I had thought we would talk, that I would have the opportunity to work through some of the big feelings I was having, that I would actually muster the courage to acknowledge them aloud to him, that maybe he’d tell me he felt the same. But we didn’t. Our bodies spoke instead. They sang and stuttered, explained and asked. Together they made sense of everything. And we let them.

11

July 1932

For the remainder of spring, I went to The Studio once a week to be with Cal, always during The Gallery on State’s busiest hours. I didn’t want to visit too frequently, or when I knew Abraham had down time. Though Cal had assured me there was nothing to worry about regarding Abe, I didn’t want to wreck my relationship with the bar owner. It was too lucrative to decimate, and times were too uncertain to test Cal’s confidence in the matter. While I wasn’t sure if Abraham knew what was going on between his Peach and me, if he did, I didn’t want to rub his face in whatever it was we had. What did we have? Sex, longer conversations than I’d ever had with anyone in my life, something comfortable that wasn’t supposed to be, something … we had something. I wasn’t certain what the hell it was, but I liked it, and that was significant, because I found it difficult to like a lot of things, but I liked a lot of him.

By the time summer came, we had started to carve out more opportunities to be together. While I still didn’t risk lying in his bed too often, I did meet him for mornings at Oak Street beach, where we tucked our toes in the sand, and afternoons of lounging in the grass at Bughouse Square, listening to soapbox orators spout their thoughts and watching people who liked to be watched. Sometimes, Rosie would join us. I had grown less suspect of the skittish sissy the more I’d gotten to know him. It wasn’t as though I craved his company, but it didn’t offend me to have him around. Though I had never asked Rosie his story, Cal had shared it and the boy chimed in with his soft, sad voice when he found it necessary. It hadn’t shocked me that it was a pathetic tale. Unfortunately, it made perfect sense that it would be.