“Yeah,” Gemma says. “You’re not wrong. That is an appropriate story. You’re not wrong at all.”

Ava grins. Is it with shyness? Gemma can’t tell. “Okay, great.”

There is a silence, and then Gemma stretches a foot down and rubs Ava’s leg. “So how’s your life?”

Ava gestures around. “Can I complain?”

Gemma laughs, and then lowers her voice. “And how’s stuff with your ex? … Olive?”

“It’s fine,” Ava says. “It’s weird, but. I don’t know.”

Gemma waits a beat, and then says, “Go on. If you want.”

Ava rubs her eyes. “She’s more a sister than an ex at this point. I don’t mean ‘sister’ in some rah-rah trans Three Musketeers way. I mean like she’s an actual sister. Some days I wish it were different. But that’s how family works anyway, y’know?”

“I get that,” Gemma says. “Generous of you to support her like that, though.”

Ava shrugs. “Generous is for people with choices.”

“Don’t kid yourself. You’ve got choices.”

Ava laughs. “Sure.” She pours the rest of the wine into Gemma’s glass. “Well, I dunno what you’re doing next,” says Ava, “and you don’t need to tell me what’s up with you. But you can stay here long as you need, hey?”

“Thank you,” Gemma says. “I appreciate that. I do.”

“Of course,” Ava says placidly.

“This reminds me of church singing.” Gemma gestures to the music. This town is heavy with Mennonites, this place where Gemma grew up. And Mennonites make up the family that Gemma comes from. “It’s not the same. But a little.”

Ava puts her head on Gemma’s shoulder and their legs touch. The polyurethane of Ava’s skirt is cool on Gemma’s thigh. Ava traces a finger around the top of Gemma’s hand. “I loved hearing you sing.”

When they’d met that spring, it was at a party on Balmoral. Gemma’d been texting a friend, and then looked up to see Ava sitting next to her. They began talking and their hands and legs moved closer, the way they do when the bodies of women pull to each other without asking permission. They kissed quickly and inevitably; it was all so immediately obvious. They walked to Gemma’s in the cool air and made love on her mattress, Gemma’s palm on Ava’s throat, Ava’s body a ghostly cross-hatch below her, serrated by street light through the blinds.

They woke at ten the next day to an April prairie snow. Trudged over to the Nook in pyjamas for breakfast, back to Gemma’s to spoon and fuck in front of the TV. Late in the evening, Gemma mentioned offhand that she’d grown up in choirs, and Ava asked if she could hear her sing. Gemma got bashful. I can’t do that. Ava teased her. Come on. For me? And Gemma relented and sang “That Lonesome Road.” She’d sung it in high school choir. But she had really learned to sing, Gemma said, in church. Not just at the church she attended with her dad but also with her Oma, who’d play an upright piano at her house in Mitchell, over round Steinbach area. She’d play through hymns on Sunday before services, and she taught Gemma how to sing. You have a beautiful voice, Ava said once Gemma had finished. Thanks. I miss it sometimes, Gemma said quietly. That part of my life’s gone now. And Ava said, I understand. Gemma pulled up YouTube. This is my favourite version of that song. A university choir, Wichita State. It gets done a lot, but it’s always too clean. It’s too calm. It’s too sanitized. It’s too joyous. It gets sung like a lullaby. It’s not a lullaby. Gemma got emotional, suddenly, saying that.