I nodded my approval, wishing that I had more money left over to give, or that I’d been wiser about how I’d used it.

All those Gram mornings evaporated into the smoky night in the bosom of a canyon. Aiden’s existence on earth was still as electrifying to me as any other natural phenomenon, a mixture of beauty and impenetrability.

Aiden went to go clean up. The fire smoked, and Rachel and Blithe and I moved inside, to a sparse living room, with Agatha following us.

I sat at one end of a large couch, draped with Pendleton blankets, while Rachel sat on another. Blithe kneeled down by Agatha.

“Is she an indoor-outdoor goose?”

“Yep,” Rachel said. “When she shits inside, we put it in a bucket and save it for the gardener.”

“How thoughtful,” I said, switching back to my Cape Cod dive-bar brattiness for a moment.

She pulled her legs up under her skirt and gave Blithe a treat to offer to Agatha. Blithe held it out to her, and she let out a disdainful grunt, then took the treat in her mouth and ran down the hallway. Blithe followed her. He did not seem up to dealing with humans.

On the coffee table, there were squares of paper spread out. I picked one up and ran my fingers over the soft, woven fibers. The edges were feathered. It was rare to find a tactile surface for writing.

“What’s all this?”

“Paper samples. For our invitations. Our relationship, it’s turned real,” Rachel continued, leaning back with a contented sigh. “Still, I think Aiden is having a hard time. We have been reaching out to his parents, and it’s bringing up a lot for him.”

“Are they coming to the wedding?”

“We’re working on it. I think it would be healing to have them there. And our wedding planner wants to do something special, something trans-affirming.”

I wanted to punch Aiden and make sure his bio family attended his wedding. There was no contradiction.

“Are we going to be invited?”

“Do you want to come?”

“Are you kidding? I should give a long, inappropriate toast about how I set you two up.”

“Don’t. Really.”

I kept my mouth shut. If she wanted to appease her relatives, I would not try to describe the wildflower field that lies beyond pleasantries.

“How’re you doing?” I asked Blithe as we drove home.

“I feel like you and Aiden are all juicy with connections and nutrients and this Rhiz bullshit, and I’m like a struggling and severed transplant.”

“I hope that you can leave soon, for your sake.”

“Thanks. I want us all to be bros, I do, but I have to follow these other longings first.”