Chapter Fourteen

SHE DOESN’T KNOW how to do this.

Kissing, sure. She’s kissed people.

Curiosity and lust and even boredom are simple, familiar motivations, but this is something else. It’s not love, or at least Sydney’s pretty sure it isn’t love, not yet. But saying she likes Matts seems trite and laughable.

Like doesn’t even begin to cover all of the everything she feels when finally, finally , she’s allowed to slide her fingers into his ridiculous hair and know how it feels to catch his full bottom lip between her teeth.

He makes an aborted noise, soft and a little desperate in the back of his throat and pulls her closer, elbow hooked around her lower back, palm splayed on her ribs.

Upon further reflection, Sydney thinks that whatever is sitting like a roaring thing in her chest, bright and hot under his hand, may be uncomfortably close to love after all.

She doesn’t know what to do about it. Sydney doesn’t know how to kiss someone when it means something for her, and she needs it to mean something for them too. She doesn’t know how to touch him when it feels like every moment since the day they met has been leading up to this chance for something more, and now that they’re here, she can’t fuck it up.

Sydney’s never been almost in love before. She hasn’t let herself. Or maybe no one seemed worth the risk until Matts. Crushes are all fine and good, but love is dangerous. Love is giving someone, every day, an invitation to hurt you and hoping they don’t.

But she doesn’t think she can stop herself. Not when it’s right in front of her. Not when he’s right in front of her, and he’s holding her like he’s feeling the same mixture of fear and elation.

She might be projecting. She hopes she isn’t.

He kisses the side of her mouth, her cheek, her temple, her forehead.

He slides his hand up to cup the back of her skull and exhales, mostly in her hair.

“I have wanted to do that,” he says, “for so long.”

“Yeah? What took you so long?”

“Waiting for tenure.”

It takes Sydney a minute to understand the callback. To remember their first conversation when she’d been trying so hard to be flippant and probably succeeded too well. She’d joked that she fucked her friends, but only when they had tenure. She manages a shaky laugh, trying not to let him see what the implication does to her.

“Congratulations, Dr. Matthews,” she manages.

Sydney knew going into this that he wasn’t looking for a serious relationship, and he’s clearly still under the assumption that she isn’t either. That’s fine. That’s whatever. She can deal with that. Having any of him is more than she could have hoped for; she’s not going to get greedy before they’ve even started.

Matts seems to notice she’s gone maudlin.

He rubs his thumb against the hinge of her jaw. “I’m sorry about my dad.”

Not the reason, but sweet nonetheless.

“About what I expected.”

“I’m still sorry.”

She exhales. “I could have worn a shirt that didn’t show off so many tattoos.”

“I like that shirt.”

“You also like my tattoos.”

“I do. I’d like to see all of them,” he says carefully. “If that’s allowed now.”

“It is. But I need to not be in your father’s house the first time I get naked with you, and we’ll need to talk about some things. Even if that’s not particularly sexy. Sorry.”

“No. I want to make sure anything we do is good for you, and I—” He’s not one to flush, she’s noticed, but his cheeks are a pinker than normal. “I like direction.”

“ Do you?”

He grins. “I’ve been told I’m very coachable.”

“An admirable quality in both a professional athlete and in a paramour.”

“Paramour. I like that. Why did you say this was a terrible idea?”

“You mean besides that you’re a professional athlete, and I’m a professional musician, and our schedules alone are going to be hell to contend with. But also, if people find out you’re sleeping with a trans woman, they’re going to have shit to say about it. Experience tells me a lot of it won’t be kind. Oh, and we could ruin our friendship if this goes badly, and you’re one of my best friends, currently, so that would suck?”

“Yes,” he agrees, “besides all that.”

She sighs at him.

He sighs back louder.

“Too late, now, I guess,” Sydney says.

Matts looks pleased. “Kiss me again?” He asks it cautiously as if there’s the possibility she might say no.

She kisses him.

Eventually, they get in the bed because the wood floor is hard under their knees and the room is cold, and they have to wake up at the crack of dawn to move several hundred head of cattle multiple miles the following day.

Sydney ends up sprawled mostly on top of him, face tucked in his neck, and she takes a long, slow inhale to commit him to memory.

After her second deep breath, Matts wiggles a little underneath her.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Basking. Don’t interrupt.”

“Okay.” He sneaks a hand up her shirt. His palm is wide and warm and spans a good portion of her back. She knows it’s cliché as hell, but she loves how small he makes her feel.

“Do you want some cursed knowledge while you bask?” he asks.

“Always,” she murmurs.

“Okay, so giant pitcher plants,” Matts begins, then makes an offended noise when she laughs. “They’re technically called ‘Nepenthes attenboroughii’ or ‘Attenborough’s pitcher plant.’”

“After David Attenborough?”

“ Sir David Attenborough,” he corrects.

“Oh, excuse me, of course.”

Sydney grins into his neck as he tells her about the genus of carnivorous plants to which they belong and how Nepenthes attenboroughii have been known to eat small mammals. As he describes the horrors of the digestive process, Matts drags his fingers in soft, barely-there patterns up and down her back, pausing occasionally to tuck his thumb into the shallow spaces between her ribs, then follow it down her flank before starting over again.

They fit together like a habit.

Like an inevitability.

Like a gift.

Like a death sentence.

Sydney traces lyrics on his bicep and reminds herself not to get greedy. She’ll take what she’s given until it’s no longer offered, and she’ll be grateful for it. And she’ll write some kickass songs when it’s over. Sydney tries to convince herself that she’s looking forward to the devastation. For creative reasons.

She doesn’t quite manage it.

*

THEY WAKE UP early, just as the sunrise casts the room in muted blue. Matts sits up, rumpled and bleary, and throws an arm over Sydney so he can give her an off-center kiss before rolling out of bed.

She allows herself ten seconds to grin into her pillow before following him.

Sydney’s used to early mornings and manages to get dressed and ready in less than five minutes. She’s in the bathroom, French braiding her hair and frowning at her reflection—her skin is already looking dry in the high altitude—when Matts knocks on the door.

“Hey, Syd,” he calls. “I’m leaving something for you on the bed. You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to. But if you do want to, it’s…on the bed. Which I already said. I’m going downstairs now.”

That’s certainly incentive to finish quickly.

When she exits, it’s to find a round box waiting for her. Sydney can guess what’s inside; a hat box typically contains a pretty singular item. But when she removes the lid, her breath catches.

It’s the most beautiful hat she’s ever seen.

The felted rim is thick and smooth between her fingers, and the intricacy of the burn work is exquisite, almost a mirror image to her tattoo. The feathers change color in the sunlight. Sydney takes the hat back to the bathroom and settles it on her head.

She looks good. Better than good. She looks fucking badass.

It almost seems a shame to wear it on the drive under the sun and in the dust. It’s more suited to wearing on stage. Sydney pictures it—thinks about pairing the hat with a pair of black crocodile boots she has. She just might. Maybe when they play Nashville.

“Syd?” Matts calls from downstairs.

“Coming!” she yells back.

Obviously, she’ll wear it today, if only to let Matts know she likes it. Loves it.

Sydney tips the brim a little lower over her eyes and lets the confidence of a last lingering look in the mirror carry her downstairs and straight into Matts’s space.

She goes up on her tiptoes to grab his face and press a—probably too aggressive if she’s being honest—kiss to his mouth.

He looks delighted.

Aaron, an energy drink in hand, raises his eyebrows at them.

“I guess that means you like it?” Matts says.

“I love it so much I want to eat it.”

“Don’t do that,” he advises.

Sydney tucks one of the ends of the stampede string in her mouth and pretends to gnaw on it. “No promises.”

Matts rolls his eyes, but he watches her with undeniable fondness as she shifts past him to open the refrigerator.

“Can I steal some baby carrots?”

“Why? I mean, yes, but why?”

She dumps a few out of the bag and into her hand, then tucks them into her jeans pockets.

“If we’re leaving in less than an hour, I’ll need to speedrun making friends with whoever I’m going to ride today.”

Aaron says something under his breath that Sydney doesn’t catch, but from Matts’s immediate response—punching Aaron hard enough in the solar plexus that he falls back against the counter, laughing—Sydney assumes it was sexual.

She did set herself up for that.

“Sorry about him,” Matts says solemnly, offering her a protein bar.

“You might recall that I also have a brother whose primary purpose is vexation.” Sydney takes the protein bar and shoves it into her coat pocket as she makes her way outside.

Matts’s father is sitting on the porch, his booted broken ankle elevated on the ottoman beside his chair. His eyes track her as she steps out the screen door, squinting against the early-morning sunlight, buttoning the pearl snaps on her outer flannel shirt against the chill.

“That’s a fine hat,” he says.

“Your son has good taste,” she says evenly.

Matts coughs abruptly in the kitchen behind her. Like maybe he’s choking. Or trying to cover a laugh.

Aaron doesn’t try to cover his laugh.

“He does,” Matts’s father says finally, rubbing the heels of his hands on his thighs. “Occasionally. Y’all be safe.”

“That’s the plan,” she agrees.

And then Matts is behind her, one hand possessive on her lower back, urging her forward down the steps and toward the horse barn.

Sydney doesn’t look over her shoulder at Matts’s father. Mostly because she doesn’t think she can without smirking.

Matts’s hand lingers.

*

MOVING CATTLE IN Colorado is mostly like moving cattle in Texas. The air is cooler, but the sun burns faster. The grit of dirt in her teeth is the same. In Texas, nearly everywhere is flat. In Colorado, the land pitches and rolls from grassy plains to jagged, rocky peaks. Shallow creek beds cut through the terrain like bright, blinding wounds with raw red dirt edges. Sydney’s used to feeling small in Texas terrain, but it’s in a distinctly different way here. In Texas, the sky overwhelms; in Colorado, the land makes her consider religion.

The cattle, the horses, the easy comradery—that’s all the same.

Around a dozen people help to move the herd: Matts, Aaron, Sydney, Ellie, three hired hands, and a collection of neighbors.

Everyone’s the same brand of laid-back country friendly Sydney is used to. Aaron claims the point man position from the onset, which causes some raised eyebrows. The assembled people seem to be waiting for something, eyes moving between Aaron and Matts. But Matts doesn’t say anything aside from “I’ll take flank with Sydney.” And that’s that.

They’ve got her on a big, friendly gelding named Reacher, who’s clearly old hat at moving cattle. She and Reacher settle into their place with an ease that seems to have very little to do with her horsemanship abilities and everything to do with her mount’s confidence. They quickly move out of hearing distance of everyone other than Ellie, who is relegated to the back as the drag rider since, other than Sydney, she’s the greenest rider. Sydney wonders if that was part of the odd little power play that just happened. Did Matts give up his usual position as point man so Sydney didn’t have to ride drag?

Regardless, she endeavors to be as useful as possible, pushing in when the cows try to start fanning out, pulling back to help Ellie encourage a few reluctant stragglers forward. At first, Sydney hears bits and pieces of someone singing up ahead, his voice practiced and well-pitched. But by the time they hit the road, the herd has gone long and narrow to move up the pass. The wind has changed, and it’s quiet again except for the noise of hooves on pavement and the breathing of the animals around them.

Sydney’s dad swears that singing keeps cattle calm, and she figures if they’re singing up ahead it’s not like she’s purposefully showing off if she does too.

She takes in the expanse of it—cattle and cowboys and a two-lane road bookended by wild-flower valleys, backgrounded by snow-capped mountains. She settles back in her saddle letting her spine go loose. And she sings.

At first, it’s country music because it seems fitting, and she knows Matts will like it if he’s in hearing range.

Then, it’s fragments of a song she’s been working on, something about love and uncertainty. Something about pain. She switches to blues for a bit as they move off the road and into the higher elevation foothills. By the time they hit the river, her voice is warm and her hands are cold. The clouds that were previously banked far in the distance have spilled over the mountains and into the cup of the valley, blocking the sun and casting long-fingered shadows over the slow-moving water and slower-moving cattle.

The herd treks forward without complaint, a dark arrow through darker water beneath the cloud-strangled sky. The water is shallow—she probably won’t even get her boots wet, tall as her horse is, but Sydney hangs back to help Ellie while Matts pushes forward. She waits on the embankment, chooses one of her own songs, but sings it in a way befitting the world before her, a landscape cast in watercolor shades of gray, barely bleeding blues, and greens and browns.

Steam rises off the river from the heat of the cattle moving through it. Over the susurrus of lowing and men calling to one another, it feels fitting to slow the cadence, soften the vowels, and push her voice higher, whimsical and maybe a little haunting as she watches the animals and valiant rays of sunlight knifing their way through shadows to paint the muddy water gold and copper.

It isn’t beautiful, exactly. But it sure is something.

“I think I know that song,” Ellie calls as she approaches with the last of the cattle. “It’s uh—” She hums under her breath to the chorus. “—‘Godless Martyr’ by Red Right Hand, right?”

Sydney doesn’t think she visibly reacts, but her horse’s stride falters, and his ears go back, so she imagines she’s tightened her legs.

“Yeah,” she says finally.

“I like your version better,” Ellie says, blissfully unaware.

“Thanks,” Sydney manages.

She takes advantage of two calves attempting to escape to leave the conversation.

However, twenty minutes later, when someone has called a halt up ahead, Ellie circles back to find her again about the same time Matts does.

“Have you ever thought about doing an American Idol audition or something?” Ellie asks. “Because you’re crazy good. Like, you could sing professionally.”

Matts, Sydney has learned, has a very poor poker face. Which Ellie notices before he can make a quick one-eighty away from them.

“What?” Ellie says, glancing between them.

“Nothing,” Sydney says.

“Why is Matts being weird? Do you sing professionally?”

Sydney sighs. “How much do you know about Red Right Hand?”

Matts pulls his now-thoroughly-annoyed horse around again.

Ellie looks stymied. “They’ve got a couple songs on the radio right now. And I think all the band members are queer. And the lead singer is—”

Ah . Sydney thinks. There we go .

“Oh my God,” Ellie hisses. She pulls one glove off with her teeth and stands a bit in the stirrups so she can fish her phone out of her pocket. After a moment of thumbing at the screen, in which Matts sidles closer and closer to them, she looks up at Sydney, pointing.

“You’re her! I mean, you— You’re—” Ellie holds up her phone. “Sydney Warren.”

“I am, yeah.”

“Holy shit!”

“We’re trying not to advertise it,” Matts says pointedly. “Since we don’t know how some folks here would react to, uh—”

“Oh, right.” Ellie glances back at her phone. “The trans thing?”

“The trans thing,” Sydney confirms.

“Aaron would probably be cool about it,” Ellie muses. “I mean, he’d probably be awkward as hell, but he won’t be a dick intentionally. He’s been cool about me.”

“You,” Sydney repeats.

“I’m bi. Or pan. Or whatever. I like people. And I know that’s not the same, but Aaron was chill about that, so…”

“How did he find out?” Matts asks.

“Couple months back, I went on an absolute disaster of a first date with one of the few other queer women in town, and I frantically texted him from the bathroom that I needed him to call me with a fake emergency so I could escape.”

“Did he?” Matts asks.

“Oh yeah. Nice and loud so she could hear too. Cow with a prolapse, blood everywhere, need help right now while waiting for the vet, et cetera.”

“That’ll do it,” Sydney says.

“What did he say about the…bi thing,” Matts asks.

He’s only wearing one glove on his reining hand. His other hand, cupped easy and habitual around his saddle horn, is bare. On the pinky of that hand, he still wears her heart ring, bright and too small and jarringly obvious, which makes her chest warm despite the chill in the air.

“Nothing, really.” Ellie pushes back at a cow trying to wander. “He asked if I like girls, and I said ‘no better’n boys,’ and he just nodded, and that was that. You know how he is.”

“Hm,” Matts says. “Well, he already knows about Sydney. And you’re right. He was awkward but cool.”

“Good.” Ellie tucks her phone back in her pocket and slowly pulls on her glove as she studies them. “No offense, but what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be on tour or something?”

“We’ve got a two-week break. And Matts invited me. I’ve always wanted to go on a cattle drive, and he knows that.”

“Well”—Ellie gives their surroundings a slow pass—“you won’t find a prettier place for a drive. Even if it’s a little cloudy. Thoughts so far?”

“Definitely living up to my expectations,” Sydney agrees.

“So, are you two together or—”

“Uh—” Sydney starts, at the same time that Matts says, “Oh, we’re just—”

Someone whistles, shrill and cutting up ahead; the animals start moving again, and a little pack of six cows, which had been drifting as they spoke, make a break for it. Matts goes after the runaways, Ellie drops back to drag, and Sydney does not groan. She also does not spend the next half hour replaying the conversation with her own preferred ending: Matts saying “Yes, of course,” or something, anything , more substantive than a phrase that starts with “Oh, we’re just.”

Sydney tries to rework it and formulate a response that’s positive, such as, “Oh, we’re just starting to date,” or “Oh, we’re just beginning to fall in love,” or “Oh, we’re just about to embark on a committed partnership if Sydney will have me.” None of those seem likely. What does seem likely is: “Oh, we’re just friends” or “just hanging out” or some other just that will eventually break her heart. God, she hates words sometimes. Today, she hates the word “just.” Then again, it could have been worse. He could have said, “Oh, no , we’re just—” But he didn’t. There was no explicit disagreement, but then again—

By the time they get to Gothic, Sydney’s replayed the cadence, the tone of those three words so many times they’ve lost all meaning.

External to the small crisis she’s given herself, the gathering storm has finally reached something of a breaking point. The clouds have won their mutiny against the last, dying vestiges of blue and settled low over them in an oppressive, static blanket. She can taste the electricity in the air like an itch on her tongue.

From up one side of the pass, Sydney watches the men disperse their positions, and the cattle spread through the valley like they know they’ve reached their destination. The impending storm doesn’t appear to concern them as they duck their heads to graze, rub against trees, or for the young ones to kick and run.

“We’re probably going to get rained on,” Matts says, jogging his horse up to join her. His non-reining hand is lax on his thigh. The ring on his pinky finger quiets some of the anxiety still milling around in the back of her head.

“Good thing I’ve got a solid hat, then,” Sydney answers, touching two fingers to it.

His bracelet slides softly from her wrist to catch on the cuff of her jacket. She watches his eyes follow it.

The way he looks at her doesn’t feel friendly. It feels possessive. It gives her a terrible amount of hope.

“You like it?” Matts asks, several beats too late, his attention flicking back up to the hat.

“I do. I think I’ll wear it on stage.”

“You should. It looks good. You look good.”

And then they sit there, swaying with the minute shifts of their mounts, staring at each other. Sydney thinks her horse is probably judging her.

“What’s that?” She nods toward what appears to be a small town in the distance. It doesn’t seem likely, considering the remoteness of the valley they’re in, the elevation they have to be at. But the buildings look well-kept.

He follows her gaze. “Rocky Mountain Biological Laboratory. It’s one of the highest-altitude biological field stations in the US, I think. It used to be an old mining town, but now they’ve got dorms, laboratories, science-y stuff. There’s a bunch of protected research sites all over. We passed some on the way up—all those little fenced off areas?”

She does recall this.

One of the guys whistles again, and Matts nods toward the pass. “After you.”

She nudges her horse into a trot and glances at the sky again.

They’re definitely going to get rained on.

*

BY THE TIME they get back to the ranch, the rain has slackened to a heavy, frigid mist, and Sydney can’t feel her fingers. She’s fumbling so badly Matts has to help her untack her horse. Embarrassed enough by the betrayal of her Texas blood in front of Matts, she’s grateful everyone else has already started the trek to the house. Having more people witness her inability to operate a buckle in only moderately cold weather is not on her to-do list.

However, the delay at the barn means that by the time they get to the house, all the showers are taken.

Matts ushers her upstairs with a stack of towels from the laundry room and then helps her strip out of clinging flannel and sopping jeans. It might be romantic if not for her chattering teeth, and there’s absolutely nothing sexy about the sports bra and compression shorts she’s wearing.

“Shit, I didn’t think it was possible for someone’s lips to actually turn blue,” Matts says, wrapping one of the towels around her and chaffing his hands up and down her arms. “It’s not even freezing out.”

“I have poor circulation,” Sydney mutters.

“I can see that. Are you going to be okay? Do I need to go kick someone out of a shower so you can heat up?”

“My hero. But no. I’ll be good.” The shiver that wracks her body as she says it undermines her credibility a bit.

Matts frowns at her. “Here, hold on.”

He strips out of his own clothes, down to very clingy boxers that she would like to revisit at some point when she isn’t impersonating a Victorian waif likely to expire from a slight chill.

Matts gives himself a cursory once-over with the second towel and then scoops her, bridal-style, into his arms. He sits them on the bed, tucking her close to his chest, curling himself around her like a very large, very muscular space heater. Cupped in the pocket of warmth between his lap and his shoulders, Sydney immediately feels warmer. And she feels warmer still when he tugs the towel she’s wrapped in closer around her throat, using the side of his hand to rub away a line of water left by her hair on her cheek.

“Better?” he asks.

“Better,” she agrees faintly.

He kisses her, and she forgets she’s cold.

Matts’s hand is hot on her face, and his mouth is warm and persuasive. He touches her like she’s always wanted to be touched—like she means something, like he’s desperate for her but restraining himself because she’s worth being careful.

Sydney likes how her name tastes when passed from his mouth to hers, how it sounds breathy and reverent as he exhales it against her lips.

She likes the way he looks at her between kisses, eyes dark and searching, and maybe a little violent, the way he reaches for her with a tempered aggression that makes her want to push him to see what he’d be like if he stopped controlling himself.

“Hey, shower’s ready if you—ohhhkay then. Maybe shut the door if you’re going to—”

“Oh my God, Aaron. Fuck off,” Matts says.

Sydney laughs into his throat while Aaron protests and Matts argues back, and then Aaron’s mom is yelling upstairs that dinner is almost ready.

“You should shower,” Matts says into her hair. He makes no move to let her go.

“I should,” she agrees, kissing his throat.

“I’m eating your steak if you’re not down in time,” Aaron says.

*

DINNER IS A lively affair, composed of not only Matts’s family but also the folks who had helped with the drive. Three or four separate conversations occur at all times and occasionally come together for a minute or two before diverging again. Sitting between Matts and Ellie, Sydney is content to eat and listen.

“If it shifts, it drifts,” Aaron is arguing, mouth full.

“Except it didn’t drift; it turned over,” Matts says.

“Wait,” Ellie interrupts, “you turned over a tractor ?”

“I was sixteen,” Aaron mutters.

“How am I just now hearing about this?”

“Because Dad about killed him,” Matts says. “It took eight guys and two trucks to get it upright again, and he’s been trying to erase the moment from living memory ever since.”

“Thanks for your help with that goal,” Aaron mumbles.

From the other end of the table, an older guy—Sydney thinks his name is Karl—responds to something Matts’s dad said. “Still better than when the Western kids had traffic blocked on Main Street for half an hour with their rainbow shit.”

Matts’s dad makes a commiserating noise.

“They try to tell us they’re born gay and then want us to throw them a parade about something they supposedly can’t control. Make up your mind, right?”

Suddenly, Sydney is no longer paying attention to the ongoing tractor conversation.

Neither is Matts because he raises his voice to say, “I think it’s a little different, considering it’s only recently that they can be open about who they love without fearing for their safety. I’d probably want to celebrate that with a parade, too, if it were me.”

His dad’s mouth purses, forehead wrinkling, but Karl just rolls his eyes, gesturing with the roll in his hand.

“I’m not being homophobic or anything,” he says. “I just don’t want it shoved down my throat is all.”

Sydney restrains herself from making a dick joke. As much as Matts has encouraged her to be herself, that would probably be a step too far.

“Huh,” Matts says, clearly feigning confusion. “I guess I figured you’d be more supportive.”

The clink of silverware goes quiet. The other conversations halt.

Karl appears stymied. “Why’d you figure that?”

“Well, the Christmas card you and Annie sent—” He points toward the kitchen with his fork. “—had the gay cardinals on it.”

Sydney has no idea where this is going, but she can’t wait to find out.

Judging by Ellie’s facial expression, Sydney isn’t the only one.

“What?” Karl says.

“The— Here, hold on.”

Matts stands, taking his time as he ambles into the kitchen to pull something off the refrigerator. He returns with a Christmas card showing a snowy forest scene and two bright red birds cuddled on a tree limb together in the foreground.

“This,” Matts says.

“What about it?” Karl answers.

“Well”—Matts points to the birds—“the bird couple on the front. I mean, I’m assuming they’re a couple what with the framing and the context and such. But they’re both red.”

“So?” A vein in Karl’s forehead slowly becomes more visible.

“So, boy cardinals are red. Girl cardinals are brown. That’s two boys all cuddled up together.” Matts taps the card for emphasis. “Gay cardinals.”

Sydney doesn’t know what her face is doing, but it’s probably no less subtle than Ellie’s.

“And that makes sense,” Matts continues, “because birds are, as a class, one of the animals with the highest percentages of homosexuality. I’m not sure what the estimated rate for cardinals is, but I think black swans are the highest in the US at a little over 25 percent, and I know mallard ducks aren’t that far behind them. Though outside the US, there are higher percentages. Like, there’s a species of cotinga in Eastern Colombia that’s 40-something percent.”

“No kidding,” Ellie says. “What about penguins? I saw a story on the news the other day about gay penguins at the Denver Zoo. The keepers gave the couple a chick that was abandoned, and they were raising it together. It was cute as hell.”

“I think they’re also around 25 percent,” Matts says. “Maybe a little less.”

“Neat.”

Matts’s dad clears his throat. The table goes quiet.

“Annie picked the cards,” Karl says eventually. “And since when did you become a champion for the gays? Didn’t think Texas was much for that.”

“Well—” Matts sets the card aside so he can cut back into his steak. “My captain is gay. And one of my linemates is bi. So’s my goalie. And my— I have other friends now who are bi and trans and stuff. I went to Houston’s Pride parade last year with some of them. It was fun. And it was important to them.”

“Well, I appreciated the parade here,” Ellie says, “seeing as I wouldn’t turn down a date with a lady, provided we get on all right. Not that there are many takers around here, so mostly, I stick with the boys, you know? But still. Nice to see I’m not alone. Even if the parade held up traffic a little.” She addresses the latter part to Karl who appears to be shocked into silence.

Sydney thinks Ellie would have no issues pulling women in Houston, but she doesn’t say it out loud because she’s within kicking distance of Aaron.

Matts’s dad looks as similarly stricken as Karl.

“You know about this?” he mutters quietly to Aaron.

“Didn’t think it mattered much,” Aaron says back, but he looks pretty damn uncomfortable saying it.

Sydney notices that despite her calm demeanor, Ellie’s fingers are clenched tight around her knees.

As she’s watching, though, Aaron slides one of his hands over to encircle Ellie’s wrist, squeezing. Ellie glances at him with a small, private smile. She turns her hand palm-up so they can lace their fingers together.

“Well,” Matts’s stepmom says. “More potatoes, anyone?”