What happens after a transformation? Esme lives in New York and works as a journalist. She has a secret, one she thought she'd left behind in England. Then she comes across a strange case. A child who suffers from a condition that effects the way their body reacts to hormones. Slowly he is transforming from male to female. A condition so rare it has only one other confirmed case. Esme.

This is the second story I've written with the incredibly talented Miss Jessica. If you haven't already then I recommend you run as fast as is safe in those heels to her back catalogue and treat yourself. It'll be well worth it.

For the most part our stories have been positive. Usually focusing on characters that cope with, then thrive, after a life altering TG themed change. This time we wanted to do something a little different.

We wanted to explore why so many of us (those of us that can be loosely referred to as gender-fluid) are attracted to stories and relationships that have abusive elements.

While the subject matter does mean we have to include some graphic sex scenes. We hope you'll agree that we've handled them sensitively.

That said this is only a small element in what is a much bigger story.

We hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1

It was a horrible early June night in Bushwick. Spring had ended forever ago and summer had begun, regardless of what the calendar said. It was 85 degrees and about 95 percent humidity. The bar was crowded with young people drinking and talking, waiting for the band to come on. She could feel their body heat creep over her.

She sat down at one end of the small bar. Alone in the crowd. She wore a black sleeveless t-shirt and black, skin tight jeans. Her brown hair was cut short, into what she hated to refer to as a pixie cut. In front of her was a bottle of beer.

“What’s up Esme? Haven’t seen you in here for a while,” the bartender said. He had to lean across the bar to be heard. His plaid shirt sleeves rode up his arms, exposing two tattoos, a mermaid on the right and a frog on the left. Esme had meant to ask him about the frog.

“Busy Max, and out of cash.” She shrugged and leaned closer to him. Her eyes moved slowly as she watched his face closely. They were bright green, standing out even more against her pale skin and dark clothes.

“I’m working till eleven, can you hang on?”

Esme looked down at her phone. Just over an hour. She nodded her agreement. Max went away to serve another customer. Ten minutes later, he returned with a shot of whiskey and another beer, both of which he placed before her. She smiled her thanks.

First she downed her whiskey, then she sat back and sipped her beer. The whiskey made her feel warm and light headed. She’d need a lot more to be able to do what she knew she had to. In the meantime, she leaned on the bar and watched the band setting up. Another trio of bearded arseholes, sorry assholes, playing acoustic drivel. Wannabe Lumineers.

They were already on the second song by the time Max came from behind the bar and stood in front of Esme. She looked up at him. Even without the extra height the raised floor behind the bar gave him, he was still tall. At 5ft 10 inches, Esme struggled to find men she could look up to. In so many ways. The effect was even more impressive because she was sitting down.

“Come on, we can sit on the sofa,” He didn’t ask, he told. Esme followed him to a small space to the right of the stage. Although it was never officially roped off, the patrons of the bar always respected the two beat up couches. Without anyone saying anything, they knew it was a space for the staff and their friends in the various bands that played there. There was just enough space for the two of them to squeeze onto the sofa pushed against the brick wall. With his legs spread out, she was almost sitting on his knee.

“Haven’t heard from you in a long time.”

She shook her head, “You know I don’t really do the whole relationship thing,” and that she needed to be drunk to do anything at all.

“That’s the way I like it babe,” Max whispered in her ear.

They left a couple of songs later.

Outside on the sidewalk, the bouncer was helping a drunk woman into a taxi. The streetlights and neon signs shimmered in the heat.

“Your place or mine?” Max asked.

“I’ve got whiskey and vodka back at mine,” she’d stocked up earlier, “Freya’s out.”

“Your place it is then.”

They walked next to each other. Max lit a cigarette and smoked it. Esme forced her hands into the tiny little pockets at the front of her jeans. She had to move faster than normal to keep up with him. Occasionally she would glance up at him, taking in his broad shoulders. Thinking about the way his beard tickled her when they kissed.

She fumbled with her keys when they reached the front door of her building. She was already wet. It had been almost two months.

The apartment was still and hot; nights like this were when you regretted having a fifth-floor walk up. The air felt stale and heavy in her lungs. Esme hurried over to the kitchen and switched the elderly AC on. The living room was an old sofa opposite the kitchen table. There was a beat up TV on top of the fridge that had stopped working a few weeks after she and Freya moved in. They kept it out for retro value. When she turned around, Max was sitting on the sofa examining the old teapot the girls used as a makeshift bong.

“Is this a British thing?”

She shook her head, “I bought it from a homeless guy.” She didn’t want to talk.

He seemed to pick up on her mood, “Kneel, bitch,” he pointed to the floor between his legs.

Esme moved slowly and cautiously. She bit her lip as she kneeled down, thankful for the second hand rug Freya had bought a few weeks before. She knew her apparent timidity was all part of the game.

At first she kept her head low, staring at a point just a little south of his crotch. Then she felt his hand under her chin, followed by extra pressure as he lifted her face up so her eyes met his.

“I think we’ll use a gag tonight. You OK with that?” He broke character for a moment.

She tried to nod but couldn’t move her head by much, “Yeah, sure. Only don’t tie anything too tight. I’ve got work tomorrow and I can’t wear long sleeves in this weather.”

---

Max was gone by the time her phone alarm woke her up. The AC must have turned itself off in the night, probably blown another fuse. Both she, and the bed covers she’d slept on the top of, were covered in sweat. She sat up too suddenly and had to lie back down as her head pounded. She lay there until the second snooze alarm, massaging her wrists. That bastard had probably tied her up extra tight.

Eventually she managed to get up and drag herself to the little bathroom off the kitchen. On the wall was a calendar. In a few weeks’ time it would be fifteen years since the change.

The shower felt great, relieving her just enough for her to be able to think. Should she call her father? Would he even have realised the anniversary was due? It wasn’t worth it. There was no point going back to that well. The water had dried up a long time ago.

Coming out of the shower, she saw that there were five missed calls on her phone. She sighed, Mr Edwards at the paper, the bank, some other numbers that she didn’t recognize. No one ever phoned about good things. It was the 21st Century, why not text? She was late so she decided to ignore them.

She chose her grey fitted jacket, as it was made out of the thinnest material of all her jackets. With that she wore a white top and black skinny chinos that were so tight it took her a further fifteen minutes to get into them.

Leaving the building was like hitting a wall of heat. Why anyone had thought to build a city here she didn’t know. People talked about New York being a four-season city. Yeah, winter - when it too cold to move; summer - when it was too hot to think; April 18 and October 12. She wondered if she had enough left in her overdraft to be able to call a taxi, but quickly gave up on the idea. She had no desire to tempt the money demons. If she had anything left before payday, she’d rather spend it drinking with Freya. She set off for the L-Train.

The Daily Reporter building was downtown, just north of City Hall. She’d heard that the rent from the rest of the office space was all that was keeping the paper open. That and a rich Russian owner who liked to play William Randolph Hearst, to be the fourth newspaper in a three newspaper city. She nodded at the security guard, flashing her i.d., and hurried upstairs to her meeting.

---

In better times, the Reporter had taken up a whole floor. Now they were down to just half, and most of that was taken up by sales. Esme was late, the morning meeting had started.

Morning meetings started, as the name suggested at 9am. Glancing at the clock she saw it was already 9:18am. She tried to squeeze in the back. She could hear Peter in World Affairs talking about the latest G7 summit.

James Marx-Munroe, editor in chief of the paper stood in the middle of his reporters. He was a big, imposing man. Rumor was his name was just ‘James Marx,’ that he adopted ‘Marx-Munroe’ to sound more erudite, well travelled. Esme thought ‘my dustman back home had two names.’ Each day, as the print deadline neared, the number of lines on his balding head would increase. Esme watched him nervously, but he didn’t seem to have spotted her. She pushed through the crowd until she was standing next to Freya.

“I couldn’t wake you this morning,” Freya hissed, “How much did you have?”

“Too much,” She took a sip of her coffee. It burnt her lips and her tongue, “I was with Max.”

Freya shook her head. Her long blond hair tied back in a bun. Esme was jealous of her hair. She felt like Freya glowed, eclipsing her. “Why?”

The two guys from the Weekend magazine turned to look at them. The two women slinked back.

“Why?” Freya repeated her question in a quieter voice.

“I dunno, he scratches an itch I suppose,” Esme had to look away feeling her friend’s searching look.

“But does he? How did you get on with Ken?”

“The Barbie doll?” she saw the disapproving look from her friend, “I mean, he’s OK. I didn’t trust him.”

“Why, he’s a nice guy?” The two weekend guys looked around again. Freya made shooing gestures to get them to turn around.

“He’s a lawyer. You can’t trust them.” Esme said feebly.

Freya gave her a look that made her feel like she was back in primary school, “He’s not some scumbag ambulance chaser or corporate dick. He does lots of public interest work.”

Esme sagged, “Look, he was a nice guy. He just didn’t…”

“He just didn’t scratch your itch?” Freya laughed, before realising Marx-Munroe had directed a question at their team. “Sorry, yes. The online team are focusing on the recent allegations…”

Esme zoned out. She watched her friend, only recently promoted to assistant editor, talk. She hoped she didn’t get stuck with another red carpet or tech launch party. She hated the late nights. She zoned back in when they got to the assignments.

“So John will be covering the latest crime stats. Esme, can you go take a look at the cat guy?”

Feeling uncomfortable with the whole room looking at her she just muttered ‘OK’ lifting up her coffee cup to hide behind it.

“Good,” grunted Marx-Munroe, “Get photos. Take Jay with you.”

She sighed. Jay was a jerk. He always acted like he had come from shooting something far more important. Not that she could blame him. Cat Guy was a rather unfortunate forty-something who had fallen down after a stroke and died in his Murray Hill apartment. There was a rumour doing the rounds on Twitter that the stroke hadn’t killed him, but that he’d starved to death unable to get help. The guy had about ten cats and, after the body had started decomposing, they had done what cats do with no other food source. What was left of the body had only been found a week or so later when the neighbours had complained about the smell.

“What do you think it’ll be like?” Esme wrinkled her nose up. They were sat outside a café just around the corner from Cat Guy’s block.

Jay reclined back on his chair, his eyes covered by sunglasses. Like he was just back from a tour in Vietnam. “I wouldn’t worry yourself. The cops and medical examiner have swept it for evidence already. You won’t see anything. Maybe a stain on the carpet.” He laughed as her stomach lurched.

“Shut up. Idiot. I’m not scared.”

“I didn’t say you were,” he laughed again.

“Arrogant prick,” she took a sip of her coffee (the third that morning) and immediately regretted it. The whiskey in her stomach rebelled. She was starting to feel the hangover. She must have woken up drunk.

They took the 6 train to the apartment, Esme regretting her choice of tight chinos in the heat. She wanted to take the jacket off but didn’t want Jay to see the tell-tale marks around her wrists.

Jay bribed the porter $100 to let them into the apartment. He’d been right, the cops had cleared the place out.

“Weird,” Esme walked the length of the bookshelf touching the spines of the books.

“How?”

“Could be anyone’s apartment.” She pulled out a copy of The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead. “Well read.”

“I’ve got no time for books. They get in the way of experiencing life.” Jay had his camera out and was pointing it at the Lazy Boy. She wondered whether it was an ironic decorating choice or if Cat Guy actually used it. ‘I’ve been in Brooklyn too long,’ she thought. ‘Some people just like chairs.’ As he focused his camera, Esme looked him up and down. She clicked her tongue and looked away. Something had caught her attention. An aquarium, or is that vivarium, in the corner.

She peered in, spotting something black with red and yellow markings. Suddenly it jumped for cover, “It’s a frog,” she said a little startled. Jay just shrugged. “I think it’s a common reed frog. From Africa.”

“You a frog fancier?”

“I read about it in a book when I was little. They can change gender when the population becomes too one sided.” She took out iPad from her handbag and took a snap, “Instagram,” she explained.

With Jay taking arty shots in the kitchen Esme wandered into the bedroom. It looked like the occupant had just left for work and would be back in the morning. There was a pair of pants lying on the bed. Discarded when dressing that morning she guessed. She opened the closet door, running her fingers through the clothes hanging there. He was reasonably stylish. A little bit hipster-ish, but maturing nicely.

Taking out her iPad again, she took a few snaps. She quickly uploaded them to the Record’s Instagram, Twitter and Facebook accounts under the title “The lair of the Cat Man. We look inside a true NY tale.” Sitting on the bed she typed out a short article, 90% clichés, 10% fact, and sent it off to Freya. She wandered off to the bathroom where Jay was taking pictures through the semi-transparent shower curtain and lent on the door frame.

“Give me a hand getting that frog and his tank back to my place and I’ll buy you a beer,” she said not looking up from her phone. When she did she saw Jay pointing his camera at her from through the shower curtain.

“Bugger off!” She tried to cover her face.

“Two beers? And don’t you need to get a few quotes?”

Esme shook her head, “Two neighbours have tweeted about the starvation rumours. I can use them. Just so you know I would have gone as high as three.”

---

They took a taxi back to Esme’s apartment. She sat on the back seat holding the tank. It was heavy, pressing down on her lap. He sat up front with his camera and a bag of wires from the apartment.

Every now and again she’d spot a black and yellow face peeking out of the vegetation. She wondered what the frog was making of all of this. Did it think there was an earthquake, an alien invasion?

Over an hour later they stood looking at their work. The tank took up almost half the far wall of Esme’s bedroom. She hadn’t seen the frog peek out for a while. She hoped it hadn’t died.

“Do you even know what they eat?”

“I can look it up on the Internet.” She handed him a vodka and orange juice.

“This better not count as one of my two drinks,” he smiled. She had hoped it would.

“Drink up,” she commanded, “We’re going out.”

The bar was just a block away. It was one of those places that were too cool to have a name. Everyone in the neighbourhood just called it ‘the bar’.

“Why are you staring at your phone?” Jay walked slowly, his gate broad.

“I’m texting Freya. Seeing if she wants to join us.”

“Good,” Jay smiled, “I like Freya.” But he looked away.

Esme frowned slightly, placing her phone back in her bag after sending the text.

The bar was mostly empty, just a smattering of daytime bar flies. Some hardcore drinkers, others self-employed and looking for free wifi. The numbers would start changing after five. There were a couple of guys sat at the bar watching some game on the TV. Esme glanced up. It looked to her like hockey. Of all of the sports Americans watched, hockey made the most and the least sense. It was like football/soccer, in that it was constantly moving with little scoring. On the other hand, the rules made no sense to her and she couldn’t understand the violence. Perhaps a rerun?

She bought them both beers and shots of bourbon. They took them over to one of the booths. While she was ordering, she saw Jay staring at the TV intently, which surprised her. He always struck her as the sort that would disdain sports as simple minded.

“You don’t say much around the office,” Jay looked straight at her, one hand held the beer while the other lay flat on the table. She thought of a detective beginning his interrogation.

“Not to you.” The glass was heavy. It was like the old man’s pint mugs she remembered from the Rolls Royce Working Men’s Club back home. She had to use both hands to lift it up.

“Prickly ain’t you?”

“Before I’ve had my first drink? Yes I am.”

They continued drinking. Around the end of the second drink, Esme received a text from Freya.

“She joining us?” Jay correctly guessed whom it was from.

“No,” Esme sighed. Her face lit from underneath in the dingy light of the bar, “An editorial meeting has gone over,” she stared at the screen for a few more seconds before putting the phone away. “She liked your pictures,” her voice had the edge of an accusation. She moved her bag to the other side of her, so she could lean back in the corner.

“Looks heavy,” he indicated to the bag, “You remembered to take the iPad out?”

“Of course,” she scowled. She felt around in the bag. ‘Fuck,’ she thought, ‘it’s not there. I can’t have lost it again.’ This was not the first company property she had lost and she couldn’t count on Freya to save her - again. Freya had made this clear. She should have gone to look for it. Instead, she decided to keep drinking.

They were on their third round when the bar began to fill up. They were the after work crowd. Twenty and thirty-some-things, some still in suits. Esme watched them feeling like an anthropologist.

Esme followed the way he held the glass as he drank, “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Turn the glass around about ten degrees each time. You do it before you take a sip.”

“Do I do that?” She nodded.

“I guess I like the foam from the beer to be evenly spread,” he shrugged, looking at his glass like she’d spotted a cockroach at the bottom.

“When I drink from a can I always tap the ring pull three times before pulling it,” she said. Condensation from his glass was pooling on the table.

“And you do that because?” He still kept one eye on his drink, as if it’d done him some harm.

“Someone once told me that it stops it fizzing up.”

“Does that work?”

She picked up her drink and took a large gulp before answering, “I don’t think so. But I can’t remember the last time a can fizzed up on me so, maybe.”

To one side a couple had started to dance. The girl was obviously good. Esme guessed she’d had some formal training. The guy wasn’t bad either, although mainly he let her dance around him. Their movements became more exaggerated. The woman kept bumping into the people around her.

The other patrons of the bar were getting increasingly annoyed, but still they danced. Their movements were a mixture of various popular styles, swing etc.

Esme jumped as the girl collided with their table. She landed on the seat next to her.

“Sorry,” the girl was panting. A crazy smile on her face.

“Are you alright?” Jay half stood up. Esme tried to brush the beer off her top. She wished she hadn’t chosen white and pulled her jacket closed.

“I’m fine honey,” her boyfriend pulled her up. She turned to Esme, “I hope you and your boyfriend have a good night.” Then they were gone, heading towards the door.

Esme was embarrassed, everyone was looking. She turned to Jay just to hide her face from the other patrons.

“You want to go some place with dancing?” Jay sat back in his seat, his arms spread out like he was being crucified. Esme hated that; did he think it’d impress her? Did he want her to look as his broad shoulders?

“I don’t do dancing,” she fiddled with her drink. Her hips didn’t seem to move they way other girls did. She watched a small group of women dancing. Every now and then, the tall one would spin, her skirts swirling around her legs.

“Music? Food?”

Esme looked down at the table. A pool of beer had formed into a passable map of Iceland. “I did music last night and I don’t really fancy food.” She saw the disappointed look on his face, “Do you know a quiet place where we can keep drinking?”

He knew three. It was past 1am when they stumbled back towards her place. Jay had to pick up his camera. He’d insisted on leaving it at hers at the start of the night. She’d worried it was an excuse for sex.

“Why photography?” she handed him the half drunk vodka bottle wrapped in brown paper. As he took a swig she kept her eyes open for the police. This time of night, you could count on a bored cop giving you a ticket for an open container in public. She could also count on the cop not being charmed by her accent. That was good for before 10 PM and on weekends. This was the ‘werewolf shift,’ a cop she was interviewing told her. It was for new guys, those who pissed off the sergeant and ‘guys who didn’t want to see their kids.’ She thought how he seemed most approving of the last group.

He shrugged, “Why not? It was the only thing I was good at. Good enough to get me out of my home town at least.”

“Where are you from?”

“Near Pittsburgh. Can’t you tell from my accent?” he said, with a smile.

“You all sound the same to me,” she said, her smile lopsided.

“The fuck I sound like some Ivy league prick,” his voice became more New York, in a way that sounded forced. He waved his hand around. “This place is about a million miles from where I grew up.” He stared at her, like he was waiting for her to ask more. ‘I guess I’m not much of a reporter,’ she thought. He kept looking at her, while she kept her eyes on the sidewalk in front of her.

“So how about you, Mary Poppins? Where did you grow up?” he took a large swig, “Did you have a big garden at the back of the castle for papa to keep the ponies in?”

“Fuck you,” she said, staring at her shoes. “I’m from an old factory town in the North of England. Anyway, we don’t have many castles in England.”

“No?” He seemed disappointed.

“No. Cromwell pulled them all down.” She could tell he had no idea who Cromwell was.

The flat was silent apart from the AC, apparently fixed. It was dark apart from the glow coming from under Freya’s door. It told Esme she’d gone to sleep with her headphones on, probably listening to Spotify. Freya had started doing that after the time Esme had brought back a group of Dutch tourists one Wednesday night.

He reached over and grabbed his camera. “I’ll see you in the office in the morning,” he said. She glanced at the mirror in the hall. Catching the reflection she realised, for the first time, how drunk she was. “Have a good night.”

As he left, she looked around. “Fuck!”

He stopped, “what?”

“The iPad! Where the hell is it?”

He looked at her. “You didn’t leave it here before we went out again?” He said this disapprovingly, like her mum would. She half-expected him to say, ‘it is not my job to keep track of your things, young lady. You need to be more responsible.’

“Of course, I did,” she huffed. What she thought was ‘If I had done that, would I have said ‘fuck?’

He smiled. “I remember you putting your bag down. It kind of slumped over. Let’s look around before you start losing your shit.”

“I’m not losing my shit!” she wanted to be able to blame him, “It’s not here,” she said, thinking of how much trouble she would be in.

“Well,” he said, smirking. “Easier to look in here than out there.” He started looking on and under the table. Esme sat down on the little sofa, her head spinning from the remorse and alcohol.

She was surprised when he knelt down in front of her. She thought of what had happened last night. “Hey, what are you doing?” she protested as he pushed her legs aside. He stuck his arm underneath the sofa.

“I can see blinking.”

“Huh?”

He came back out holding the iPad, “Recognise this?”

“Shut up,” she said, with a smile as he handed it over. “Thank you.”

He tipped his imaginary hat. “Good night,” he said, as he walked out the door.

---

When she woke, Esme was still on the sofa. Someone, probably Freya, had laid a blanket over her. Fuck. She didn’t want her flatmate thinking any worse of her. Looking at her phone, it was already 8am. She was going to be late. Her eyes focused a little more and she noticed there were two more missed calls. She checked her history, it was the same number as before. Telemarketers? There was a message as well.

It would have to wait. She needed to shower and get going.

The train was crowded and she had to lean on a pole while doing her make-up. She spread her legs as wide as her skirt would allow while peering into her little hand held mirror. At the next stop a tall man squeezed in behind her. As the train started again, she felt his crotch pushed against her back. She tried to move away but he stayed uncomfortably close. She really didn’t need this shit.

The escalator was broken at her stop and she had to run up the stairs, regretting her choice of a pencil skirt. She reached the reception at 9:21am.

“Pass, miss,” The old black security guard seemed disinterested.

“It’s here somewhere,” she hoped she hadn’t left it in another bag. “Fuck,” It wasn’t in her wallet.

“Take your time, miss,”

“I’m soooo sorry Charlie,” Despite having been a New Yorker for close to a decade now her English desire to apologise always won through.

“Don’t worry.”

She found it at the bottom of her bag, surrounded by crumbs and tissues smeared with old make-up.

By the time she reached the office it was 9:46am. She could see the morning meeting breaking up so she went to one of the hot desks. She hoped that, if she kept her head down, people would think she had been standing at the back.

Her head was down as she watched her colleagues returned to their desks.

“Hey,” said a middle aged woman who worked on the metro section, “I claimed this spot.” She pointed down to the post-it note on the desk in front of Esme. With the lack of office space, the journalists hot desked. As they often had to move around for meetings, a system of passive aggressive post-it claiming spaces had taken hold.

“You’re one of the bloggers aren’t you?” The woman said. The ‘serious’ journalists often referred to the online team as bloggers.

Esme apologised and then headed for the sofas. She hated working there. They were near reception and, as such, had visitors coming past talking noisily all the time.

After finally finding a chair, a little hidden by a potted plant, she sat and took out her laptop. She’d handed in the iPad on the way over. She skimmed through the Reporter’s website. She couldn’t find her article? She checked her email. The normal confirmation email IT sent was missing.

“Hi, Esme, can we have a chat?” Esme looked up to see Freya standing over her.

“Sure, is everything…”

“Not here,” Freya cut her off.

Esme got up and followed her friend into the corridor.

“What’s going on Freya, why hasn’t my article been posted?” She wished she had the ability to be outraged when challenged. She’d seen other people, especially Americans, who could be caught in the act of stabbing you, but would explode in outrage if you challenged them. They’d demand you apologised for getting your blood all over them.

Freya put a hand on her forehead, “Esme, there was no way I could publish it. And you’re lucky I didn’t. MM would have shitcanned you straight away,” MM was their nickname For Marx-Munroe.

“Oh come on, it wasn’t that bad! I did the best I could with the story you gave me,” she was pleading. She could take the pervert on the train. She could handle the shitty colleagues looking down their noses at her. Letting down Freya was too much. Her only real friend if she thought about it. All the other girls they hung out with were Freya’s mates and they only accepted her because of their friendship. “I only reported on what the neighbors were saying. I ensured that was clear.”

“Yeah, well, did you even check with the cops?”

“Er…”

She handed her a piece of paper. “That was clear. Read this.” Esme’s palms were sweating as she read it. It was a police report saying that the Cat Guy had died of a heart attack. Not starvation.

Freya rolled her eyes. “Obviously not. This came out an hour after I gave you the assignment. You should have checked with them. You know better…” She had the same tone Jay did about the iPad. ‘Great,’ she thought, ‘I left mum and dad in England. Now, they’re here.’

She tried to cover her tracks, muttering something about having checked on the way over and that the cops lied. Her resolve was going. She felt like she was falling and being sick at the same time.

“And those quotes, they came from Twitter didn’t they.”

Esme started to protest, but then gave up. She was banged to rights.

“I thought so,” Freya sighed. “Look. Don’t worry I covered for you. I showed MM, Jay’s pictures. He loved them so I persuaded him to move the piece up to the weekend,” The weekend meant the Saturday and Sunday editions with their glossy supplements. These were the only print versions that made any money; as such, a ‘blogger’ getting bumped up to the weekend was a huge thing.

“T-t-thank you!” She could feel the tears on their way.

“Don’t thank me Esme. I told MM you were writing an amazing extended article. Prove me right. Please.” She just wanted to slink off but Freya stopped her, holding her arm. “Esme, be good to yourself. You’re better than this.” Esme nodded, “You were top of our class at J-School.” They had met at Columbia Journalism School, when Esme came after finishing her undergrad. “I know you can do it. I don’t why you have this self-destructive streak.” Esme was still amazed at the American tendency to psychoanalyze everything. Too much Dr. Phil, she thought. She still felt pathetic. “Go get yourself a strong coffee and then start again.”

The tears had arrived. She didn’t feel she deserved this kindness. She just nodded. A middle aged man from accounts was walking towards them. He caught one look at the two girls hugging and turned. They both laughed, Esme wiping away the tears.

“Look,” Freya’s words were softer, “I don’t know if this is the best time, but there never will be a good time. Jason has asked me to move in with him. I’ve said yes.” She must have seen the look of horror on Esme’s face, “Don’t worry! I’ve told him I won’t move out until you’ve found a new roommate.” She looked a little desperate, “Someone nice, someone you like!”

Esme wanted to be angry, but she couldn’t. To her, Jason was the dullest guy ever, but to Freya he was perfect. Although Esme hated his middle-of-the-road-I’m-a-good-guy act, she could see he was devoted to Freya. She decided to be happy for her. She owed her that much. They hugged again. Esme tried her best to look excited when Freya suggest they go out for a meal with Jason this weekend.

“Why don’t you bring Jay along?”

“What?” Of all the people she could have mentioned, why Jay?

Freya said, “I heard him in the apartment yesterday, when you came back. I figured that maybe something happened,” she said with a smile. Esme couldn’t look at her friend. Freya swooped in for the kill. “You’re blushing...something happened.”

“Absolutely nothing happened!” Esme felt her accent coming on even stronger. Whenever she was upset, her accent came back. A self defense mechanism. As a comedian once said, having a British accent in America is a little like having a superpower. “I promise you that.”

“Esme likes Jay, Esme likes Jay,” Freya sang, teasing her.

“Esme most emphatically does not like him.” Because the universe is a cruel place, just then Jay walked out.

He had his sunglasses flipped backwards on his head, so that he could, she supposed, flip them back down quickly, should an emergency arise. A sunglasses emergency. “Who does Esme most emphatically not like?” he said, cockily.

She started to say no one, but was cut off after ‘no,’ Freya cut her off. “No one. How would you like to join Esme, my boyfriend Jason and me on Saturday for brunch?”

He looked at Esme and smirked. She gave him a look like ‘if you’re any sort of human being, you will not accept.’ He was clearly not any sort and said, “That sounds great. Where?”

“Do you like Southern food?” Esme felt like crawling in a hole.

“I love it,” he smirked. “Where were you thinking?” Hell, Esme thought. That’s ‘down south’, isn’t it?

“Hot House, in Bed Stuy? They have Nashville-style hot chicken, if you’re into spicy foods.”

He smirked, “Can’t be as good as Prince’s in Nashville. Had it on assignment down there.” Of course you did, Esme thought. You’re one of those types who, no matter how good someone says a meal was, has to one-up them, tell them about the authentic place you’ve been to. ‘That steak was fine, but if you want a great steak, I went to a place on the Pampas in Argentina (pronounced, of course, Ar-HEN-tina) where you killed your own steak. Wannabe Anthony Bourdain. She heard him finish “It sounds great though. What time?”

“One PM,” Freya said, with a smile looking at her. Esme intently studied the patterns in the linoleum floor.

“It’s a date,” he said, smirking at Esme.

She turned to Freya. “Well, if you wanted me to focus on the story, you’ve succeeded. I’m going down to the Jumping Bean to work.” It was as good as the office and she didn’t need the distractions of Jay and Freya. She reviewed what she had written the day before, feeling only shame at how weak it was. About an hour later, she had the skeleton of the new piece worked out. She had decided to focus as much on the isolation that New York could engender. How neighbors were so disconnected from each other that no one thought to check on Cat Man until his apartment smelled and how they assumed a lonely man had to have been eaten by his cats. The lonely person’s choice of pet. She’d found the police press release but wanted to get something more to justify Freya’s trust. She picked up her phone hoping to wrangle an interview with one of the officers who responded to the initial call.

The message from earlier was still there. She thought of England, of the people she had left behind. It was an American number, but what if it was someone trying to get hold of her with news from home? Her hand shook a little as she played back the message;

“Ms. Entwistle, Esme Entwistle? Formally Philip Esme Entwistle?” She held her breath, it had been a long time since she’d heard that name, “This is Sheriff Rees, Orson Rees. I’m based in Cambria County, Pennsylvania. This is going to sound very strange, but please listen to this message in full. I have a very unusual case. A boy who turned into a girl when he hit puberty. The doctors have called it,” and she could visualize him looking at a piece of paper, “Late Onset Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome. Something about testosterone not working. Honestly, I didn’t understand half of what they said. I did understand that there were only a few cases and that the nearest example was in England. I contacted your doctor but he told me you had moved over here, to New York. I pulled in a few favours and got your number.” The voice stopped, “Look, I don’t want to bother you. You’re in no trouble but..” he went silent again, “But, there’s a family going crazy here and if there’s anything you can do. Advice… anything. I’d be grateful.” She programmed his number into her phone, in case she decided to call him back.

Esme sat there. ‘Philip’, she whispered. It left a strange taste in her mouth. She looked around, it was as if the colour had drained from the world. She thought of being curled up on her old bedroom floor, only the cat for company. She hoped whoever it was had someone to talk to. She looked down at her iPad. She had work to do. Pennsylvania was a world away. She had been to Philadelphia once, when she first got here. But Sheriff Rees didn’t sound like he was from Philadelphia. For one, he was too nice.

Whoever this poor child was, she couldn’t focus on him. Not now. Not when her job was on the line and her flatmate, her flatmate who was leaving her, gave her the lifeline. She would deal with this abstract child later. For now, her article was what mattered. She would focus on that.

Freya’s words rung in her ears. She had won awards at J-School for her reporting, the benefits of which she promptly squandered. She had taken a job at Time magazine but had immediately felt like she’d been swallowed up. At college and J-school, she could focus on the work. All that mattered was the work. In the real world, all that mattered was how you played the game. How loud you shouted and how well you kissed ass, the right ass. She never felt comfortable ‘bro-ing’ down. She looked at the journalism landscape and saw that print was dying and the ‘gig economy,’ as the industry liked to call it, was on the rise. ‘Gig economy.’ She sneered at the thought. In other words, the system had no obligation to you. She thought of her father, and her grandfather before him, spending their careers at Rolls-Royce. Neither became rich - they were both mid-level engineers - but they had a job from when they walked in at 16 until they left at 65, with their retirement gifts and their pensions. Either way, she decided, after Time, that she would never be in one place long enough for them to hurt her. Slowly and meticulously, she’d built up an impressive portfolio. That’s when Freya had offered her this position.

In the end she took it. Having turned thirty, she had decided she needed to pay off her credit card debt at some point.

--------

“17th Precinct, Officer Cruz speaking,” the male voice on the other end of the phone said.

She had decided to start with the police who were first on the scene. Find out what really happened. “Hi, my name is Esme Entwistle, I’m a reporter with the Reporter,” she said.

Officer Cruz chuckled, “A reporter with the Reporter. Heh heh.” She had gotten used to the laugh every time she said that. She wondered why the powers that be had chosen the name. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, yes, I’m trying to reach the officers who responded to the call on,” and she flicked through her iPad, “Donald McKenzie.” Her first thought, when Freya told her to expand out the story, was to think of him as a person. A person with a name, not just Cat Guy. The call from the sheriff made her realize that she owed him that much.

“Cat Guy?” he said. “Why do you want to talk to them? Had a heart attack. Everyone else has,” and he paused. “Picked over that story already.” He chuckled again, amused by his own cynical joke.

“Well, yes, I understand that,” she said. “I’m doing a different story. I’m trying to focus on, I suppose, how we get to a place where this poor fellow,” she specifically chose ‘fellow’ because it sounded more British, “becomes Cat Guy. And I thought that the officers who responded could possibly, er, dispel some of the rumors that have come about.”

He sighed. “Yeah, well, good luck with that. Anyway, that was Chen and Hoxha. Give me your name and number and I’ll give it to them. If they feel like talking about it, they’ll call you. No promises.”

“I understand. Thank you, Officer, for your time.”

“You’re welcome. You English?”

“Yes,” she said with a laugh. “Is it that obvious?”

He laughed and adopted some indeterminate accent. “Quite. Anyway, I’ll pass on the messages.”

While she awaited the call, she decided to try and interview his neighbors, the shopkeepers in his neighborhood, to see what, if anything, anyone knew about him.

Her first stop was with the doorman. She had learned, over her years in New York, that doormen knew everything. She always found it a strange job. These men, and they were all men, spent their days in uniforms ranging from boringly industrial to something from a regional production of Gilbert and Sullivan, opening doors, signing for packages and engaging in false chitchat with the tenants about sport and the weather. They were more than security. They knew everyone in the building and, more importantly, knew their secrets. They knew boyfriends and girlfriends, who was having an affair and whose kids were in trouble. If anyone knew about Mr. McKenzie, it would be the doorman.

“Hi,” she said, approaching the doorman. His name plate read ‘O’Hanlon,’ which wasn’t surprising. He was in his fifties, with thinning salt and pepper hair and a pale face lined with broken capillaries. “My name is Esme Entwistle. I’m a reporter with the Reporter and I was wondering if you could tell me anything about Mr. McKenzie….”

He looked her up and down. “Where are ye from,” he said, with a pronounced brogue.

“Crewe. It’s in the…”

“I know where it is,” he said brusquely. “You’ve all been here already. Let the poor man rest already.”

“I understand that Mr. O’Hanlon and I agree. I’m trying to,” and she thought for a second, “restore some dignity to him. Not just let him be a punchline. And the only way I can do that is by showing people who he really was.”

He looked her up and down, not in a sexual manner. More in the manner of someone appraising her to determine whether she was telling the truth. “What is it you want to know?”

“What was he like? Did he have family? Friends? Friendly?”

He put his hands on the desk. “He was fine. Always said hello. Came down to the Christmas parties. Asked after my son. He’s an electrical engineer,” he said, proudly.

“That’s wonderful,” she said. “You should be proud.”

“I am. My daughter’s a nurse. All my wife’s doing.”

She smiled gently. “I’m sure not. What else can you tell me about Mr. McKenzie? Friends? Family?”

“I’ve been here twenty three years this past October. He moved in right after I did, just out of college, I think. He had friends early on that would come over. They’d go over to what’s now Joshua Tree on Third to watch football. Haven’t seen them in a long time though.”

“What happened?” If something happened, he’d know.

“The usual. You’d start seeing a guy come around with a girlfriend. Then you’d see Mr. McKenzie going to weddings and then that guy stops coming around. Then they all stopped coming around.”

She shuddered. “Family?”

“Never saw any.”

“Did he have girlfriends? Boyfriends?”

He laughed sadly. “Neither and I’ve covered every shift here. Just cats.”

“If you had to pick a word to describe him, what would it be?”

He paused, for a second and drummed his fingers on the desk. “Alone.”

“Lonely?” She tapped her pen on her pad.

“Not lonely. Alone. He was alone. Just him.”

---

“Is that your Belle & Sebastian t-shirt?”

Esme and Freya were fighting over the bathroom mirror. It was Saturday morning. They had propped the window open to save the AC from collapsing. The bathroom looked out onto an air shaft. They could hear the noises from the other flats echoing around.

“Uh, huh,” Esme examined a spot on her neck.

“Haven’t you had it for, like years and years?”

“I didn’t get the chance to do a wash,” she lied.

“You could borrow my pinstripe chambray shirt if you like? It’d go well with your black skinny jeans.”

“Don’t be daft,” she tried to squeeze her spot, wincing as it burst, “I’d boil. And I told you I wasn’t going to make an effort for Jay..”

“I didn’t ask you to wear a dress.” Esme recognised the tone of voice, she was in trouble. “Besides, who said it was for Jay?” she said, with a smile. “But you did say you’d make an effort for Jason.”

Esme sighed. She examined the t-shirt. She bought it after going to one of their after show DJ sets at the Star and Garter, back when she was an undergrad in Manchester. There were many faded stains. Each a campaign medal for a night out in her twenties.

Freya stood in the doorway, holding the shirt and jeans. “Fine,” Esme said, taking the clothes and shooting her friend a suspicious look. “This is for you, not for some boy.”

Fifteen minutes, they arrived at the restaurant. Esme saw Jason first. He was standing at the bar. He was dressed in a short-sleeved button down shirt and cargo shorts, the look of boring white 30-something straight men in Brooklyn. She still couldn’t understand what Freya saw him, but she envied him his coolness. Not style, temperature. She hated wearing dresses but wondered whether this was a deeply held principle or stubbornness. She had resolved to be nice, for Freya’s sake. “Hi, Jason,” she said, with a smile.

“Oh, hey, Esme. Good to see you. Hi, honey,” he said, giving Freya a kiss. “I already checked in. They’ll seat us once the fourth gets here. Who is it again?”

Freya smiled. “Jay, he’s a photographer at the paper.”

Jason looked at Esme and smiled. “Are you two…”

“No,” she said, a little too forcefully. She tried to soften her tone, to no avail. “I mean, he overheard us talking and Freya invited him. Right, Freya?” Freya just smirked. Bitch.

Jason held up two fingers and called over the bartender. “Bellinis?” he asked, looking at the two women.

Freya said, “Sure.”

Esme said, “Lovely.” She wondered if it was too early for a double Scotch. Freya and Jason started talking about their new place and looking for a couch after brunch. The domesticity bored Esme to tears and she tuned out, offering only the occasional, ‘hm?’ and ‘is that so?’ It seemed to placate them. Ten minutes later, she saw Jay walk in. He was wearing jeans, the sort that were so artfully worn that you knew that they came that way, and a blue button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She thought she could see the fold lines, as if he just bought it. And, of course, his sunglasses. His infernal sunglasses. “Oh, look, Jay is here.”

He came over and gave Freya a kiss. “Hey, Freya.” He looked at Esme, as if to decide whether he should kiss her. She hoped he wouldn’t. He smiled - and did. “Esme.”

She glared at him, “Jay.” He grinned.

“Jason, this is Jay. He’s a photographer at the paper,” Freya said, with a smile. “Jay, this is my boyfriend Jason.” She had a bubbly tone that made Esme wonder what happened to her friend from J-School. When had she been replaced by this...girl? This girl who talked about couches?

Jay reached out first, and shook Jason’s hand. “Great to meet you,” he said. “Freya’s terrific. A great editor. So, are you a journalist too?” Ah, the ‘what do you do?’ question. It was more polite, she supposed, than ‘how much do you make’ or ‘do you do something I should care about’ or, at bottom, ‘am I more important than you?’

Jason laughed. “Digital media strategies,” he said. “OK, that sounds pretentious. I help companies with social media.”

Jay laughed, “Headed to Washington any time soon?”

Jason smiled, “I’m not that good.”

Freya looped her arm through his. “Yes, you are.” Esme wanted to vomit at her friend’s sudden passivity. “Oh, the hostess is calling us over.” Thank god, Esme thought, I can’t stomach this.

Freya and Jason walked ahead. Jay looked at Esme, “I wouldn’t have picked you for a Bellini type of woman.”

“I’m not,” she said, “but it’s early for vodka.”

They went to the table and the hostess said, “Have you been here before? Our specialty is Nashville-style hot chicken. We make it differently though. We dredge the chicken in Ghost Pepper flour as opposed to sauce…”

Jay said, “Then, it’s not really Nashville-style.” He looked at everyone and said, “Real Nashville-style is coated in sauce….”

“She was speaking, Jay,” Esme said curtly. “Please continue.”

The waitress smiled and looked from Esme to Jay and back again. “While it’s not the traditional Nashville style,” she said, “we think you’ll like it anyway. Can I get anyone a drink?”

Jason and Freya held up their glasses and said, “We’re OK.”

Esme looked at her glass, which was now half full. “Top this off, please.” This was going to be a long meal and she needed to fortify herself.

Jay said, “What do you have on tap?” Oh god, Esme thought, on top of it all, he’s a beer arsehole. One of the sorts who felt the overwhelming need to listen to the entire list and order something pretentious, to ask about how it was brewed and the oaken undertones and raspberry overtones. Wine snobs were bad enough. Beer snobs were worse. What happened to just drinking? She tuned back in to hear him say, “Mad River sounds great. It’s a little hot for a milk stout.”

“So, Jason, tell us about digital media strategies. What should we be doing to increase our digital footprints or whatever it is we should be calling it?” Esme couldn’t decide whether Jay was being sarcastic or genuine. Jason seemed unaware, as he often did, and went off on how they needed to not just tweet, but maximize the use of 140 characters and how everyone was ‘migrating from Facebook,’ like they were geese or lemmings. She felt her phone buzz and wondered whether it was Sheriff Rees again. After a long night of agonizing, she had left him a message. When she left Crewe, she tried to put everything out of her mind but she had a vision of another boy wondering what was happening to him and why no one believed him.

She tuned back in to hear Jason ask, “So where are you from, Jay?” Esme realized that no one was ever from New York. She was from England. Freya was from Charlotte, North Carolina. Jason was from, well, a J. Crew catalog or a television program or something.

Jay laughed, “Uniontown, PA,” he said, pronouncing it, ‘pee-yay.’ “About fifty miles southeast of Pittsburgh.”

“Is that near Seven Springs?” Jason asked. Esme didn’t ask but Jason said to her and Freya anyway. “It’s a ski resort. I went there with Pete.”

Freya said to Esme, “That’s his college roommate.” Funny, Esme thought, I didn’t ask nor do I care. She took a long sip of her drink and said, ‘interesting.’

Jay laughed, “Right nearby. I worked there in high school, running the tow line for the bunny slopes. That was a fun job,” he said, with what Esme would have sworn was an unironic smile. Freya said, ‘I’m sure.’

“Pens fan?” Jason said.

Jay smiled, “I still have my 1992 Stanley Cup giveaway shirt from the Giant Eagle,” which he pronounced ‘Iggle.’ “Can’t wait for Sunday.”

“Excuse my ignorance, but what’s a Pen?” Esme said.

“Pittsburgh Penguins. Hockey,” Jay said.

“Is that what you were watching the other day at the bar?”

“Yup,” he said, happily.

“I wouldn’t have guessed you a sports fan, certainly not something as mainstream as hockey.”

He smirked. “So much for your journalistic intuition then. So, where are you from, Esme?”

“Crewe.”

“Which is where,” he said, goading her.

“South of Manchester. Southeast of Liverpool.”

“And what do they do in Crewe,” he said, teasing her while Jason and Freya laughed.

“Trains, and they made Rolls Royces, Bentleys only now,” she said, bracing herself for the inevitable question that everyone in America asked.

Jason said it first, Freya knowing not to ask. “Did you have one?”

Esme smiled, a bored smile. She had promised to be nice. “I wish. The employee discount wasn’t that good.”

“Your old man worked for the company?” Jay said.

“Yes. He was an engineer. So was my grandfather.”

“No kidding. My father worked at the Volkswagen plant, in New Stanton, from 78 to 87. Until they closed it.” His tone seemed sad.

“What did he do after that?”

“Stuff. Odd jobs. Eventually he died.” He looked away from her. She could see the brown freckles on his neck.

Esme said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Well, what can you do,” he said, picking up his menu. “Let’s see what there is to eat here.”

The waitress came and took their orders.

“The Big Jim Cade. Make the chicken extra-hot. I can handle it. And the eggs over easy.” Jay said. Esme looked at the menu. He had ordered fried chicken, French toast, eggs and grits.

“Bloody hell, Jay. Are you going to work out after this?” He smiled and she continued, “I’ll have the french toast and a side order of fried green tomatoes,” she said.

Freya laughed. “Have you ever eaten a fried green tomahto?” she said, imitating her accent.

“I will be fine.”

Jason and Freya ordered. Fried chicken and french toast, which, they ‘were going to split.’ Esme shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She could have sworn Jay gave her a raised eyebrow.

Jason said, “So what were you saying about the chicken?”

“So, as I was saying before, before my brunch companion here,” and he smirked at Esme, “interrupted me, real Nashville style hot chicken is dipped in sauce…”

“Fine, so it’s not authentic,” Esme snapped. Freya glared at her. She’d hear about this later. If Freya came home.

Jay seemed unperturbed. “Well, anyway, I’m there on assignment and my reporter says, ‘we have to try this place, Prince’s. Everyone keeps talking about the hot chicken. I figure I like spicy food so I’m in. We get there and there’s like an hour line but we have no place to be and everyone keeps talking about it, so we wait. So, we get to the front and I say, ‘I want it extra hot. Hot as you can make it.’ The woman behind the counter, big black lady, everyone behind the counter is black and they all look at me, says, real slowly, ‘white folks can’t have that. Too hot.’ Now I want to complain how that’s racist but she looks at my reporter, who’s black, and says, ‘you can if you stupid like him.’ He looks at me and then her and says, ‘make his white boy extra hot’ and mine what he wants.’ I’m thinking I can handle spicy food. I’ve eaten Thai in Thailand.”

‘Of course, you have,’ thought Esme.

“So, we get the chicken and I take a bite and it is maybe the hottest thing I have ever eaten. I am tearing. I am sweating. I am in pain. Everyone is looking at me, but I am not going to give in, right, Jason?” Jason nodded. “So, I choke down a piece. I don’t even know what I’m eating. Could be fried shoe for all I taste. My reporter gets me a glass of milk and I gulp that down. But I am still in pain. I go to wipe my eyes. Know what happens when you wipe your eyes after eating hot chicken, Esme?”

“No, what?” she said, not caring.

“So, now my eyes are burning. I’m afraid I’m going to go blind and how am I going to work? So I go into the bathroom and now I have to pee. And I touch myself and…” Jason and Freya laughed, as did she, in spite of herself. “Well, anyway, that’s how come this isn’t Nashville-style,” he said, taking a sip of his beer.

They chatted until brunch came, Jason and Jay discussing sports. Apparently, they were both baseball fans, and made plans to see “the Mets when the Pirates were in.”

“Are you a Man U or Man City fan?” Jay asked. He’d heard of City?

Esme thought back to her childhood, before everything. She remembered going to matches with her father, wearing her scarf. “God forbid. Liverpool,” she said, laughing. “Man U are wankers.”

“Well, now, I’ve learned something about you. Jamie Carragher fan?”

“How in the hell would you know who Jamie Carragher is?” She was genuinely surprised. He had been her favorite when she was younger.

“I did a report on soccer for school when I was a kid. My dad was a Beatles fan, so I picked Liverpool.”

“Hm,” she said, not out of boredom but out of shock.

Freya excused herself to use the bathroom and, as expected, asked Esme to join her. “See, he’s not so bad,” she said.

“Would you please stop?”

“If you say he’s not so bad, I will,” she teased.

“No. Fine. But not another word,” she said, with a small smile.

“Fine,” Freya smiled triumphantly. “By the way, the article reads brilliantly.” Esme had interviewed his neighbors, his former employer and even a bartender who had been at the Joshua Tree ‘since three places ago,’ who remembered McKenzie when he saw the picture. He had just said, ‘eventually, they all marry out or age out. Otherwise, you become the old barfly scaring the kids.’ “You really made him human.”

“He was human,” Esme said, a little too forcefully. “Sorry. Let’s go back.”

The food was there when they arrived. Jay had a huge plate in front of him. “Want to try some chicken?” he asked her.

She looked at the plate, then him. “Think you can spare some?” He cut off a piece and gave it to her.

“Bloody fuck,” she said, gasping. “This is painful,” she said, taking a gulp of her drink and then some water. She regained composure. “How is it compared to your vaunted Nashville chicken?”

He laughed. “Not as bad. Which is good,” he said. “I can taste this. How’s your tomahto?”

“Fine,” she said, “have some. I won’t eat it all.”

“My mom would tell you to eat more,” he said. “No meat on you.”

“Well, if she were here, I would. She’s not. Have some.”

They finished brunch and Freya and Jason said their goodbyes, walking off hand in hand.

“They seem happy,” Jay said, watching them walk away.

“I suppose,” she said.

“You don’t get them, do you?” he said.

Esme debated whether to respond. Whether whatever she said would get back to Freya and put her friendship at risk. She went with, “If she’s happy, I’m happy for her.”

He grinned, “He’s not who you’d choose.”

“Thankfully, I’m not choosing him. Or anyone.” Well, she thought, that was utterly useless.

He smiled, “Would you like to go get a real drink?”

She smiled, her first real smile of the afternoon. “Yes please.”

They went to a bar on Marcus Garvey, near the Medical Center. It was busy with people in scrubs, drinking away what they saw on shift. She got a table while Jay went to get their drinks. He came back with a gin and tonic for her, and a beer for himself. He held up the glass. “Cheers,” he said, tapping her glass.

“Do you know where that comes from?”

“No, where?” he said.

“In medieval England, knights were afraid of being poisoned, so they’d click chalices so that liquid from everyone’s chalice would go into everyone else’s. If it was poisoned, everyone would be poisoned.”

“Huh,” he said, with a smile. “Learn something new every day. So why do you hate Jason?”

“I don’t hate him. Not at all. He’s just….”

“Dull?” he said, with a smile. She looked down. “He’s not dull. He’s just a regular guy. They don’t have regular guys in Crewe?”

She smiled. “They do. And you’ll notice I’m not in Crewe. Seriously, I don’t not like him. I just think…”

“That’s who she is. She likes him. He likes her. They like couches, apparently.” They had spent ten minutes discussing couches and where they were going after brunch.

She laughed. “He seemed genuinely excited about couch shopping.”

He laughed, “He’s genuinely excited about sleeping with her. If they’re still together in five years, she’ll be waving the iPad or whatever in his face begging him to offer an opinion.”

She decided to tease him, “Going couch shopping soon, Jay?”

He smiled and sipped his beer. “Hardly. Not my speed. You?”

“I’m fine with the couch I have, thanks.” Just then, her phone buzzed. It was Sheriff Rees. “Excuse me for a moment, I have to take this.” She walked away from the table. After a minute, she borrowed a napkin and pen from the bartender and began taking notes. Ten minutes later, she returned. “Apologies.”

“Everything OK?” he said with genuine concern. “That a source or something.”

“Or something,” she said. She paused. “Do you know where Cambria County, Pennsylvania is?”

He looked at her. “Yeah, that’s near where I’m from. Why?”

She started to say something then paused, wondering whether he could be trusted. She decided not to lie, but to elide the truth. “When I was back in England, I had covered a story about something called Late Onset Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome. Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome is when you have a genetic male, XY chromosomes and all, but his body is resistant to male hormones so he presents as female.”

“Wow,” he said. She was impressed that he didn’t snicker or say ‘that’s weird.’

“Well, anyway, in rare cases, it can appear around puberty. Previously male children start to appear female. Hence, Late Onset.”

“Like the reed frogs.”

“What?”

“We talked about it the other day. When there’s an imbalance, they change genders.”

“Well, I don’t think this is some sort of evolutionary thing.” She snapped.

“I didn’t mean that it was,” He said apologetically. “It’s just...Jesus, I can’t imagine that. You?”

‘Why yes. Yes I can,’ she thought. “Well, anyway, I had covered a story about in England.” ‘First person,’ she thought, which she decided was like covering it. “Anyway, the sheriff out there called me. Apparently, they had a case and there’s been some harassment of the poor...child and he was doing research and found my story. So, he was calling me.”

“Poor kid. Now you know why I left. Wanted to get away from that.”

“Me too,” she said, leaving hanging what ‘that’ was exactly. “Anyway, I want to get out there and see what’s going on. How would I go about that?”

“Drive is your best bet.”

“I don’t have my license.”

“Seriously?” he said, with amusement.

“Seriously. We have public transport in England. And here I can take the train everywhere.”

“Well, out there you can’t. If you can’t drive, your next best bet is to fly to Pittsburgh and take a bus to Johnstown. And then you’ll be S.O.L, or,” and he smiled. “I can drive you.”

She seemed surprised. “Really?”

“Really,” he said. “There’s a story here. There’s something going on. I mean, assuming this kid isn’t just trans and making up a story….”

“He’s not,” she snapped. “Or should I say she. Either way, it’s real.”

He looked at her. “I didn’t mean in that way. I don’t doubt it. I just meant that, if there’s tests and all confirming it, there’s something here. And I’d like to be part of it. Also, you’ll need a guide to the wilds of Western Pee-Yay.”

“Ah, someone who speaks the language, knows the customs, all that,” she said, laughing.

“Exactly, madame,” he said, bowing. “How are you going to pitch this? Get MM to agree?”

“Ah shit,” she said. “He’s not interested in this sort of thing, is he?”

In a passable imitation of MM, Jay said, “Who gives a fuck about Pennsylvania? When a kid in Brooklyn has it, then I’ll listen.”

They sat in the bar for about an hour, bouncing around different ideas. Eventually, they hit on ‘Trump says he’s the president of Pittsburgh, not Paris.’ Let’s go visit Trump country to see what the people think. Esme looked at her phone and saw that Cambria had gone for Trump and was the sort of former steel town that was the perfect setting for a story about whether the people believed Trump’s promises. She knew that New Yorkers liked to believe that they were smarter than everyone else. The hook for bringing Jay was that he knew the territory. Besides, he said, ‘MM loves me.’ If you had asked her yesterday, she would have found that insufferable. Now, she realized it was true and, as much as it pained her, she needed him.

As they left the bar, she realized something else. She had barely finished her one drink. “See you tomorrow,” she said.

“Hasta mañana,” he said, offering his hand.