The Grad House was a white building on the edge of campus. Nick had passed it at least a dozen times in his academic career, since it was on the way to the financial aid office, but he’d never bothered to go inside. He’d arrived fifteen minutes earlier than their agreed meeting time—which Nick tried to convince himself was because of the bus schedule. It was either be fifteen minutes early or a half hour late, and he opted to be early. That was it.

Never mind the fact that his heart was hammering and his palms were sweaty. He tried to calm himself by reading the plaque outside the restaurant door that gave the building’s history (first as a farmhouse, and now as a bar/café subsidized for students). When the fifteen minutes early became ten minutes, he figured that was good enough.

Music played from the speakers above the bar and kitchen. Nick knew the song right away as one of the Canadian indie bands that he and Levi used to spend countless hours fawning over. The memory made him smile, and his nervousness melted away. He spotted Katie at the front by the cashier station, talking animatedly to a customer as she mixed a drink. A line had begun to form for her till, since it was the start of dinner. Nick took a seat in the lounge area next to the door and picked up a school newspaper to flip through idly. From what he could gather, many of the local school events were held in the Grad House. An early spring event for a poetry reading took up the centre section of the paper. A tagline of For outsiders, it’s a great place to belong caught Nick’s eye.

When the line dwindled by Katie’s till, Nick stood up and surveyed the rest of the area. The blue walls were in desperate need of a paint job, and some of the decor was probably from the 1990s, but there were glimpses of what kind of space this was. Original artwork hung on the wall with price tags underneath, while beer advertisements and large windows filled up the rest of the wall space.

“Hey,” Katie called out from her till. “Can I get you anything?”

“Nah, it’s too early to drink.”

“Yeah, I don’t really touch much of it either. So here, have a Coke.” She filled up a tall glass for him from a soft-drink gun at the front counter and slid it across. Nick was about to protest, since he had no change and using a credit card for a two-dollar purchase seemed silly, but she waved her hand.

“On the house.”

“In that case, thank you.” A bell punctuated the next song on the speakers, and Nick and Katie glanced at the front door as more people came inside. Katie sighed, making her dark hair fluff by her face. “I’m sorry. My shift is done in two minutes, and I’ll be right with you, okay?”

Nick moved out of the way with another thanks and sat in a corner table by a large canvas. The painting seemed to be a mess of dark colours, but when Nick surveyed it closer, he realized that a waterfall took up the centre of the painting and was surrounded by old-timey shops and a large banner that had backwards letters on it. Nick had to take a photo of the painting on his phone to flip it around before he realized that the banner read, Wish You Were Here. When Nick scanned the bottom corner for the price tag, he noticed Sheena Miller displayed prominently.

This was hers. It was beautiful, if not a little odd. He was about to take another picture of the painting so he could get more than just the writing when Katie approached him.

“Ah. My study in negatives.”

“Is that what it’s called?”

“Not officially. It’s my Wish You Were Here piece. It’s based on a postcard my friend Jonas gave me. I met him in therapy, and we wanted to stay in touch, even though therapy was done for me. So he sends me postcards, and I thought that painting the opposite colour scheme—like a photographic negative—would imply the opposite feelings.”

“Which are . . .?” Nick asked, trying to keep up. Katie spoke faster than before and gestured a lot, as if she was nervous.

“I miss you, Jonas, but I sure as hell don’t miss therapy.”

“I hear that. It’s really pretty.” Nick glanced around the paintings in the rest of the room, wonder in his eyes. “Are they all yours?”

“No. We get a handful of art students coming through here to work before they go off to graduate school, so some paintings are years old from other student cohorts. Sometimes we get new ones, but honestly, I don’t even think people realize you can buy them.”

Nick fought the urge to offer to buy the piece. He had no money to do that—and really, he had no wall space. Too many framed album covers and movie posters got in the way. “So are you an art student, too?”

“Eh.” Katie waved her hand in a so-so gesture. “I’m an artist and a perpetual student. Not always an art student, though, since I don’t exactly like the art department here that wants me to start at zero again, when I’ve been doing professional work for years. But that’s a long story.”

“I came because I have time,” Nick said.

“Not just for free drinks?” she joked, but soon continued. “I went to university ages ago, but I didn’t do so well because you know, Warped Tour. So I flunked out and focused on the tour. Did some art gigs for bands while I was there, and I continued that where I could with the Hellcats and others. But I decided to come back to school a few years ago, since it’s a way to subsidize my hormones and other costs.”

Nick nodded, but was sure it looked as if he was desperately trying to follow. He’d read more about hormones this afternoon than he thought possible, but his mind was still forming a blank about what it all meant, so he tried to focus on what he did know: years and years of education. “So you’re still an undergrad in . . .?”

“Sociology. Basically it’s my seventh year at this point, but I only have a handful more courses before I get my degree. And from there, I probably will go to grad school. I told my boss here I was going to go in order to get a job at this little club. But now I’ve kind of grown fond of the idea.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Katie said. “I mean, it’s not exactly what I pictured myself doing when I first left on the Warped bus, and some older part of me wants to call me a sellout, but hey, if selling out means I still get hormones and I can make fliers, then what am I complaining about?”

“You’re really good, though.”

“Oh, you’re too kind. I’m not trying to be the next Sybil Lamb, but it could be nice to have a show one day. Anyway . . . I’m still in my work clothing.” She gestured to the black T-shirt that said Staff on the back. “Do you mind if I change before we go?”

“Oh. We’re not hanging out here?”

Katie laughed. “I’ve been here for eight hours. I could use a break. And I’m sure you’re just dying to know what your job is tonight.”

“Right. Of course.” Nick felt foolish that it had almost slipped his mind entirely. From the way Katie had been talking, it sounded as if she were going to encourage him to apply here. As Katie disappeared into the basement of the café to change, Nick wandered around and looked at the paintings, the fliers for upcoming events, and tried to remember if he’d read about Sybil Lamb today. Already, he was weighed down by all the new items to remember.

“All right,” Katie said, reappearing minutes later. “I feel like a human again.”

She was wearing a plain T-shirt that still somehow managed to look feminine over her jeans, with her hair tied behind her shoulders in a loose ponytail. She’d applied gloss to her lips, something that Nick hadn’t seen—or maybe hadn’t noticed—before.

“You look . . . good.” Nick smiled when he realized how much he meant it.

“Thank you. Let’s talk about the job.” Katie slipped into a seat across from him at a table. “It’s with my friend Dunja. She works at a tattoo shop downtown—she’s an electrolysis whiz, and a visual artist. Which means she’s also incredibly busy. So we’re writing up some fliers for her, drawing them, photocopying them, and then stuffing a bunch of envelops for her other businesses.”

“Oh, okay,” Nick said. “That doesn’t sound too hard. Just one question.”

“Yeah?”

“Electrolysis?”

Katie laughed and touched her chin self-consciously. “You don’t know what that is?”

Nick shook his head.

“So, here comes a mini-biology lesson. Testosterone is what makes you grow facial hair. Even when someone—like me—stops producing testosterone because I take testosterone blockers, the hair will still grow. It gets softer because of estrogen, but the hair follicle is always there. So usually lots of trans women need to get their hair removed, and well, welcome electrolysis. Some women will use laser hair removal, but that doesn’t work on a long-term basis. Electrolysis is a way to remove hair more permanently, because it completely gets rid of the follicle.”

“That sounds . . . painful.”

“No different than tattoos, honestly. Hence why Dunja does them both. She’s not squeamish. That’s how I met her, actually.” Katie rolled up the sleeve of her shirt, displaying an octopus on her arm surrounded by a school of tropical fish. The image was drawn like a comic book, not realistically. The tattoo seemed to start on her back, over her shoulder blades, and extend over the top of her arm. The T-shirt mostly covered it, unless she wanted it to be seen.

“Wow,” Nick said. “Dunja did this?”

“Yeah, but it’s based off a web comic I love a lot. I had the artist commission it for me, and then, tattoo.”

“Nice. Do you have anymore?”

Katie dropped her sleeve over her arm and narrowed her eyes. “Yes, I do, but they involve taking off my pants. And I like you, Nick, but now is not the time.”

“Yeah, of course. Sorry. Shouldn’t have asked.”

“Nick. I’m teasing. Don’t worry. Unless . . . there is a reason to worry?”

The tension in her voice was evident, and the worried connotations hung at the end of her question. There is no reason to worry, right, because you’re still into me?

Nick wanted to shout, Yes, no worry at all, but he was still awkward. He didn’t know how to answer her honestly—especially with so many people around at other tables or working the bar—so instead he tried to play it cool.

“No reason. I have a tattoo too, actually. Can I show you?”

Katie nodded, wide-eyed and curious, as he rolled up his left sleeve to reveal a heart with the Toronto skyline inside of it. Simple, yet so meaningful. “I have a few more tattoos, but they’re mostly flash pieces. And you’d have to take my pants off to in order to see them too.”

“Then I guess we have tasks for the future.”

Nick nodded, biting his lip. The heat seemed to rise by double in the room. A fan ran in the corner, breaking up the spring heat wave that was starting. There was no more Coke for Nick to sip, and his throat felt dry.

“Do you want another?” Katie asked. “Or should we get to Dunja’s place? We can order pizza there if you’re hungry.”

“Sounds perfect.”

They both gathered their bags and headed towards the door. Some of the waitstaff and the kitchen crew noticed and said good-bye to Katie.

“Have a good night, guys,” the chef said.

Katie balked for a moment.

Guys? Nick wondered. Is she upset about being called a guy? He waited until they exited the Grad House and started to walk towards the other side of campus before he brought it up.

“Are you . . . are you okay?”

“Hmm? Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I thought . . . You know, never mind. Probably not my place to say.”

Katie gave him a skeptical glance, before it all seemed to click. “Oh? Do you mean Andreas and the crew? They’re nice. Good workers, they get the trans thing, but sometimes they just don’t get it. You know? I’m a woman to them—everyone there calls me Katie, I use the right bathroom—but they don’t always get the finer points.”

“So you didn’t mind being called ‘guys’?”

“Well, I figure guys is plural. Kind of like how ils in French is used for everyone. But . . . it also doesn’t matter that much. I always want them to get the gender stuff in a way that’s different from everyone else, but I don’t see most of them outside of work, so it really doesn’t matter that much. As long as I can keep doing my job, I’m happy.”

Nick nodded. He supposed he should feel good when he was being corrected about her gender; it meant she cared about him perceiving her correctly, which on the surface felt like too much attention to minute details of language, but in the bigger picture, was something he should take pride in, since it meant she wanted him around. Apathy, he was learning, was truly the death of a relationship.

“What are you thinking about?” Katie asked. “You got quiet and did that think-y thing with your eye.”

“What now?”

“You squint sometimes when you’re thinking. It’s a good sign, I’ve come to realize. You made that face when you were listening to Starship.”

“Shush.” Nick laughed. “I suppose I’m just . . . processing.”

“Oh no.” Katie’s voice had that teasing tone Nick could recognize, but her jawline was stiff. Worried. “What exactly are you processing?”

“Stuff . . . This is all very new to me. I was reading a lot online to try and understand.”

“That’s good. And you’re not running away, so that’s a start.”

“I suppose so. Last time, running got me into trouble.”

Katie took a moment before she smacked her hand to her head. “Oh God. I’m never going to live that down, am I? That I pretty much broke your ribs?”

“I do have a bruise,” Nick said, keeping his tone light. “You wanna see it?”

Katie laughed lowly—thick, almost seductive. She took Nick’s hand in her own, and he was surprised at how good it felt. “Maybe later I can check to see if you don’t have a bruise. But for now, let me make it up to you by getting you a job, okay?”

“Sure, but I’m holding you to that promise.”

“I expect nothing less.”