“Camped. Made friends, stayed on couches. Picked up random jobs in random cities. I saw a lot of the country. It wasn’t so bad.”

“All to stay away from your mom?”

“And to calm the noise in my head.” He wiped his mouth. “She’s . . . difficult. My father was a good guy, but he passed away when I was seventeen. But my mom . . .” He sighed. “I just never felt like she really liked me. It was always about her struggles, her pain. I always felt like a disappointment.”

“I’m sorry,” Andrea said softly.

When Reginald looked up again, his eyes had a sheen. Not with tears, exactly, but of contemplation. “God. Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring the conversation down.”

“It’s okay.” Andrea had no idea when someone had last opened up to her—besides Lauren and Ronnie. Was this a date? Well, of course it was a date—she was a woman, he was a man. Andrea had firsthand knowledge; men didn’t usually hang out with women and their four-year-old sons and start talking about their mothers unless they had more intimate motives, no matter how nice they were.

But where did she play in all this?

Teenage Andrea had had sex with girls because it was expected. It had been easy to say yes, and she’d been fascinated with their bodies—but also bereft, in a way, because theirs were bodies she wanted. Once Andrea had begun taking hormones, though, she looked at men differently. Men passing on the street, men gliding into restaurants, men on TV—they all enticed her, and she began to form fantasies. She’d read about how sexuality could flip-flop after transitioning; it was more common than one thought. But still, it felt miraculous, like she’d discovered a new room in her house that she’d never walked into before, complete with furniture and books and wonder and surprises for her to discover.

And Reginald? Here he was, tall and angular and stubbly, with big chapped hands and in a dark blue polo that brought out the color of his eyes, sitting in her living room, listening to her stories, looking at her as she ate her food.

With Arthur nestled in the chair across the room, Andrea rose and opened a second bottle of wine. The alcohol from the first bottle had gone straight to her head, and she had to remember to be careful with her walk, her voice, the way she sat. Because that was the truth of the matter: though it now came more naturally than before, she still had to watch herself.

“I was a disappointment to my mother, too,” she said in a quiet voice.