It wouldn’t be fair to call grad school a total disaster. There was a brief period when it seemed like the world she’d dreamed of had opened to her. People treated her like a writer and talked intelligently about books, music, film. People knew who Thomas Bernhard and Ishmael Reed were. Her only responsibilities were to read and write and say clever things. What else could paradise consist of?

The new friendships soon soured. People backbit, gossiped, didn’t read each other’s work or tore it apart. She left every party feeling worse. Self-exile was easier than becoming someone’s target. She slept with a quiet poet for six weeks until one night the poet said, I think I love you, and Edith laughed, You don’t know me.

She didn’t think about being trans. She shaved off her beard and adopted a gender-neutral nickname. But she wasn’t trans. She figured that sometime when Val called she’d bring it up, half-joking, and Val would confirm for her. It’d be nice to have that door closed.

Her last conversation with Tessa was at a gas station on the Tennessee border. A border is as good a place as any, Tessa said. Edith crouched by the ice machine, sweating through her black skinny jeans. I love you, Joni. I’ll see you around.

Valerie checked in every couple weeks. How are you, babe? Having the time of your life?

Another day swaddled in god’s creation.

Val had fallen in love with a trans tattoo artist in Boulder. She’d been living there for two months—the longest she’d stayed put anywhere since college.

If she tattoos her name on your biceps, make sure she throws in a free cover-up if y’all break up.

In the south for three months and you’re already y’alling. They wouldn’t break up anytime soon, Valerie insisted. It’s the real deal.

Edith hoped so. She’d never known Val to be in a serious relationship. They were all getting older, though. What people wanted changed.

A few weeks later, Edith was reading in her living room when Valerie called. What’s your address? I want to send you something. Edith told her. The apartment faced a wall of trees and never got enough sunlight.

I don’t need anything.

I’m sure you barely have room to move for all the books. How’s school?

I’m writing discussion questions about Sappho. A guide through the incomplete. Someone’s going to get mad at me, a straight dude taking charge of the discussion.

You might be my only straight friend. Are you really straight?

I don’t have the bandwidth to consider if I’m not.

Yeah, that’s for sure how identity works.

Static rush of wind through the phone. Where are you driving? Getting supplies for your love nest?

Not exactly. A car door slammed. The gravel crunch of footsteps. Is this whole house yours?

What house?

Yours, dummy.

Edith was surprised by her own anxiety. It’s a fourplex, she said quietly.

Well, come downstairs.

Edith nearly fell as she rushed down the steps.