13. Grace

Chapter 13

Grace

"Grace took it easy on you," Mallory teased her brother after class over burgers and half-priced drinks at the nearby taproom, where Mallory had bartended before she opened the studio. She ordered a mistletoe margarita using Elysian tequila, the brand co-owned by their brother Nick. Normally she didn't go for top-shelf options, but she knew Alex would insist on paying. He and I opted for local craft beer flights, and after a few sips, I slid him my IPA and took his stout, each guarding our lagers from theft.

"Thursday night is always a slow flow class!" I defended, nudging her shoulder from within our booth. We agreed that my slower class would be an easier introduction versus Mallory's fast-paced vinyasa approach. I included restorative poses with him in mind, including extended time with a bolster under his shoulders to relax his upper back after hunching over a computer. Nobody could use a heart-opening sequence more than Alexander Clarke.

And I wanted him relaxed, given what was gathering the courage to say.

I was nervous after hearing how he talked on his phone call about work, but I was tired of hiding, and worrying he would find out from somebody else. It was time to face him head-on.

"Don't you feel more relaxed after we showed you how to stretch? "

"Fine. Mark your damn calendar as ‘The Shrimp Was Right Day.'"

"Of course I'm right, but I should also state for the record," she stole his French fry and tapped it on the table with each word: "I told you so."

His hand flew up to cover a laugh. "Grace, how can you work for this knucklehead? "

"Don't tell her, but …" I blocked my mouth with my beer glass without lowering my volume so Mallory could still hear, "It's my favorite job ever, and I've had a lot."

"How'd you start working for Mallory, anyway?"

I'd been waiting for him to ask that question. Here goes.

"When we first met, I was just a student. I'd done my yoga teacher training in Vermont and Mallory recruited me to teach, but I was nervous about how people would react to me, because —"

Mallory's bony elbow pressed into my ribs. "You don't have to."

Mallory worried about his reaction, and for good reason: Alex could be impatient and smug. She didn't want me to get hurt, especially by her gruff brother.

But I'd been rejected and shamed enough to become pretty good at reading people, and I'd also seen his innate curiosity and willingness to learn. Maybe he would react poorly ... but I liked to believe the best in people.

"I think he can handle it," I said, gaze locked with Alex as curiosity drove him to lean forward. Mallory's hand slid under the table to squeeze my leg.

"Mallory begins her classes with an introduction that yoga is a practice for everybody, regardless of age, race, religion, size, or physical ability. I told her that she was missing an important factor: gender. I asked if the studio was accepting of people like me, who are transgender."

Alexander stilled.

He blinked, his unfocused eyes lifting to the ceiling as his fingertips inattentively stroked the damp surface of his glass.

I stayed quiet. You learn in counseling classes to give people time to absorb unexpected information.

"So you … you were …?"

"I was assigned male at birth, raised as the youngest of four boys."

"Is that why your family …"

"My father didn't approve of my so-called ‘self-absorbed and misguided lifestyle choice.'" Even seven years later, it still hurt to repeat that … but I tried not to let it show.

"That's how … when you were Santa." He muttered as he connected the dots. His back slumped into the booth, staring blankly at his beer glass .

Mallory squeezed my leg again, her expression hopeful.

His assistant Connor suggested sharing the relevant facts so I ran through the timeline quickly, like tearing off a bandaid: "I figured it out eight years ago, from a Human Sexuality class at Syracuse. After my dad cut me off, I took a semester off and transferred to the University of Vermont. I changed my name six years ago, started hormones five years ago, and had surgery three years ago."

The server checked in and Mallory bought me some time by flirting. While she was distracted, he asked, "Is that what you tried to tell me in the sensory room?"

I nodded and his fingers rose to his bottom lip. Was he reliving how he kissed me … and wondering what that meant about him?

"You want a refill, Alex?" Mallory asked brightly, and he shook his head. Mallory told the server, "Two more margaritas. Use Elysian because he's paying."

He smirked, resting his elbows on the table. "But how do you know ?"

People ask plenty of passive-aggressive or ignorant questions in the name of curiosity: "So will you fully transition?" or "But what's your real name?" or blatantly asking what's in my pants. Questions they'd never ask a cisgender person.

This one, ‘How do you know?' appears curious but it's laced with skepticism. It's a polite way to say, ‘Prove it.'

I used to hate this question because people expect an impressive revelation, not the truth of quiet soul-searching and introspection. I rested my elbows on the table to mirror him and asked, "How do you know you're a man? Not your body or what you wear, but inside, how do you know ?"

"I …" He finished his beer and flipped his palm upwards. "That's who I am."

I lifted my hands to say, ‘Well, what is there to add?'

When the drinks arrived and Mallory slid one to me, Alex looked at his sister with wide eyes. "When she told you … ?"

"I apologized and thanked her for calling me in," Mallory said. "I offered to buy her a drink to learn how to support her, and the transgender and LGBTQIA+ students in our studio. Not that I expected her to speak for the whole community at large. I just wanted her perspective."

"We came here for beer," I lifted my glass and took a sip to calm my nerves, "and talked until the bar closed. She shared her vision for the studio, to make it the best in town and expand to new locations, but she couldn't do it alone. I shared what I'd learned while studying business before switching my major to social work."

"By the time the bartender kicked us out, we were both hammered, bloated on French fries, and obsessed with each other."

"Drunk on the joy of a new friendship." I lifted my glass to cheers, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "When I showed up the next day, a trans flag decal was on the door."

"The pink and blue one," Alex murmured.

"Within a week, Grace was my assistant studio manager."

"She told me, ‘Write your own job description, and good luck with your awful boss.'"

Mallory turned a critical gaze on her brother. "Here's what I told Grace that night: If anybody — and I mean anybody — gives you shit or demands private information about your pronouns or deadname or anything, I'll chew them out. If they disrespect you in our studio or anywhere that I consider home," she made a circle with her finger to indicate the studio, the bar, the town, the state, "they're not welcome there."

As her fierce protectiveness locked onto her brother, his expression shifted. By defending me and saying whatever got him into her studio, she'd earned his begrudging respect. The shift seemed to surprise both of them.

He finished his beer and dropped cash on the table as he said with an air of detached generosity. "You two stay and enjoy your night."

Mallory tried to yell after him to stay. I put my hand on her forearm, remembering his assistant's advice: state the facts, allow time to research, schedule follow-up, and expect nonstop questions.

"Hey Alex, we're getting another Christmas tree for your mom on Saturday, to raise her spirits. Want to come?"

He blinked, glanced out the door, then threw that crooked grin like a grenade. "It's a date," he said before exiting into the cold December night.