for dinner, London. If you can’t, make sure you come say hello to Herb before you go. He’s in the sitting room watching football, heaven knows why. I’ll be working on my cross-stitch in there beside him, and I’d love to show it to you.”
“You know I wouldn’t miss a chance to see it,” London said, delighted at how Betty beamed at her.
“Good. Regina, give her some of those shortcakes I made, will you?” Betty squeezed London’s shoulders. “I don’t like how thin you’re getting.”
London laughed. “You’re the only person in the world who calls me thin.”
Betty smiled, kissed London on the cheek, and left to join her husband in the sitting room.
“Your mom looks good.” She joined Reggie where she sat at the table. “She’s feeling well?”
