“What, have you been here since the meeting?”

“I knew that book was fishy. And holy shit.” Her face lit up. “Asher. You said you didn’t write it.”

He took a breath. Here, it started. “I didn’t say that. I said I’m not a writer.”

“That’s effectively the same thing.”

“No it’s not, Little Miss Semantics.”

“Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, Asher. You gave it to the whole group.”

“I’m not going to give it to just one of you, am I?”

“One of us.” She stuck her fist to her hip. “So you do love him.”

He wasn’t surprised that she wasn’t surprised. Dilly may have been Phi Beta Kappa and a Rhodes Scholar and on an endowed fellowship at Emory, but her kicks came from crushes and entanglements. While he was still with Rachel, he’d been subtle about his feelings for Ivan. But, postbreakup, he changed tactics. Ivan hadn’t noticed, so why should Asher care if Dilly did? Maybe Dilly wanted to end the group because she was jealous of Asher and Ivan’s connection, the way they’d stolen off together to look at Asher’s photo.

“So?” he asked.

“So? You’re a lesbian, Asher.”

He scowled. “No, I’m not.”

“Basically, yeah.” She swung her arms in the sunshine. “Tits and pronouns aside.”

“Get out of here.” Dilly had never hit on Asher, even when he was living as a girl. Wasn’t that proof enough he wasn’t one?

“Look.” She flipped open the booklet. “His name was Ashley,” she read.

“Dilly.” Dilly was her queer name, gifted by an older Midtown butch. Dilly was not a name that lent itself to desperate pleas.

“Which is a man’s name, remember,” Dilly read on, chin up, hair catching light in its curls. “But not enough so he’d keep it. He’s vain about losing that stupid name, whining about how beautiful it is. Ashley, Ashley. He whispers it sometimes when he thinks he’s alone.” She crumpled her nose. “You think that’s how you’ll win him? Do you even know Ivan?”