I awake to the sound of an actual rooster crowing.

I stretch and rub my eyes. I know exactly where I am this morning. The couch wasn’t bad, but I never fell deeply enough asleep to dream. It’s still mostly dark out, with only the tiniest hint of gray beginning to work its way into the sky.

I shuffle into the kitchen.

“Good morning!” Catherine says, way too chipper for this early in the morning, and gives me a side hug. I’m starting to get used to her affinity for physical affection.

“You’re up early,” I say.

“My day to do the breakfast shift.”

I look around the kitchen. “Where?” All I see is coffee. I pour myself a cup and add some almond milk.

“For the animals, silly goose.”

I take a sip. “Oh yeah.”

“My parents texted—they’re on the road,” she says.

My heartbeat stutters. This crazy journey is about to end, and something else is about to start.

After finishing her coffee, Catherine goes to feed the animals, and I head upstairs. All my things are in Sam’s room, and I need to get ready to meet Ruth and William. I might put the dress back on after all.

But when I try the door, I find it’s locked. I knock lightly. “Sam?” I whisper.

The only answer is his snore.

Terrific.

I go to the bathroom downstairs and wash my face. There’s some mouthwash in the cabinet, so I swish with that, and go out front to check my email. There are four new ones from Mellie. And some of them are long.

When did she have time to write these? After we got off the phone last night? She must not have slept at all. That can’t be a good sign. Mentally healthy people don’t take off work and then stay up all night frantically composing emails, do they?

To: acelove6@email.com

From: Mellie.Baker@email.com

June 22 (11:34 PM)

Subject: Thank you

Dear Dara,

Thank you for calling tonight. You have no idea how nice it was to hear your voice. And good luck with the Pembrokes. I truly hope you find what you’re looking for.

I love you.

Love,

Mom

I take a breath. She seemed normal enough in that message. I have to have faith that what she said last night was true. That she’ll really be okay.

To: acelove6@email.com

From: Mellie.Baker@email.com

June 23 (2:09 AM)

Subject: Saying good-bye

Dear Dara,

Freshman year of high school, I entered my first regional teen tournament. It was held at a college two hours away. I placed third in the boys’ competition. Kristen placed fifth in the girls’. It was a good day. Until it wasn’t.

“It’s not normal for a teenage boy to only have girl friends,” my mother said as we buckled into the car and waved good-bye to Kristen and her parents.

My parents had muttered similar sentiments many times in the years since Kristen and I had become close, but there was something in her voice this time that made me think she was about to say something more on the subject than usual.

I waited.

“We thought tennis would be good for you …”

“Tennis is good for me.” I held up my trophy as evidence.

“Yes, but you haven’t made friends with any of the other boys. We thought if you were involved in athletics, you’d make friends, take an interest in …”

She trailed off, but I knew what she was getting at. “In what?” I pressed. The lingering endorphins from my last match had me feeling brave.

“I don’t know, Marcus.” Mom sighed heavily, as if I was exhausting her. “Team sports. Video games. Cars. Girls. Normal boy things!”

I had so much to say in response to that, but I knew the only thing that would help my case would be to tell her that I was interested in girls in the way she was talking about. I could have so easily told her I had a crush on Kristen and that was why I liked hanging around her so much. But it wasn’t the whole truth. I liked hanging around Kristen for lots of reasons. She was my best friend, and it didn’t feel right to use her that way. So I said nothing.

When I didn’t reply, Mom continued. Her voice was quiet, and she kept her eyes pinned to the road. “Your father and I have decided you are not to see that girl anymore.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I retorted, and was met swiftly with a hard slap across the face. The car didn’t even swerve.

I sucked in a breath and cradled my cheek in my hand. Tears raced to my eyes much quicker than even the possibility of a verbal response. I turned my face toward my window, gulping back tears, wishing again I had long hair—this time to hide behind. The car seat, the seat belt strap, the armrest built into the door all felt like they’d sprouted millions of piercing, ruthless daggers, and my body begged me to get as far away from my mother and this suddenly cramped car as possible.

My father was the one who hit me, not my mother. I’d always maintained hope that she was different than he was. That, if she could just be allowed to form her own opinions, she’d be nicer. But it was now startlingly clear that she hated me as much as he did.

For a moment I considered opening the door and jumping out, but we were going too fast.

I was trapped. In this car, in this family, in this body.

Mom spoke first. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to …” She shook her head and squared her jaw. “You are not to speak to me like that. And our decision is final. No more Kristen.”

Over the remainder of the weekend, a yellowish-purplish bruise formed on my left cheekbone, with a scab precisely in the center from where her ring had split the skin. Like the dark, thick hair on my lip and chin, there was no disguising it.

“What happened to your face?” Kristen asked on Monday morning.

She didn’t even know about the time my father had beaten me to the point where I’d had trouble sitting down for days. How could I explain that my mother had taken up the family pastime as well?

But this affected her too. She deserved to know. “I talked back to my mother,” I said simply. “This was her response.”

“Oh my God, Marcus!” Kristen pulled me into a hug. “Are you okay? We have to tell someone!”

Her body was small and soft, but also athletic, strong. Her hair smelled like fruit salad. I pulled away.

“No,” I said, drawing small circles on the hallway tile with my toe. “I don’t want to dwell on it.”

“What were you arguing about?”

“They don’t want me to hang out with you anymore.”

Her face crinkled up. “Did I do something wrong?”

I waved my hands as if to clear her assumed meaning from my last few words. “No, of course not! It’s me. They think I … they think I don’t act right.” Throughout all the years of our friendship, Kristen and I had never spoken directly about it. Me. The non-gender-specific elephant in the room. This was the closest we’d ever come. “They think I shouldn’t hang out with girls so much.”

“That’s so unfair!” She was mad. But her unhappiness made me feel better—she cared about me. “Is it because you’re …” She trailed off. But she didn’t need to say it. I knew she thought I was gay.

“I don’t know,” I said quickly, not wanting to get into it. “But don’t worry; we’ll still see each other at school and tennis. And there’s always the phone.”

She nodded, unsure, chewing the inside of her mouth.

“It’ll be fine.” I tried to sound reassuring, when inside, I was embarrassed and angry that I’d been forced to have this conversation at all. “Basically no difference, okay? I just had to tell you because you can’t call the house anymore unless you know my parents aren’t home, and I won’t be able to go to the mall or things like that.”

She nodded again.

“I’m really sorry,” I said.

“Me too.”

For a little while, things weren’t horrible. I still sat with Kristen at lunch, and next to her in English class. We still saw each other at the tennis club café for a few minutes after our lessons. But it was hard work. My parents hadn’t been kidding about making sure Kristen and I weren’t associating. They started keeping closer tabs on me—picking me up right after school, and staying at the club to watch my lessons from the stands. They roped my siblings in to helping them too, so even if Mom and Dad weren’t home, there was always someone watching to see if I was on the phone, and sneaking onto another receiver mid-conversation to try to catch who was on the other end.

It was exhausting, and unsustainable. Especially for Kristen. Why should she go out of her way to try to keep being friends in secret when she had plenty of other friends to occupy her time, and parents who let her have more freedom than mine?

So, inevitably, we drifted apart. My parents saw the shift—I stopped fighting to get to tennis early in hopes of seeing Kristen, and I stopped using the phone altogether—and they were glad. But they only got half their wish. Just because I’d lost my friendship with Kristen didn’t mean I’d changed personalities. The boys at school and at tennis still didn’t have any interest in being friends with me, nor I them. The result was that I was the same broken, nervous, strange kid, only now I was completely friendless.

High school crept by slowly, like that winter when you were eight and Francis was trapped under six feet of snow. Remember how bored and cranky we were, stuck in the house for weeks, eating a lot of spaghetti and doing the same six puzzles over and over? The difference here was, the sun never came out and melted the ice away.

Love,

Mom

I hate that she lost Kristen. I mean, I knew something must have happened, because Kristen has never been a part of our lives, but still. It hits way too close to home. If Mom grew apart from her best friend, who’s to say the same won’t happen to me?

Before this trip I never would have questioned the stability of Sam’s and my relationship. But a lot of things happened this week that I never would have predicted.

To: acelove6@email.com

From: Mellie.Baker@email.com

June 23 (4:33 AM)

Subject: Renée

Dear Dara,

If you wouldn’t mind, could you give Sam a hug from me? I’ve been thinking about Kristen a lot this week, more than I have in years, and it’s made me so grateful that you have Sam, and that he’s on this journey with you. He’s a good friend.

Anyway.

Once my parents were satisfied I wasn’t friends with girls anymore, they stopped Big Brothering me. I could come and go as I pleased and spend my time however I wanted to, as long as it didn’t break their rules.

I spent a lot of time at the tennis club. And I was getting very good. I started collecting first place trophies. Our paths have been similar in that way—tennis was for me, as it is for you, the most important thing. The only thing. Sometimes it pains me, Dara, to think about how much you’ve given to the game. How much you’ve sacrificed. But then I remember that though our situations may resemble each other’s, they are not identical. Your dedication to tennis is a choice you’ve made out of love and passion. Mine was a reflex, a desperation.

Sometimes I saw Kristen at the club; we’d smile and wave, or exchange small talk, but it wasn’t the same. She stopped competing in tournaments in eleventh grade, and in twelfth she stopped coming to the club altogether. She started dating Mike Fallon, one of the big, muscle-bound guys from the football team. Maybe those were her kind of people all along.

I began to read a lot. Books became my friends. I took out several from the library each week and read in bed at night and during downtimes at the club. It was one of these library books that completely changed my life.

I’d picked up a book about tennis in the 1970s, in an effort to learn as much about the history of the game as I could, and there was a long chapter about a player named Renée Richards. I’d never heard of her before. But I quickly saw myself in those pages.

She’d been born Richard Raskind. Unlike me, she’d been good at all sports, and had played for the football and baseball teams in high school. She’d even been invited to play for the New York Yankees. But, like me, she loved tennis best, and stopped playing everything else. Soon she was one of the top college tennis players in the United States, and she continued on to the pros. The problem was, she was playing in the men’s circuit, and despite what the world assumed, she wasn’t a man. So, not knowing what it would mean for her career, she began to transition. Publicly.

The tennis community flipped out. They refused to let her play as a woman, saying that regardless of the hormonal and physical changes she’d gone through, she had still been “born male” and therefore would be at an advantage over the other women players. She was prevented from playing in all the major tournaments, and eventually she sued the United States Tennis Association. And she won.

Can you imagine my seventeen-year-old self reading this? Barely breathing, my eyes unable to take the words in fast enough, my fingers slippery with sweat as they tried to turn the pages.

Transgender. Transsexual. It was the first time I’d seen those words, but they instantly filled a long-vacant part in my heart. There was a name for what I was. And there were more possibilities than just name changes and being “a man in a dress.” There were medical treatments, options. There was at least one famous person—a tennis player, no less—who had gone through what I was going through. And the government validated her.

The tennis community didn’t embrace her as easily as the law did, nor did the media or the public, but the courts said she was allowed to compete, so she did. She went on to win more titles. She became Martina Navratilova’s coach. I watched as she was inducted into the USTA Eastern Tennis Hall of Fame, and later the National Gay & Lesbian Sports Hall of Fame.

She was a trailblazer. Pro sports—and the world, really—have so much to thank her for. I have so much to thank her for. Not the least of which is the basic fact that if it weren’t for her, I have no idea how much longer I would have gone on thinking I was the only one.

Love,

Mom

Catherine joins me on the porch. She has a book with her. “My parents just called. They’re only a few minutes away.”

The space under my ribs seems to shrink, pinching my organs together. “Oh wow. Okay.”

“What are you up to out here?” she asks, opening the book to a dog-eared page. It’s a novel. I add that to my mental picture: a family of readers.

“Just catching up on some emails,” I say.

“Anything exciting going on back home?”

I know she’s asking about friends, not Mellie. “Not really.” I shrug, and casually pick up my phone again.

To: acelove6@email.com

From: Mellie.Baker@email.com

June 23 (5:27 AM)

Subject: The beginning and the end

Dear Dara,

I don’t know if you have any questions about any of this. I think it’s important that these emails be solely about my story—our story—not about definitions and studies and statistics. I already fear the story’s been going on too long, and I don’t want to get off track too much, so I won’t stop to explain the technical terms. I’m far from the authority on it all, anyway, and everyone’s experience is different and I don’t want to speak for anyone else. From our conversation, I know you know a little about what transgender means, so I’m relying on that here. But please, if you do have specific questions about it or gender dysphoria or anything at all, ask me. Or, if you’re not ready to talk to me about this yet, Google knows all.

After learning about Renée Richards, I made a list of every book in the library about gender identity and sexuality, and read them systematically, cover to cover, not starting the next until the previous was completed, its contents sufficiently digested. There wasn’t nearly as much published about the topic then as there is now, and our little local library barely had anything on the subject, but at the time I felt like I’d stumbled upon a diamond mine. Each new bit of information slotted perfectly into a hollow in my mind, making me more whole.

I read while at the library, crouched in a corner at the end of the Medicine and Science aisle—I didn’t want the librarians noticing the types of books I was checking out, and I couldn’t risk anyone in my family finding them. The librarians didn’t ask why I never checked anything out; I think they suspected I needed the library itself more than the books inside—a refuge from home—though they never brought it up directly.

Eventually the library got dial-up internet, and, tentatively, I started exploring online. The internet wasn’t the wealth of information it is today, but it was certainly better than out-of-date library books. I found a website called Susan’s Place, which was, miraculously, a networking resource for trans women. I spent time on there almost every day, making sure to delete my browsing history every few minutes.

One Saturday evening when I was exactly your age, shortly after high school graduation, I arrived at the library, after yet another dinner with my family where I sat there quietly and listened to my sister and brothers talk, to find things were different. Instead of the usual empty aisles, low lights, and quiet din of computers running and pages turning, tables and portable shelves had been set up in the entryway, the overhead fluorescents were blazing, and a fair-sized crowd was milling about, sipping coffee from small paper cups and eating cookies and brownies they’d purchased from a baked-goods table. Propped up on an easel by the front door was a large sign that read “Book Sale.” The tables and shelves were piled high with old books, each with price stickers on them. Twenty-five cents, fifty cents, one dollar.

I asked Marjorie, my favorite librarian, what was going on.

“Oh, hello, Marcus, dear,” she said, her apple cheeks shimmering with freshly applied berry-pink blush. “No one told you?”

I shook my head.

“We received a grant from the state to purchase thousands of new books, and they’ve just been entered into the system. So we’re holding a sale to get rid of some of our older and lesser-read titles to make room for the new ones.”

“Wow,” I said. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you!” She beamed. “We’re thrilled. Why don’t you take a look around and see if any of your favorites are up for grabs?”

I hadn’t thought of that. The internet had largely replaced my book research, but those dusty old volumes had saved me. Given me hope. My bookmarks were still in some of them. The books were my friends, and I didn’t want to have to say good-bye to them too. Frantically, I began to scan the tables. I was able to take inventory pretty quickly—I knew the spines and covers of my books by heart—and breathed a sigh of relief when it became apparent that none of the medical journals were on the chopping block.

As I headed toward the computers, I noticed all the shiny, new, just-delivered books stacked all over the library. Curious, I veered down my usual aisle.

Like magnets to steel, my eyes were drawn to a book, faceup on the top of a pile, with a woman on the cover. Looking back, I probably only noticed it because of how stunning she was, with her dark skin, platinum hair, and long legs peeking out from her gown. She was pretty, and I was a hormone-ridden teenager who was attracted to female humans. Nothing more complicated than that. But it was the book’s description that had me clinging on to it for dear life. The woman on the cover was a drag queen. Drag queens aren’t necessarily trans—many of them are cis men, RuPaul included—but it rocked my world to discover that this beautiful woman spent much of her life presenting as male.

The book was RuPaul Charles’s autobiography. I hadn’t heard of RuPaul before, but I was desperate to know more about her. She was anatomically male but looked like that—and she was famous. People admired her. She was important enough for this little suburban library to buy a copy of her story.

I had to read it immediately.

To this day, I still don’t know how I gathered the courage to walk back up to the desk, place the book on the counter, and hand Marjorie my library card.

But I did, and the librarian just smiled and thanked me.

The book might as well have been a tube of lipstick, or one of the lacy bras I used to covet during my shopping trips with Kristen. I felt like I’d just taken a huge step. Toward what, I didn’t quite know, but it felt good.

I hid the book in the back of my closet, under piles of clothes and tennis gear, and only read it at night after everyone had gone to bed.

Barely two weeks later, I got home from practice to find my father waiting for me on the front porch. There was a fire in his eyes I had never seen before.

“What’s … going on?” I asked hesitantly.

He crossed the porch, grabbed my upper arms, and threw me into the side of the house. The breath went out of me and my shoulder stung. He yanked me forward and pushed me against the wall once more, even harder this time. He didn’t retreat; he was in my face, his expression a mask of blind rage, clearly hoping I’d fight back.

I stared at the ground, shivering in my father’s shadow.

Then I heard a noise, a crack. I glanced to my right to find a metal bucket off to the side of the porch, a small but brilliant fire roaring inside. I can only imagine I didn’t notice it earlier because I was too frightened of my father to properly take in my surroundings, but now I realized that the fire I’d seen in his eyes was only a reflection of the very real blaze just a few feet away from us. Or at least, that’s what I told myself. It helped to have an excuse for his inhuman appearance at that moment; my fear level dropped just a notch.

He must have sensed it, because he let go of my arms, and the places where his grip had been pulsed, desperate to reclaim their blood flow. I took a slow step toward the fire and peered over the edge of the bucket, confirming what I’d subconsciously already known. The RuPaul book, or the shrivels of what was left of it, was inside.

Turned out my parents’ suspicions hadn’t decreased post-Kristen after all. I wonder if they’d been looking for an excuse to hit me, punish me, change me, throw me out, whatever it took to remove the blemish from their otherwise perfect, God-fearing family.

They were about to get their wish.

I looked back up at my father. The fire-eyed monster was gone, but in its place was something worse. A very real human staring directly at me with such definitive, blinding hatred I had to look away.

That was the last moment I laid eyes on him. My heart throbbing against my rib cage, my throat tight, my arms and back and shoulder aching and bruised, I walked into the house, past the living room where my mother and all three of my siblings had been sitting quietly, watching my father beat me up in front of our home, and into my room. I packed some clothes and my tennis gear, and left. My movements were methodical, robotic. It must have been some sort of survival instinct kicking in, which is strange, because I was pretty sure I thought about harming myself even more than my father dreamed about harming me.

No one said a word. That’s maybe what’s haunted me the most over the years—that we never spoke about the issue at hand. They hated me, but they never even knew me.

When the front door swung shut behind me, I swear I heard a collective sigh of relief. I never saw them again.

So. Now you’re caught up on the Hogans. You know everything I know. Maybe someday, when we’re both ready, we can find out what became of them … together.

Love,

Mom

No thanks, I think. They sound awful. Not anything like the Pembrokes.

I consider writing back, but just then a car turns onto the gravel road. It stops in front of the house, and an older man and woman get out. Yoshimi runs to greet them and leaps right into the man’s arms.

Catherine takes my hand and grins at me. “Ready?”

“I think so,” I say with a shaky laugh.

I slip the phone in my back pocket and smooth out the front of my shirt and shorts. I’m not as dirty as Catherine, who’s been out back with the animals all morning, but I wish I weren’t still in the clothes I slept in. And it would have been nice to be able to brush my teeth.

Ruth and William run straight to me. They’re both fit and tanned. William is gray-haired; Ruth is blond, like her daughters. Like me. They look exactly as I pictured them, right down to the neat, tailored clothing.

“Hi,” I say, holding out a hand. But Ruth throws her arms around me and hugs me as if she’s trying to make up for the last seventeen years. It’s as awkward as it was being hugged by Catherine the first time, but I concentrate on hugging her back, trying not to let go or pull away too quickly.

“Oh, Dara,” Ruth murmurs in my ear. “My sweet, sweet baby girl.”

William stands beside us and places a warm, large hand on my shoulder; he pulls it away after a minute to wipe his teary eyes.

When the hug ends, I realize Ruth has been crying too.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” I say, a little shy.

Ruth flinches, but recovers quickly. “Of course. You were too young to remember. We have met before. We were actually a big part of one another’s lives for a year or so, until …”

“Right,” I say quickly, filling in the blank. “Sorry.”

“Shall we sit?” William asks, gesturing to the porch. He sets down Yoshimi, and she chases after a fly.

Ruth sits next to me on the swing, and Catherine and William pull up chairs.

“Tell them the story, Dara,” Catherine urges.

I know it’s still morning, but today already feels like it’s lasted for ages. I’m worn out, in every way, and I don’t particularly feel like going into the whole Mellie-betrayal story yet again. But of course I have to. Ruth and William are waiting expectantly. Everyone’s staring at me.

So I tell them. They hang on my every word. Then they ask about tennis and school and friends. If we’ve ever traveled, what sorts of books and music and films I like. They ask about our new last name and what Francis is like. They ask what “Marcus” does for a living, what procedures he’s had done and what he looks like now. I show them a photo on my phone of Mom and me from graduation.

Ruth gasps, and a hand flies to her mouth. “Oh my …”

“Are you sure that’s him?” William says, squinting and bringing the screen closer to his face as if searching for a clue.

“I’m sure,” I say.

“Unbelievable,” he whispers. He and Ruth exchange a long glance. There’s a lot being said, but I don’t know them well enough to decode it. He turns back to me. “Those documents and pictures you were telling us about. The ones you found. Do you have them with you?”

“Yes.”

“May we see them?”

I stand up, but Catherine stops me. “I’ll go.”

“Oh. Okay, thanks. They’re in the front zip pocket of my suitcase. If Sam’s not awake yet, bang on the door until he gets up.”

Catherine laughs. She thinks I’m being funny; she doesn’t know about our fight.

“Can I ask you guys some questions?” I ask while we wait. We’ve been talking for a while now, and I’m feeling more comfortable. Just like I’d hoped, just like Catherine promised, they made me feel welcome from the start. Not only welcome, but really, truly part of it. The family. Like I’ve been on an extended vacation, but I’m back where I belong now.

“Please do!” Ruth says, pleased. “What would you like to know?”

“Well …” I think about which question to ask first. “What was Celeste like?” I’ve gotten Catherine’s account, but I want more.

Their faces grow sad, and I wonder if it’s because they’re remembering and missing her, or if they’re thinking how tragic it is that I never got to know her on my own.

“She was the kind of person who made friends everywhere she went,” Ruth says. “Everyone loved her. She wasn’t like Catherine, who’s always known what she wanted to do with her life, but that never seemed to concern her. I think she would have been truly happy doing anything. That was just who she was—adaptable, easygoing, always finding the good in things.”

“She was prelaw at U Penn,” William says. “She would have made a fine lawyer, if given the time.”

“She was still in college when she had me, right?” I ask.

They nod.

“What did you think of that? Of her getting married and having a baby so young?”

“Honestly, we were thrilled,” Ruth says. “We thought Marcus was a lovely boy …” Her jaw tightens, and she very subtly rolls her shoulders back. “And they seemed very much in love. We were excited to be grandparents, and of course we insisted on helping out financially so she could finish her schooling and start her career.”

“Do you have any other grandchildren?” I ask, realizing I never asked Catherine if she had kids.

Ruth looks down, and William shakes his head. “Catherine here doesn’t seem all that interested in motherhood.” He gives her a disappointed look just as she returns with the papers.

“Not true!” Catherine retorts. “I’m mother to four horses, two dogs, a cat, three goats, nine sheep, and now twenty enormous pigs.”

He pats her knee patronizingly. “I know, darling.”

Apparently, Catherine is the black sheep of the family. But the fact that they gave her this entire farm, and probably money too, to pursue her dream proves how much they care about her, even if they don’t always understand her.

“Was Sam up?” I ask.

“Yeah, he was on his computer.” She hands her dad the stack of documents and photographs. William takes his time looking through it all, then passes them to Ruth, who grazes her fingertips reverently over the photos of Celeste.

I have to ask. “What happened back then?”

They all look up at me. “You mean …?” William says.

“I mean what made my moth—Mellie run away? How was she even able to? How did it all go down, from your perspective?”

Ruth and William share another look.

“It’s okay,” I assure them. “You can tell me.”

“What do you think happened?” William asks slowly.

I shrug. “All Mellie said was that you weren’t supportive of her transition, and it reminded her of her bad relationship with her own parents, and that’s why she left. I don’t know what was said, but Catherine mentioned you thought she was having a breakdown?”

“Marcus didn’t tell you specifics?” William seems surprised by this.

I know it’s all they knew her as, but it’s still weird to hear them calling her he and Marcus when I’ve clearly been calling her she and Mellie.

“No.” I don’t mention that she’s trying to now, with the emails. “But I honestly don’t see what could have been so bad that she thought changing our names and going on the run was a reasonable option.”

“Neither do we,” he says. “That’s part of why the last seventeen years have been so difficult. We don’t know what we did to deserve this.” I look from him to Ruth to Catherine. They look so helpless. Broken. “We may have reacted … unfavorably. But I’m sure anyone would react the same way when their daughter’s husband starts wearing dresses and makeup with no explanation. Before we knew it, you were gone without a trace.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say.

“What do you think, Dara?” Ruth asks. “You must have some strong feelings about it all.”

“I think it sucks,” I say bluntly, and they smile. “You’re really nice people. I wish I could have had you in my life this whole time.” My nose prickles. I rub it with the back of my hand. “I wish we’d stayed in Philly, where I could have trained at a real tennis center …” I sniffle, and wipe under my eyes. “I wish none of this had ever happened.”

Ruth circles an arm around me and cradles me against her. I never knew the comfort of a grandmother’s embrace until this moment. “Us too, sweetheart. Us too.”

Catherine has to get back to work, but William, Ruth, and I take a long walk around the property together.

“I went to the house in Cherry Hill first,” I tell them as we stroll. “I hadn’t realized you’d moved.”

“I’m sorry. Of course we would have told you if we had known how to contact you,” Ruth says.

“Oh, I know that. I wasn’t blaming you or anything. It was actually nice to get a chance to see the house where Celeste grew up.”

“It’s where your parents got married too, you know,” William says.

“It is?” Mellie didn’t say anything about that.

“Oh yes. It was a beautiful wedding.”

“I’m sure it was. The house is incredible.”

“We have the wedding album at home,” Ruth says. “If you’d ever like to come see it.”

“I’d love that.”

She smiles.

“What made you decide to move to a farm?” I ask.

William chuckles. “We’d recently retired, and had grand illusions of country life. Riding horses, collecting fresh eggs from our own hens, all that business.”

“It does sound nice,” I say, taking a deep breath of the fresh air.

“It was. But it didn’t take us long to figure out it wasn’t for us.”

“It was really cool of you to give the place to Catherine. She seems so happy doing this work.”

“Yes, she’s our little do-gooder.” Ruth lets out a wistful sigh. “I do wish she’d find a husband to join her in her ambitions, though. It would be nice to know she’s taken care of.”

We come upon the pigpen. Catherine is working diligently to file down each pig’s hooves to a more comfortable length. I never knew pigs needed their toenails cut like humans do. Some of them resist and pull away, but she’s patient with them, rubbing their bellies and murmuring soothing tones in their ears until they allow her to continue.

She doesn’t look like she needs anyone to take care of her. I glance at Ruth as she watches her daughter perform this unusual task. She shakes her head, ever so slightly, in amazement.

Matt, Jane, Ezra, Gabby, and Meadow are all here. Sam’s probably still in his room. Avoiding me.

Matt nods at me. I wasn’t sure what it would be like seeing him again, but the light of day has reinforced that I did the right thing in walking away. He made me feel wanted and understood, and last night I really needed that. But he was a mere moment, and moments can’t last.

“Have you met Maybelline yet, Dara?” William asks as we continue our tour.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“She’s our five-year-old American Quarter Horse. We bought her when we moved to the farm.”

We walk a little ways to the horse paddock. William calls out for Maybelline, and moments later a shiny, muscular brown horse with black legs and a black mane and tail comes trotting over. “And how have you been, my lovely?” he asks her. She nuzzles her face against his, and he pats her side.

“Do you ride?” Ruth asks me.

“Me?” My eyes widen. “No, I’ve never been on a horse before.”

She looks saddened by that. “That’s a shame. I grew up riding, as did my daughters.” Horseback riding. It was part of my vision of the family at the farm. I was right about so much.

“For me it’s been strictly tennis,” I say.

“Yes.” She nods thoughtfully. “Will you be playing in college?”

I bite my lip, remembering what Ruth said about making sure Celeste continued her education even after she had me. College is clearly important to them. “Um. No, actually. I’ve decided to pursue a pro career instead.”

William pulls his eyes away from Maybelline for a moment. “That’s very impressive.”

“Thank you.” A sense of vindication blooms within me, rich as the farm earth. “It’s my dream. Traveling this week has made it hard to keep up with my training, but I’m really looking forward to getting back on the court.”

“Oh!” Ruth says, her eyes lighting up. “We have a tennis court!”

I look around. “Where?”

“At home in Hilton Head. The previous owners had a court built on the property. It’s blue. We’ve never used it, but we keep it well-maintained. For aesthetics, you know.”

“Wow,” I say. “There isn’t even a tennis court in all of Francis. I have to drive to Rochester to train with my coach, and most days I practice on a racquetball court at the rec center. And you have a court at your house?”

Ruth takes my hand in both of hers. She glances at William, and he nods. “Dara,” she says, almost breathless. “We’d love it if you came to stay with us. The court is all yours. We’ll hire a pro from the club to come practice with you if you like, since your grandfather and I won’t be much help in that arena.” She laughs. “How does that sound?”

Came to stay. Could that mean what I think it does? “Um … how long were you thinking?” I ask carefully.

“As long as you’d like! We’ve missed out on nearly your whole life up to this point. We’ll take all the time we can get now.”

Their eyes brim with anticipation and hope.

My thoughts start spinning, slowly at first, but picking up speed as they go. My long-lost grandparents just asked me to come live with them. In their guaranteed-to-be-super-fancy house on the water with its own private tennis court. I could train every single day. And we could get to know one another—really get to know one another, in the way that only happens naturally over time. Share our stories, the almost-forgotten ones that only emerge in your memory when triggered. This scenario is beyond anything I’d allowed myself to imagine.

“Would—” I begin, but my mouth goes dry. I want to ask the thing that’s been on my mind since Mom mentioned they had money. I want to know if they’d consider sponsoring me. If they’ll help me build a real career. After getting to know them a bit, I’m certain they’ll say yes. Still, it feels cheap—wrong—to ask even more when so much has been taken from them already. But I have to know—before I agree to live with them. I can’t let one dream thwart another. I need to find a way to develop a relationship with my new family and get out there on the circuit as soon as possible. “The thing is,” I say, fighting the urge to avoid their eyes, “I’ve been planning on signing up for some pro tournaments this summer. It’s important for me to earn ranking points. But the expenses involved have made that tricky—”

Ruth waves a hand, as if she can’t imagine being bothered by such a thing as money. “We’ll cover anything you need.”

I chew on my lip, not allowing my hopes to get up just yet. “That’s … wow. Thank you. That’s incredibly nice of you. But you should know that starting a tennis career can be very expensive. There’s a lot of travel and training and equipment involved—”

“Dara,” William cuts me off. “It’s not a problem. Like your grandmother said, we’ve missed out on too much of your life. Let us spoil you now.” He grins.

I almost don’t trust my own hearing. This is the one thing I’ve been praying for, and the Pembrokes just offered it up as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.

“Really?” I whisper.

“Just one question,” Ruth says. “Are there tournaments you can play in near where we live?”

“Yes—well, not too far away.” I mentally run through the schedule I memorized while stalking the ITF website. “There are a few coming up in Winston-Salem, North Carolina; Sumter, South Carolina; and Charlottesville, Virginia.” And the deadlines to register for them are fast approaching.

“Wonderful!” Ruth collects my hands in hers and squeezes. “You let me know the dates and I’ll have our travel agent arrange everything. Perhaps we can even find some spas to stay at. We’ll make a holiday out of it!” She’s absolutely radiant with the idea.

“Well … okay then!” I’m grinning now too. “When do we leave?”