The car ride starts in silence, the kind that hums instead of presses. Streetlights flicker across the windshield as I pull away from the bar, checking my mirrors out of habit, not fear. She’scurled slightly toward the window, arms folded loosely, breath still evening out.
I clear my throat, aiming for light. Normal. “You’ve been bartending a while?”
“Six years,” she says. “Give or take.”
“That long?” I glance over. “You don’t look tired of people yet.”
She huffs a soft laugh. “I am. I’m just good at hiding it.” Then, more thoughtful, “It paid my way through college. Still does.”
“What did you study?”
“I’m finishing my master’s in social work.”
That gets my full attention. “Seriously?”
She nods. “I’m saving every dime I make. I want to work in advocacy. Young adults who are transitioning and don’t have support. There are so many who get pushed out of their homes with nothing but a backpack and fear.”
My grip tightens on the wheel. “That’s… ambitious.”
“It has to be,” she says simply. “I want to buy a building eventually. A safe living community. Housing for unhoused trans and transitioning folks. Access to healthcare. Legal help for name changes. Therapy. Stability. All of it.”
I’m quiet for a moment, stunned by the scope of it, by the clarity. “Is that because you’ve experienced some of that yourself?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. No embellishment.
I nod slowly. “Family?”
“Estranged,” she says. “For years now. They wanted Zaire. They refused to love Zaria.”
The words land heavy, precise. I feel something settle in my chest, an ugly familiarity.
“I get that,” I say after a beat. “Awful families have a way of shaping you whether you want them to or not.”
She turns slightly. “How much has Lena told you about my father?”
“Not much,” I admit. “She’s… respectful. She lets people tell their own stories.”
I smiled briefly. The thought of having someone I could trust with my pain wasn’t a comfort I was used to. I exhale—long and measured. “Caleb Black Sr. was abusive. To my mother. To all of us, in different ways. Control disguised as discipline. Fear masquerading as faith. We’re all in therapy now. Together and separately. Trying to unpack what it means to heal from someone like that.”
She listens without interrupting but I can see the horror flickering across her face as I share just enough to be honest. I don’t look at her when I finish. I keep my eyes on the road. For whatever reason the victims of abuse always sit on the side of shame and embarrassment. Never the abuser.
A moment passes.
Then I feel her hand slide over mine, warm and comforting. Her fingers thread through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to.
Neither do I.
I let the silence sit with us as I drive. There was an understanding settling in where tension used to be.
It’s an understanding that knows the strength it takes to be whole when the people who should love you try to rip you to pieces. We seem to both know that weight. In this quiet and shared knowing, our dynamic shifts. Where Zaria once saw me as a threat—I hope she was now seeing me as an ally.
I wasn’t here to take from her joy and comfort.
I was here to add and multiply their happiness in ways they never thought imaginable.
I wasn’t here to take Lena possessively and occupy her love.
I was hoping for a chance to show them both they were worthy of everything they desired.
