Carmen Morales is a twenty-nine-year-old transwoman who works for an insurance broker in Orange County while attending law school at night. She and her two roommates, Lourdes and Katie, are having a celebratory dinner when she learns that her father has had a stroke and is in a coma. Her Grandmother – “Abuela” – insists that she return to help her father, and, later, apply to become a conservator until he can look after himself.

Over the course of several weeks, Carmen makes four trips to Buttonwillow. She applies to be a temporary conservator only, and after a thorough investigation by Andar Kasparian, an attorney appointed by the probate court, the application is granted. She immediately works to put her padre’s finances in order and to get him signed up for assistance programs. In the process, she discovers that padre took $150,000 out of the equity in his house five years before.

Over multiple trips to Buttonwillow , Carmen reconnects with family and other people she grew up with, including her brother Joaquim (“Ximo”) and her cousins Kelsey and Inés (“Innie”). Kelsey’s abusive boyfriend makes a pass at Carmen, which causes a rupture between him and Kelsey and leads to a domestic violence incident and criminal charges. While out on parole pending trial, Dace slashes Carmen’s tires and tries to catch her alone at her hotel.

In Chapter 29, Carmen agrees to meet Kasparian for dinner when she is next in town, though she hasn’t thought through her feelings toward him. In a discussion with Abuela, she comes closer to confirming what had happened to padre’s $150,000. Finally, she joins two sheriffs at a shooting range and confronts some old demons.

For a refresher on Carmen’s family tree, see this post.

Chapter 30: On Hold

“Yes, I’ll hold,” I told the woman with the nasal voice, wishing I could ask her to spare me the music. No such luck, of course. Katie was so right about ‘music on hold,’ which she described as “all your favorite tunes, castrated.”

At least my workstation had a hands-free headset and microphone for calls, so I was able to keep working on my analysis of competing health insurance proposals for one of my boss’s biggest clients. We were meeting with them in just a week, and we needed our presentation to be perfect. That’s why Dwayne had given me advanced approval to come into the office over the coming weekend. The opportunity to bank some comp time was a godsend.

I’d been fortunate. So far, I had only needed to use my sole remaining PL day and half a day of accrued sick leave on my trips to Buttonwillow; the rest of the time I’d been spending comp time that Dwayne had approved without any hassle.

A saccharine instrumental version of Haters Gonna Hate gave way to a man’s voice, gruff and no-nonsense. “This is Denis McNeal.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. McNeal,” I said, after double-checking my monitor to make sure it was, indeed, after the noon hour. “My name is Carmen Morales, and I’m the conservator for my father, Juan Morales. Rocket has the 2019 mortgage on his house in Buttonwillow, California.”

“Yes,” he responded. “My assistant pulled the file. Is there an issue?”

“Not with payments,” I assured him. “But I haven’t been able to confirm where the money from the transaction went at the time the transaction closed. I do know that it wasn’t paid to his bank account.”

“And you are trying to locate his assets?” He sounded reassured.

“That’s right.”

“I’ll need to see a copy of your order of appointment, as well as proof of identification.”

I managed not to groan. “It should be in your file. I sent both to the second . . . no, sorry – the third person I spoke with after I called the existing accounts line.”

“Oh. Sorry, let me just . . . .” He had the grace to sound a bit embarrassed. “Yes, here they are. Can you confirm the last four digits of your social?”

I did so. Again.

“Okay, good. Thank you,” he replied. “Give me a moment, please. That should be in our records.”

He put me back on hold. The music had switched to something else – something equally sweet – but which I didn’t recognize.

Fortunately, he wasn’t long. “Ms. Morales? Sorry to keep you waiting. Your father received a bank check made out to the Clerk of the California Superior Court in Bakersfield. There is an escrow account number on the canceled check as well.”

I nodded; after my last conversation with Abuela, it was what I had assumed I would find. “Thank you. Would it be possible to get a copy of the canceled check for my records? I’m in the process of applying for state health insurance assistance for my father.”

He agreed readily, and it was a huge relief when the pig hit my email. The whole issue had gone from “nice to know” to “need to know, right now,” because I’d gotten a call from Medi-Cal asking about the whole refinance issue. I needed to give them more than speculation, and now I had at least some of the receipts. I still had to get confirmation from the Court that the funds deposited in the escrow account had been spent.

But that would have to wait. What with the transfers between agents who all asked for the same information, and the holds that followed each conversation, I’d already used up Wednesday’s lunch break.

“How you be, Carmen?” Sally Curtis gave me her usual smile as she passed my cubicle to take the snail mail out to the post box.

I shook my head. “Just livin’ the dream, Sally.”

~o~O~o~

A day and a half later, I guess I could really claim to be living the California dream. Lourdes was having some trouble with her moped, so Katie had dropped her off at work and I’d told her I would pick her up. But she’d been asked to stay an hour after closing to help with inventory, so I’d taken the opportunity to wander down to Corona Del Mar State Beach Park.

My gym bag – barely used in the month since my world was turned upside down and my life put on hold – yielded a pair of reasonably modest cinnamon-colored running shorts and an olive green sports cami, so I was able to ditch my work clothes and enjoy a rare moment of peace.

Brown sugar sand crumbled delightfully between my toes as I walked along, and light evening breezes teased my hair, tickling the base of my neck. It was one of those perfect summer evenings – fair skies, light winds, temperature in the low ’70’s. A few surfers were trying their luck, though there were more people on boogie boards, or just goofing around in the water and on the beach. All the public barbecues were in use, sending tendrils of mouth-watering smells to torment those – like me – who hadn’t had dinner.

How different it was from Buttonwillow! Lots more Anglos, just for starters. That tended to go along with money, and people who lived close to the water needed plenty of scratch. But it was a state beach, so the usual SoCal tapestry of humanity was present in good numbers. Black, White, Asian, Hispanic – it didn’t matter. Everyone loved the beach.

I found an empty spot not far from a group of bears with beers and sat, facing the water. My limited experience with bears was all positive; not only were they unlikely to harass a single woman by herself, they’d probably even discourage stray cis-het weys from doing so. I made a point of saying good evening and smiling as I passed them, and their returning smiles were genuine. Nothing else needed to be said.

Funny . . . when I came south eleven years before, I’d never even heard of bears. All I knew was that there were “normal” people, and then there was “everyone else.” I knew a couple girls in high school who would make out together at parties (well – I’d heard about it, afterwards), but everyone kind of knew they were just putting on a show. None of the guys admitted to being gay – much less trans. It didn’t matter, since chavos have an uncanny ability to recognize – and ostracize – people like me who weren’t quite within the norm. My life was infinitely better, and richer, here.

Sunshine shimmered on the waves and I was glad of my big, Hollywood sunglasses. I bent my knees and leaned forward to wrap my arms around them, letting the peace of the evening wash away the worries of the day.

My mind turned to my family’s problems, which seemed to be my default setting these days. Kels was settling in at Uncle Augui’s house. The police still hadn’t caught Dace, but she’d gone back to work anyway, saying that he’d never bothered to learn her schedule. I understood the need to get back to her life, but . . . I still worried.

Innie had ducked my calls, which probably meant that her date with Diego had gone well. I was going to have to convince her, somehow, that I would be more hurt by being ghosted than by knowing she was falling for my old crush. Assuming that’s what was going on.

I watched gulls soaring over the sand, silent and graceful, looking for opportunities, and thought about Diego. He hadn’t lost any of his presence – he’d been a natural leader when we were kids – and he seemed to have shed the adolescent insecurities that had caused him to turn on me in high school. Yet, while I had to own up to a few pangs of jealousy that Innie had caught his eye when I’d never been able to, I felt no attraction to him anymore.

It was interesting to compare him to Andar Kasparian. They were both good looking, though each strongly reflected their respective ethnic heritages. Both were smart, too, though the lawyer naturally had the book-learning Diego had skipped. Maybe that’s why I found it easier to talk with Kasparian. But it was also true that our conversation was unburdened by old memories.

Not that any of it mattered, of course. I certainly wasn’t going to go getting involved with someone from Kern County! I put the good looking Armenian firmly out of my mind and resolutely turned my thoughts to padre.

I wanted the comp claim, SSDI and above all, the Medi-Cal application, resolved before my term as conservator was finished. The first two were more-or-less on track, but would probably take one or two more weeks to approve. I had scheduled an in-person appointment with the State Department of Social Services for Friday the 26th to discuss the Medi-Cal application, and I was confident I would have the documentation they would need concerning padre’s mortgage refinance, though I would need to get the Court’s escrow records in person.

Everything seemed to require multiple phone calls, and establishing my credentials even if I’d already done it numerous times. It all took longer than I hoped, but it was still progress.

I dug my feet into the still-moist sand, seeking the buried layer that had not been warmed by the afternoon sun. Sun on my face; wind in my hair. Life is good.

Of course, that’s when my phone went off. It was too much to hope that I would get an entire hour to simply sit with my own thoughts and enjoy the sunset! The distinctive chirp indicated it was a FaceTime call; when the screen lit up I saw it was Ximo.

I smiled and accepted the call. “Hey, ’mano. ¿Qué onda?”

He was sitting in the shade by the fence at padre’s house. When he saw me, his eyes lit up and he returned my smile with interest. “Look at you! Lounging out at the beach? Nice life, ’mana!”

“It is,” I agreed. “Though I don’t get down here nearly as often as I should. So, what’s happ’nin’ with you?”

“I went to see padre today.” He shrugged an acknowledgment of my raised eyebrow. “I figured I’d better start if I’m going to be taking over your job in a couple weeks, and I had the day off since I worked last weekend.”

I decided not to rib him about it; I was ecstatic that he didn’t need any prodding to step up where padre was concerned. But anything I said along those lines would probably sound condescending, so I just asked, “How is he?”

“Señor Cortez was there when I showed up, reading something to him. We got to talking . . . he’s actually an okay dude, you know?”

I gave an unladylike snort. “Yeah, I know. I did try to tell you that, if you remember.”

He waved that away. “Yeah, whatever. Anyhow, I got him talking about padre and momma, and just like you said, padre’s eyes came open. I’d swear he was paying attention to every word. Cortez thought so, too.”

“It does seem to reach him like nothing else.”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “It made me really pissed, though, know what I mean? Like, he still cares about her and all, and she’s all over him. On to the next guy.”

“It has been twenty years,” I cautioned.

“Yeah, well . . . .” He paused, looked at me, then looked away.

Something was up. “Well, what?”

“You didn’t write her back, did you?”

“No. I meant to.” I shook my head, feeling both guilty and conflicted. I’d actually started emails to her; I’d lost count of the number of drafts. Some were angry and accusatory. Strident. Some were understanding. A couple were conciliatory; others, demanding. One was even sappy, which I mostly attributed to too much wine late one evening after a long day at the office. But I never got more than half way through any of them before hitting ‘delete’ in baffled frustration. “I just wasn’t sure what to say.”

Again he nodded, like he expected my answer. “I called her.”

“You did???”

“Yeah . . . it really bugged me, Carmen. The whole thing. And I just let her have it, for like twenty minutes straight.”

Wow. Did not see THAT coming. “How did she take it?”

“She cried. A lot. Said she was sorry, you know? Over and over again.”

“You don’t sound impressed.”

His image jerked, like he’d made an abrupt gesture with the hand that was holding the phone. “’Cuz it don’t mean shit. Know what I’m sayin’? Being ‘sorry’ doesn’t fix anything. Does fuck all for padre, that’s for sure.”

“I’m guessing you told her that?”

“Fuckin’ A, I did,” he growled. “Right before I hung up on her.”

I gazed at his image for a few heartbeats, trying to see behind the bluster. “Did it help any? Do you feel any better?” I asked it straight, without any irony. I genuinely wanted to know.

“I did,” he answered, before shrugging and giving me a wry smile that made him look older. “Not so much now.”

Well, damn. I guess that’s not a winning strategy. “I’m still glad you were able to be honest with her. It’s more than I’ve managed, for sure.”

“What would you say to her . . . if you were being honest?” He, too, simply sounded curious.

“I wish I knew,” I confessed. “Sometimes I’m as mad as you were. For us, and for padre. Other times, I’m sad for her, too. I do think she was torn up about leaving us. And I might be reading between the lines, but I got the impression becoming ‘Mrs. Doody’ was more a matter of practicality than any great love story. The whole situation’s completely fucked up.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he agreed, sounding less than convinced.

“Not much we can do about it, anyway,” I said. “Other than try real hard to do better than either one of them.”

“Amen to that,” he agreed.

“Speaking of which . . . what’s the word? Did you call Sherilynn?”

It was like a cloud lifted and his expression changed completely. The brooding anger was replaced in a heartbeat, and he looked hopeful, eager, abashed and nervous, all at the same time. “Yeah! She, uh . . . she was, like, interested, know what I mean? There’s one of those pop-up fairs in East Bakersfield. Bumper cars and Ferris Wheels and like that . . . so. Yeah. We’re goin’ tomorrow night!” He grinned. “We’re goin’!”

His enthusiasm was infectious. “Go, bro!”

He beamed back at me, but then the nervousness won out. “So, uhh . . . when you told me I oughta shave off the beard and the ’stache? . . . Were you just teasing?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer that in a way that wasn’t insulting. “Ummmm . . . .”

He sighed. “Fuck. Cortez said the same thing.”

Wow, he’s smitten! “You asked señor Cortez???”

“Yeah.” He sounded like he regretted it. “He said that facial hair – when it’s ‘thin!’ – makes a young man look younger and an old man, older. Or something like that.”

“Sorry, ’mano,” I sympathized.

“Thin! Took me two pinche years to grow this!”

“Maybe try again in a few years?”

“Big help you are,” he grumbled.

But it was good-natured grumbling. We talked for a bit longer, and I kept him talking while I got up, waved my silent thanks to the bears, and walked back to my trusty Kia. After we signed off I headed toward Fashion Island to pick up Lourdes.

I’d really wanted a quiet hour on the beach to be alone with my own thoughts. But having a little brother again?

That was even better.

~o~O~o~

“Yes, I’ll hold.” I tried to keep the sigh from my tone.

After two minutes of the piano line of some song from the Dark Ages – Beatles? Ink Spots? Village People? – a crisp female voice came on the line. “Ms. Morales? This is Audrey Burns. Thanks for calling me back so quickly.”

“No problem; I’m delighted to help.”

She chuckled dutifully. “Eager to pass the baton?”

“Yes and no,” I said honestly. “I’d really like to have all of the big financial issues settled before my term as conservator is up, but I need to have this off my plate before classes start up in a month.”

“I can understand that,” she said, sounding sympathetic. “So, you’ve been through the drill already. I need to ask you about your brother, and whether he’s an appropriate choice to act as conservator. What are your thoughts? I know you haven’t seen much of him since he was a teenager.”

“Since we both were,” I amended. “And I didn’t know what to expect, when I saw him again. But having spent some time with him this past month, he’s an outstanding choice.”

“Tell me why,” she urged.

“Because he’s loyal to his family. Because he listens to people, but makes his own decisions. And he’s got a big heart.”

“He’s got no training in looking after invalids,” she said, pushing back. “And he doesn’t have your experience in financial matters.”

I wasn’t offended by her criticisms; I knew it was her job to probe. “The more important thing, though, is that he’ll be a strong advocate for padre while he’s recovering from the stroke. If he runs into issues he’s unsure about, he’s not so stubborn that he won’t ask for advice or help. From me, for sure, but also from other members of the family, or from social services.”

“You don’t think he’s too young?”

“No.” I knew this would be a key issue; Ximo was only 25 and he’d never even moved out of padre’s house. I made sure my “no” was both strong and unequivocal. “He’s worked a tough job ever since he got out of high school. He’s taken care of himself for even longer; padre wasn’t some sort of helicopter parent, believe me! And, he’s really stepped up since padre’s stroke.”

“Can you give me specifics about that?”

“Sure. He’s handling all the household bills and paying half the mortgage on padre’s house. I’ve consulted with him about all of the steps I’ve taken as conservator” – ‘consulted’ was probably stretching the point, but not enough to make me feel guilty – “and, he’s been involved in all of the probate proceedings.”

“Alright. That’s very helpful,” she said after a brief pause. I assumed she was taking notes. “What can you tell me about his relationship with your father?”

“Not much,” I said cautiously. “Since I haven’t seen them interact since we were both teenagers. My padre . . . well. He’s not the easiest person to get along with.”

“I’d heard that,” she said diplomatically.

“Right.” I didn’t know how many relatives she’d already contacted, but at very least she would be familiar with Kasparian’s report for the temporary conservatorship petition. “Ximo – Joaquim, that is – is probably as close to him as anyone. They have lived in the same house for 25 years, and padre wouldn’t have hesitated to push him out if he didn’t get along with him.”

“I understand that he kicked you out of the house when you were seventeen?”

“Correct,” I said, my voice precise. “Which kind of proves the point. Also, for whatever it might be worth, padre did name Joaquim as his sole heir. He must trust him.”

“Might that cut both ways, though?” she probed. “It could be viewed as a conflict of interest.”

“Not remotely. Padre took all the equity out of the house five years ago; if he passes away, there’s no ‘estate’ to speak of.”

“I see,” she said thoughtfully. “How much did he take out, and where did it go?”

That was all new information, and she wouldn’t have it. “Apparently, he did it to help my Uncle Fernando pay a restitution order in connection with his conviction for armed robbery. The money’s all gone. I have confirmation from the mortgage company and I’m only waiting to confirm receipt from the court.”

She was silent for a moment – probably taking notes again – before responding. “It would be helpful if I could get a financial affidavit from you, as the current conservator, concerning your father’s current assets and liabilities. Would that be possible?”

“Of course. I’d planned to submit one to the Probate Court anyway, and I have almost everything I need already.”

“Great. That would be very helpful.”

We spoke for a few minutes more, but it was clear to me that she was going through the motions. Professionally and thoroughly – she seemed like that kind of person – but still. She didn’t see any impediment to Ximo taking on the job of conservator; all she had to do was paper the file. Ximo had no skeletons in his closet.

And unlike me, he had no dresses, either.

~o~O~o~

“Yes, I’ll hold.”

I’d gotten through the weekend, and the presentation was almost ready. Dwayne had reviewed it and was generally pleased, though there were some cosmetic changes to the slide deck he wanted me to incorporate. We’d been working hard to get everything ready, but he was very understanding about my occasional need to take personal phone calls concerning padre’s issues.

Doctor Chatterji’s melodious voice broke my reverie. “Carmen, how are you?”

“I’m good, Doctor.” I hadn’t spoken to her directly since we had discussed weaning padre off the ventilator just after my last visit, though I had daily reports from the nursing staff in the form of updates to his electronic chart. “What’s the news?”

“We are definitely seeing progress. It’s slow, but I would say also, steady. I’ve been very pleased with his response to the process of reducing the sedation medication and restoring his ability to breathe independently.”

That was definitely the impression I’d gotten from the daily’s, supplemented by my research through WebMD and Dr. Google, but I was very glad to hear it from the real doctor. “That’s fantastic news. Is he off the ventilator altogether?”

“Not yet. But I think in the course of this week we’ll be able to complete the process. You said you were planning to be up this weekend?”

“That’s right,” I confirmed.

“With luck, and continued progress, I think he may be off it entirely by the time you see him, then. But we can’t rush it. He’s been intubated for several weeks, and his body needs to adjust.”

“That’s fine,” I assured her. “If it takes longer, it takes longer. Any progress otherwise, on that, ah . . . “ My mind temporarily blanked. “The thing that measures coma recovery?”

“The one we discussed, I think, was the Glasgow Coma Scale.”

“Right. That one. Sorry!”

“You’re doing fine,” she soothed. “This is all new terrain for you. Of the three things the GSC assesses, his eye responses are now at four out of four. That is, he is opening his eyes on his own, AND in response to pressure, AND in response to a verbal prompt. Motor response is at three of six; he can flex and extend his muscles in response to pressure. The response on his left side is weaker, but that’s expected. He isn’t intentionally moving, though – not in response to pressure or verbal instructions, and not on his own. Finally, he’s still at a one of five on the verbal score. So far, he’s not making sounds or speaking.”

“My brother told me last week that he seemed to be aware of conversations around him, which matched what I experienced as well.”

“Yes, indeed,” she replied. I could almost see her nodding. “I think that’s very clear from everything we’re seeing. And I think it’s definitely helping that your family has been making visits.”

“Good. Good! So . . . what’s next? More of the same?”

“For now, yes. Once he’s breathing completely without a ventilator and we’re certain that he’s stable, though, we will be discharging him from the ICU and into a regular room.”

I’d never even thought about that. “Does that mean you won’t be in charge of him anymore?”

“No, Carmen. I’ll continue to monitor his care. But he won’t need the additional support that the ICU provides. The key is his ability to breathe independently, and so far that’s looking positive.”

“I can’t tell you what a relief that is – no offense to your colleagues!”

“None taken,” she assured me. “Do you have any other questions for me?”

I couldn’t think of any, so we ended the call.

The thought of padre being able to leave the ICU – the thought of seeing him breathing on his own! – put a bounce in my step for the rest of the day.

~o~O~o~

I swung by the massive Mercado Gonzalez in Costa Mesa, determined to get the best produce for tonight’s dinner. Katie had the meat covered – she had the touch when it came to the barbecue – and Lourdes was in charge of Margaritas and dessert. (Katie was mostly indifferent to Mexican cuisine, but Lourdes’ Margaritas were a major exception).

The different tomato varietals on offer were dizzying, but after some hemming and hawing I opted for the Camparis. The cukes were perfect, and as always the peppers were fresh and plentiful. Buttonwillow was obviously closer to the prime produce-growing region of California, but vegetables, like reporters and detectives, tend to follow the money.

Lourdes broke into a wide smile as soon as she saw my face, showing a row of flawless, pearly teeth. “It went well, didn’t it?”

I laughed; my tension over the prior week had maybe been showing more than I’d wanted it to. “Yeah, it was all good. The client is happy, so we’ve got their business for another year. That means Dwayne’s happy, too.”

“Even better! Now come on . . . give me a taste check on the Margaritas. I want them to be perfect for Katie!”

The success of my presentation was worth a drink, of course, but the real cause of our mid-week celebration was that Katie had just been promoted to be her firm’s head of IT — Lourdes and I got a mid-day blast from Katie with the good news. She planned to celebrate far more completely over the upcoming weekend, but I was going to be out of town for all of that. Tonight’s dinner was just a little appetizer for the main event.

Once I approved Lourdes’ always excellent Margarita, I got to work prepping the salad. I had the cucumber peeled and sliced, the tomatoes quartered, and half of the bell peppers sliced thin before Katie blew through the front door with a boisterous, “Booyeah, bitches, who da boss? Who da baaaad boss???”

Lourdes, who didn’t need to wash her hands first, was first to return her greeting. But when Katie got to the kitchen I gave her a bone-crushing hug and a beaming smile. “Congratulations, crazy girl!”

“Love you, too — but let me get that drink!”

I laughed and let her go, and soon we were all deep in tequila, triple sec and lime, laughing at Katie’s tall tale of the interview with the clueless managing partner while I finished making the salad.

“I mean, I know you want to be a lawyer and all, Carmen, but real talk, here. You’d save a shit-ton of cash just getting yourself a lobotomy. Here’s our managing partner — the dude who runs the whole frickin’ firm — and the only program he uses on his computer is email. Email! But somehow, he has to figure out if I’d do a good job running the IT department!”

“Not his fault tech’s obsolete in five years,” I said. “If he kept up with all that, he wouldn’t be practicing law.”

“He doesn’t practice now,” she countered. “He just, like, runs shit. Basically a glorified personnel coordinator.”

I finished chopping the vegetables and pulled out the Kalamata olives to add them.

“Oooh, fancy!” Katie quipped. “Doing a Greek salad?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I had a really good one at a place in Bakersfield last time I was up.”

“They have restaurants? In Bakersfield?” Katie grinned.

“They even use gen-u-ine silverware in some of them, if you can believe it.”

“You say so,” she said, sounding doubtful. “Let me get the grill started.”

We took our drinks out to the deck while Katie showed off her grilling skills. As she brushed on some of her home-made marinade, she said, “So, you’re up there again this weekend, right? And what’s after that?”

I nodded. “I’ve got an appointment with the Medi-Cal people on Friday afternoon. The day after tomorrow. But the probate court just scheduled the hearing on Ximo’s conservatorship application for a week from Monday. I absolutely have to be there for that, so I’ve got to be up this weekend and next weekend.”

“You think there’s going to be trouble?” Lourdes asked.

“Nah. The Judge extended my temporary conservatorship until she can rule on Ximo’s petition, but I think she’ll be fricking delighted to relieve me of my duties. I just need to be there to answer any questions about the current state of padre’s finances.”

“Admit it,” Katie laughed. “You think the judge is a tight-assed bitch, and you want to protect your little brother from her.”

“That, too,” I agreed. I thought about the call I’d gotten from him on Sunday, positively glowing about his evening with the dazzling, gorgeous, funny, and super-smart Sherilyn — that was the gist of it, anyway. Yeah, I was feeling pretty protective!

Katie gave Lourdes a sideways look and a wink. “You notice how she gets that goofy little smile on her face whenever Ximo comes up? Pure saccharine!”

“I think it’s adorable,” Lourdes said repressively.

“Yeah, but she’s talking about a little brother!”

“Alright, you two!” I chuckled. “But really — he’s okay, as brothers go. And I’ve kind of missed having one.”

The grilling took very little time, and all of us were relieved to be back in air conditioning. Soon we had both steak and salad served up.

“Andar was shitting me,” I said after a few bites of the salad. “He said real Greeks would only use unpitted olives, but these taste just the same!”

“So, it’s ‘Andar’ now?” Lourdes smiled in a way that let me know she wasn’t teasing. Just encouraging and supportive. “This is your Armenian friend?”

“Yeah . . . he, uhhm. He asked me out, next time I’m up. I think.”

“You think?” Katie radiated disbelief. “Girl, either he did, or he didn’t.”

“Well,” I temporized. “He just said he’d like to have dinner. It may not mean anything.”

“Dinner, right?” Katie pressed. “Not, ‘grab a bite?’ Not lunch, or a drink?”

“He definitely said ‘dinner.’”

“You’re hopeless! Yeah, girl. That’s a date. C’mon, you know that!”

“Katie’s right,” Lourdes said. “He’s certainly interested. But . . . are you?”

I snorted. “I’m trying to stay away from Bakersfield, remember?”

“Since you keep finding your way back here, I’m sure the freeway runs both ways,” Katie scoffed. “He could come here, too.”

“I get that,” I said, nettled that it hadn’t occurred to me. “But guys never think that way.”

“You’re avoiding the real question, Querida.” Even when she was chiding me, Lourdes was gentle. “Forget about what he might or might not be willing to do. Are you interested in him?”

I thought about that, but I already knew the answer, especially if you took godforsaken Bakersfield out of the equation. I’d been turning it over in my head for a week and a half, after all. I just didn’t know if I was brave enough to say it out loud.

I wasn’t too worried about getting teased or anything — even Katie’s teasing didn’t really bother me. No; I was more worried that I might become too invested in the possibility. Too hopeful. If you don’t get your hopes up, you can’t be disappointed. And maybe there was a trace of superstition as well — a fear of jinxing it.

But Lourdes and Katie had taken me in when I was just starting to transition medically, they had accepted me, and had shown me the ropes. Taught me how to function in the world as a woman. If I couldn’t share my hopes with them, what would that say about me?

They were both staring at me like I’d put them on hold to go consult my internal manager. I met their kind, laughing eyes with a rueful smile and a word that felt confessional.

“Yes.”

— To be continued

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