by Nan Higgins
A few minutes later, she pulled into her parking space and walked up to her door, still blowing that ugly whistle. She opened the door and yelled, “I’m home!” Hanging her coat on the hook by the door, she peered into the living room and stopped short.
Reggie, Quentin, Detectives Harper and O’Connor, plus a man she didn’t recognize with salt-and-pepper hair and a fancy suit, were all sitting there looking at her.
Harper cleared her throat and stood. “We need to talk.”
“Okay.” She stayed motionless, frozen in place.
The man with the fancy suit also stood and crossed the room, his outstretched hand reaching to shake London’s. “I’ve been meaning to meet you in person for some time, Ms. Craft.” His clear baritone voice made her think he was probably a pretty decent singer. “My name is Kyle Brown, and I’m the prosecutor in charge of the case against Tate’s attackers.”
London shook his hand. “London Craft.”
“Yes. Ms. Craft, could we sit down?” He held his hand, palm up and fingers extended toward the living room, and Reggie and Quentin scooted apart to make space on the couch for her between them. Harper and O’Connor sat in the club chairs adjacent to the couch, and Kyle Brown moved a stool from the eating area into the living room. Everyone looked up at him, and he resembled a teacher about to give a lesson.
“First,” he said, in his soothing voice, “London, let me please extend my condolences to you, for the loss of Tate Morgan. I understand he was much more than just a friend to you, and losing a family member in such a terrible way is devastating.”
“Thank you.” Her ears were ringing a little bit, but she stayed focused on the man on the stool.
“We’re preparing for trial, which will take place at the end of January. We are cautiously hopeful that, based on the evidence against the perpetrators, we will be able to obtain convictions on at least the most serious charges.”
She realized that he’d paused, expecting her to speak. “That’s good news.”
He nodded, apparently pleased with her answer. “Indeed. Now, what you may not know is that we ask family members to speak out at trial, give the jury and judge a window into the life of the victim. Who they were, what they meant to the people around them. They get a chance to speak about what they’ve lost as a result of the crime.” He folded his hands and raised his two index fingers to make the steeple in the old nursery rhyme. He pressed the steeple to his lips, then lowered his hands, folding his steeple back in to become part of the congregation.
“The thing is, Ms. Craft, we haven’t been able to find anyone in Tate’s biological family who’s willing to speak. And this isn’t the thrust of our case, you understand, not at all. Judgments are made based on evidence, which is substantial. It is, however, customary to have people speak, and it can affect the severity of the sentence for the perpetrators. And after all, we don’t want this to look like a crime of no consequence.” Her mouth dropped open, and he rushed his next few words. “Not that there’s any such thing, of course. I know that, and you know that.”
She had a feeling that he did not, in fact, know that. She’d never had the distaste or mistrust of lawyers held by so many. Her friendships with people like Grant and Thomas had given her insight into some incredibly decent, compassionate, and warm-hearted attorneys. Hell, even Larry Kopp was a good guy; it was his clients that had caused her so much turmoil. But this short conversation with Kyle Brown gave her a hefty helping of a smooth-talking, unfeeling lawyer, and she didn’t know how much longer she could stomach it.
“Look, we’re aware that this was a devastating loss for a lot of people. I’ve come to you today to ask if you’d be willing to speak on Tate’s behalf. The detectives have assured me there was no one closer to Tate than you. In fact, they urged me to come to you from the beginning.” He had the courtesy to look sheepish, although it was clearly an orchestrated move. “I was sure we could find someone in his biological family who would do it. His mother was the obvious choice. I was wrong.”
“What did she say?”
“Pardon me?”
“Tate’s mother. What did she say when you asked her to speak?”
He looked at the detectives, who glanced at each other uncomfortably. “Ah, I don’t think we need to go into that—”
“Tell me.” She knew whatever it was would be unbearable, yet she had to bear it. Had to.
Detective Harper left her chair, knelt in front of London, and grabbed her hands. London had never seen her up close like this. She was really striking, like a young Natalie Wood.
Harper’s lovely dark eyes filled with concern and compassion. “She said they did her a favor. She said Tate killed her daughter over a year ago, and they did her a favor murdering her daughter’s killer.”
A sharp gasp to her left made her turn. Quentin was crying. She wrapped her arms around him and turned to Reggie. “He shouldn’t be here for all of this.”
“I told him that. He wanted to be here and wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
Quentin put his head on London’s shoulder, and she rested her head on his, rocking him as they both cried. Aside from their sniffles and occasional sobs, the room was silent. After several moments passed, London wiped tears from her cheeks, keeping one arm around Quentin. “Of course I’ll speak for Tate. And I’m sure I won’t be the only one. Reggie?”
“You know I will. And Grant will too.”
“That’s good to hear,” Mr. Brown said. “I’m very sorry to have upset you like this, and I wouldn’t have bothered you in your home if I didn’t think you were the best person to do it.”
She nodded.
“Well.” Mr. Brown stood. “Detectives Harper and O’Connor can get your contact info to my office, if that’s all right with you. We’ll reach out to you to work out the details in the coming weeks. Thank you again for your time. We can see ourselves out, can’t we?”
He put the stool back where he found it, and he and Detective O’Connor, who hadn’t said a word, gathered their coats and gloves. Detective Harper hadn’t moved from her spot on the floor by London’s feet before she stood and thanked them.
“You still have my information, if any of you have questions about this. I’m not an attorney, but I’ve seen enough of these—too many, honestly—to know how things go. And I’m in regular contact with Kyle, so I can liaise between you if you’d like.” She touched the shoulders of Quentin and London, who were still resting on each other, and shook Reggie’s hand. “Call or text me if you need anything.”
And suddenly, London, Reggie, and Quentin were alone in the living room.
* * *
London lay awake for a long time that night. Reggie had held her until she fell asleep herself and rolled over on her other side. London stared at the ceiling for over an hour before accepting that she wasn’t going to sleep for quite some time.
She turned the events of the day over and over in her mind. Detective Harper had told her she could contact her if she had any questions. Using the light from her phone, London read the phone number on Harper’s business card and entered it into a new text screen. She typed and deleted the same few words three times before finally finishing the message and hitting send. London gazed into the darkness around her for several more minutes, then reached into her nightstand and felt around for the familiar piece of construction paper, closed her fingers around it, and got out of bed.
She went into the living room, thinking she could look at the letter by the light of the Christmas tree, but when she walked into the living room, she found Quentin sitting on the couch watching The Twilight Zone with the volume turned almost all the way down.
“I thought you were asleep.” She joined him on the couch.
“I thought you were too.”
She shrugged. “Guess we were both wrong.”
“Yep.” He looked at the paper in her lap, the mint green a stark contrast from her black terry cloth robe. “What’s that?”
She handed him t
he paper. “It’s a letter I wrote to my future self when I was ten years old.”
He read the letter carefully, then looked up at her. “Wow.”
“I know. When my mother died, she had her lawyer give this to me and said she’d leave me one hundred thousand dollars if I started living this way. Then a few weeks later, my father added another fifty thousand to the pot.”
He studied her. “Are you gonna try this? For the money?”
“No! Hell no.” She sighed. “Well, not for the money. And not everything on the list. I’ve been trying a few things on to see how they fit, but it’s more…I just want to understand who I was then.”
“Why?”
She shrugged again. “I figured it might help me understand myself now.”
“And is does it? Help you understand yourself, I mean.” He handed the letter back.
“I’m not sure yet.”
She thought about what she knew for sure. She knew, and had almost always known, that she wouldn’t fall in love with a man. She knew volunteer work was important to her, and she was happy to be making it a larger part of her life. It was becoming clearer that she’d never had a corporate job because she wasn’t cut out for that.
There was still the question of marriage. She glanced at her bedroom door and could almost hear Reggie’s soft snore on the other side. Did she still want to get married? Did London? It was the last thing on the list about which she was uncertain.
They were quiet for a while, watching the nearly muted television together. When it went to commercial, London spoke again.
“Do you have any questions about today? I know I haven’t talked much about Tate with you.”
“Reggie filled me in a little. And so did Joan.”
“Joan?” London cried, baffled. “Joan talked to you about Tate?”
“A little bit. The night I found out I was going to be staying with you two, Joan told me about Tate. I think she wanted me to feel comfortable coming home with you, knowing you’d been so close to someone who was trans.”
“Oh. I guess that makes sense.” Joan never failed to catch her off guard. “I’m sorry you had to hear all that. I’m glad you already knew a little about it, but I’m sorry you had to hear…you know. What Tate’s mother said.”
London and Reggie had agreed to let Quentin decide when and how much he wanted to discuss being a trans boy. Joan hadn’t told them much about the circumstances under which he’d been kicked out of his parents’ house, only that he’d been unexpectedly outed. They wanted to give him ownership of his gender identity and let him come out to them as he chose.
The events of today made London wonder if they shouldn’t be having discussions with him about it. She still wanted to let him feel like discussing it was his choice, but she also wanted him to feel seen and accepted.
“It’s okay.” His voice trembled.
“It’s not okay.” When she realized he was crying again, she moved closer. As earlier, he rested his head on her shoulder. He didn’t make any noise, but she could feel his body shudder, and soon there were warm tears on her neck.
“What Tate’s mom said,” he said, his voice still shaky, “do you think that’s how my parents feel? That it would be a favor to them if I died?”
She shifted and held his pink, puffy face in her hands. “I don’t know your parents, but if they feel like that, then they are absolutely wrong. You just might be the best person I know, Quentin, and your gender identity doesn’t change that. In fact, there is nothing braver anyone can do than live out loud. Lots of people don’t get to do that until they’re older, but you? You have your whole life ahead of you, a whole life of living as exactly who you are.”
She wiped the tears from his cheeks and hugged him to her again, wrapping both arms around him and holding on as tightly as she could. “They’re the ones who are wrong,” she said. “Not you. You are courageous and amazing, and if they don’t know that, they don’t deserve you.”
All over again, she was angry at Tate’s mother. Her hatred and bigotry had cut Tate to the core, and now it was too late to mend anything between them. But it wasn’t just Tate’s mother; it was Quentin’s parents and the murderers who’d taken Tate from her. It was all the folks who hated Tate and Quentin—two of the kindest, funniest, most generous people she had ever met—simply because they were trans. It sickened her to think of a world so cruel that it had taken her best friend from her and that the sweet boy in her arms would face dangers of his own, that he’d already endured so much at the hands of those who let their ignorance rule their actions.
She held him until he cried himself to sleep. She pulled the blanket from the back of the couch onto them, and soon, she fell into a fitful sleep too.
* * *
Reggie handed London a stack of plates and silverware. “Put these on the coffee table. My parents can sit on the couch, and the rest of us can sit on the floor.”
Since Quentin had been staying with them, they’d been going to weekly dinners at Betty and Herb’s house, sometimes with Grant joining them, and once Jasmine and Diego had come. It was a few days before Christmas, and Betty was busy getting everything together for Christmas dinner, so Reggie suggested they come over to the condo.
“Sounds good.” London grabbed the plates. “It smells amazing in here.”
“It better.” Reggie laughed. “I’m making lasagna the way Mama taught me, and I’ll know if she doesn’t like it.”
“Like your mother would ever say your food was bad.”
“She wouldn’t, but I’d be able to tell. Her face gives her away every time.”
Quentin appeared from the alcove. “Need any help?”
“That depends,” Reggie said. “Did you get your homework done?”
“Yep. Even did the extra credit.”
“In that case, come in here. You can help me with the garlic bread.”
There was a knock at the door. Betty, Herb, and Grant stood outside, shivering. “Come in where it’s warm.” London took their coats. “Did you all ride together?”
“Just got here at the same time,” Grant said.
Betty went into the kitchen with Reggie and Quentin. “My babies are making it smell good in here!”
Herb sat on the couch, and London handed him the remote. “I don’t know if there’s any football on, but you can check.” She sat beside him. “You can check for parades too,” she whispered.
“I’ll do that.” He chuckled and turned on the TV and started flipping through the channels.
Grant sat on the other side of London. “So, how’s Quentin doing?” he asked quietly.
She peered over the half wall into the kitchen where Quentin blew on a spoonful of sauce and pushed it toward Betty, letting her try it.
“He’s doing pretty well. Much better than anyone could expect, honestly. He’s a strong little boy.”
“Mm-hmm,” Herb said. “It’s not often you meet a child that’s so strong and so sweet.”
“You don’t meet many adults like that, either,” Grant said.
“You’re right.” Herb stopped on an old episode of Columbo and settled back into the couch.
“What are your plans with him?” Grant asked.
“We’re supposed to meet with Joan later this week to discuss how soon she expects a spot to open back up at Compass. Probably sometime late in January is my guess.”
“You’re going to send him back?” Grant’s eyebrows rose.
“What do you mean? Why would you think anything different? This was never a permanent thing.”
He shook his head. “I just thought the three of you had been bonding so much, maybe you’d decided to keep him for good.”
She didn’t know what to say. First Ross and now Grant. She was beginning to feel pretty concerned for Quentin. As much as she wanted to care for him and make him feel part of the family, she didn’t want him to experience further pain when he had to go back to Compass and a life of uncertainty. She hadn’t even considered ad
option, but apparently, she was in the minority. She wondered if Reggie had thought about it, and if she had, why hadn’t she mentioned it?
“Dinner’s ready,” Reggie called. “Come and get it.”
London and Grant went into the kitchen and brought the serving dishes back to the living room, and the group congregated around the table, passing dishes. It was a tight squeeze, with plates knocking into elbows as they passed and every inch of space provided by the coffee table utilized.
“It looks like it’s time for you to start looking for a bigger place,” Betty said.
“I agree,” Reggie said.
“You do?” This was the first London was hearing about it.
“Sure, I mean this place is really only made for one person to live in comfortably. It’s a bachelor pad. Bachelorette pad, in this instance, and you’re not living that life anymore.” Reggie saw the surprise on London’s face. “Are you?”
“No, of course not. I just didn’t know you were thinking about it.” An uneasy feeling settled in her stomach, and it took a moment for her to identify it. At first she thought she was panicking at the thought of taking that step with Reggie. She remembered all those months ago when Thomas had asked if she were afraid of commitment. But no. She wasn’t scared of moving forward into an expanding future with Reggie. She just wanted to be kept in the loop.
All around her, it seemed, the people she loved were discussing potentially huge changes that could directly affect her life. Why was it that none of them were initiating conversations with her about them?
“Relax.” Reggie patted London’s hand. “I just started thinking about it.”
“I’m relaxed,” London said in a voice that didn’t sound very relaxed, not even to her.
“Is there any white wine?” Grant asked.
“In the fridge,” Reggie said.
Grant went to the kitchen. “London, your phone is ringing. It’s Jasmine.”
“Answer it.”
“Oops, didn’t get it in time.” He brought it to her. “Sorry.”
