His head filled with the cool steam of rage. Like all those years living as a girl, everyone forever telling him he didn’t know what he wanted. He didn’t want ice cream so early in the day. He didn’t want to teach in the South. He didn’t want to be a guy, really, did he? When he was so nice-looking as a girl? They only ever said nice-looking. They never said pretty.

As Dilly stepped forward, arms out for a hug, he backed up toward his building. “You need to leave.”

Once she was gone, he checked his phone. Ivan again, face and burrito blinking across the screen. This time, Asher answered. “Just come over.” He hung up.

Trembling, he forced himself to relax by sitting on the couch, but his back was stiff against the cushions. What could Dilly have meant? Was the booklet unflattering because he was so in love with Ivan that it was pathetic? Or because he’d stolen the words from Rachel, which was obvious after a careful read? Or because Ivan would learn too much about Asher’s transition and see Asher as a girl? But Ivan had known Asher a year, since back when he’d lived as female. He’d been sweet about Asher’s transition. That was how he let his interest show. Asher shouldn’t have used Rachel’s words. But Rachel would want him to be happy, wouldn’t she?

And besides, he hadn’t only used the nice parts. He’d included the worst passage ever written about himself. For weeks he’d ignored that portion of the entry, too pained to so much as glance at it. Maybe Rachel was racist herself and had projected her feelings onto him. She’d been jealous of Ivan, and her rage had come out sideways in words he covered with his finger when he was brave enough to revisit the entry.

But slowly, over weeks, Asher realized that, if he was being honest with himself, he had entertained the thought, if half-submerged, that part of his crush on Ivan was related to Ivan’s pretty face and girlier manner. Though he’d never consciously connected those features to Ivan’s race. He’d considered removing that bit when he made the booklet—or adding a caveat—but decided, rashly, to leave the entry intact. Ivan was brilliant. He’d appreciate Asher’s radical honesty, his vulnerability. In these new political times, white people couldn’t walk around anymore pretending they were free of racism. If you admitted your flawed thinking, then at least you were wrestling, in some small way, with all that was wrong with the world. And during book club discussions, Ivan had appreciated when Asher mentioned white supremacy or his own limitations as a white reader. He’d be impressed by Asher’s self-awareness.