The Politics of Love Page 2

  “That’s an interesting take on it, Rand,” Greg said.

  “Listen, I have the hardest time peeing in public because I’m so butch.” Shelley gasped and Rand held eye contact with her. “People run after me, chase me into public bathrooms. ‘That’s the women’s bathroom,’ they scream, like I’m committing murder. I’ve addressed these incidents as positively as possible, but I can tell you they’ve happened more and more often since these bills cropped up. It’s irrational fearmongering.”

  “I can’t even imagine,” Greg said. Shelley was quiet.

  “We’re afraid of gender nonconforming people like me. We’re afraid of transgender people. But mostly, we’re afraid of men. I think we need to repair masculinity.”

  “I sometimes forget you’re a therapist first,” Greg said.

  “After the show we can explore your childhood issues.”

  “Tell me it’s a flat rate and you won’t bill by the hour,” Greg said. “Seriously, though, what’s the answer?”

  “There is no need to be afraid of transgender people. It might make you feel uncomfortable, but embrace that, don’t run from it, and try to understand why. Different can be scary when you don’t understand. If you’re out there and you feel that way, maybe it might help to go to YouTube and watch videos about transgender kids and adults. I’ll give Greg some links to put up on the website,” Rand said.

  “I didn’t mean to take over. Shelley and I met in the elevator, where I saved her from an unfortunate heel accident.” Rand paused. “Her heels, not mine.” Greg laughed again. “We don’t need to talk about it. It was gruesome, but we both made it out alive.”

  Shelley met her eyes and smiled, and heat spread across her cheeks.

  “I’m glad everything worked out okay,” Greg said.

  “It did,” Rand said.

  Shelley looked down at the microphone inside her shirt, then at Greg. She had all the appropriate talking points aligned in her head. A minority shouldn’t be able to make the majority feel uncomfortable to accommodate their every whim. The Judeo-Christian ethic built Western civilization. No culture accepted the idea of gender swapping, a severe psychological dysfunction that required medical, psychological, and spiritual help. But nothing came out. None of the words felt right. She’d prefer to be on the show and talk about public spending, taxes, individual liberty, personal responsibility, and social mobility.

  Instead of what she was supposed to say, Shelley said, “I think I need to watch some YouTube videos.”

  Greg choked on his coffee. Shelley made eye contact with Rand, and then stared at her own hands. The production team was silent. “Shelley, are you serious? Or are you placating Rand?”

  “I don’t speak for all of the Right. What Rand said really hit me. I personally have no attachment to transgender bathroom bills. Over-regulation of people’s private lives is an intrusion of government, and I favor small government. I don’t think the state has a vested interest in limiting gender expression or prohibiting transition, thusly, I can’t justify an argument against access. The concern doesn’t add up. It’s not rational,” Shelley said, focused in thought, eyes fixed on a spot above Greg’s shoulder.

  “When you think it through, break it down, it doesn’t really matter. Even if people object on religious grounds to transition, we don’t live in a religious theocracy where the will of one religion is imposed. It is only tolerated in spaces where we have to protect personal liberty. So, if you’re religious and don’t believe it’s moral to transition, then don’t. But it’s not in the state’s interest to limit the rights and access for others who are not.”

  “You sound Libertarian,” Rand said. “Like a real one.”

  “I apologize. We should probably screen topics better,” Shelley said. She laughed and felt a lightness of being she’d not felt before, mind made up on her own, a momentary glimpse of freedom at the desk by Rand’s side, the cameras pointed her way.

  “I’m just so shocked,” Greg exclaimed.

  “I could offer point by point the perspective of the folks championing these bills, and Rand could refute them one by one, if you’d like.” Then there was a wave of panic. What would her family do and say when she returned home?

  Greg turned to the camera. “We’ll be right back to do just that after this commercial break.”

  The cameras stopped recording and Rand turned to Shelley, who held perfectly still, eyes fixed on her hands in front of her. There were red splotches on her skin above and between her breasts. She hated her body’s nervous responses.

  “Why did you do that?” It was Rand. Greg talked with a production assistant, telling them to get the clip up online immediately.

  Shelley gathered her breath and turned to meet Rand’s eyes. “Because you’re right and I’m tired of fighting about things that don’t matter.” Then, with a rush, “Of course it matters to transgender people, I don’t mean that.”

  Rand placed her hand on her arm before withdrawing to her own space. “It’s okay. I understand. Thank you.” The spot on her arm Rand touched was still warm though she knew rationally that wasn’t possible.

  Shelley was pleased to have received her gratitude, oddly eager for more. The show resumed with the conversation, and by the time they were finished, the video of her conceding to Rand was traveling the digital networks. Shelley Whitmore made breaking news as the first hard-right Christian Evangelical to support transgender people’s rights. She didn’t think about any of this, or what it would mean when she returned home, because she was too focused on pretending not to notice the length of Rand’s fingers as she pointed at the desk to outline her ideas, and the heat of her body to the left of her, close enough to touch if she were brave enough. But she wasn’t. She’d done enough for the day.

  Chapter Three

  Shelley replaced her skirt and heels with jeans and tennis shoes. Her duty done at MSNBC, she intended to resume walking around the city. Shelley looked forward to a quiet dinner in a village restaurant, her options for vegan food endless in Manhattan. Slipping into her jeans was a relief, and she sat on the small sofa in the dressing room to tie her shoes. Still sitting, she slipped off her jacket and sleeveless shirt and pulled on a light thermal.

  Shelley shook her hair free and fixed it in a loose braid on the back of her neck. She took contacts from her eyes, slipped them into their case, and put heavy dark plastic glasses on. Her vision sharpened and she pushed the glasses up her nose. Shelley opened the door, still looking in her purse, stepped, and heard, “Whoa! Are you after me?”

  Rand was in the doorway, arms out, smiling. Shelley covered her mouth with her free hand, bag on her shoulder. “Oh my God. You need to take out an insurance policy if I’m anywhere near you.”

  “You look…” Rand said, thought trailing off.

  “I changed,” Shelley said, stating the obvious. Rand hadn’t changed anything but the button-down shirt she’d been wearing. Now she wore a light blue, faded T-shirt and a green hoodie. “Is it bad?” Shelley asked, immediately regretting the question. It sounded insecure and needy. Likely, she thought with ire, because she was.

  “No,” Rand said. “Just different. More comfortable. I like your glasses.” There were seven pictures on the wall behind Rand. “Listen, I wanted to apologize for earlier and to say thank you for today.”

  Shelley stopped counting. “You’re welcome.” Then she resumed counting to ten. “It’s okay about earlier. I understand.” She willed herself to look at Rand. “You said my dad, anyway. I know how he feels. I’m figuring out how I feel.” Rand tipped her head, uncertain. “In the elevator,” Shelley explained. “You said my dad, not me. That mattered.”

  Rand’s expression changed, and Shelley met her eyes, found them kind, accepting, and wanted to cry. Shelley backed into the dressing room. “I was just leaving,” she said, wondering about her choice to retreat.

  “Yeah, me too. Are you busy? Do you want to get an early dinner with me?” Shelley did, and her heart leapt
, but she controlled it, or hoped, as looking too eager was probably repellant. Or so she’d heard.

  “I’d love to.”

  “Let’s go. I heard you’re vegan, which is still the least surprising thing I’ve learned about you today. I know a great place,” Rand said. Shelley took three large steps, not wanting Rand to leave without her. They walked through the hall together, Shelley keeping pace with Rand’s long strides. They stopped at the elevator and Rand punched the button. Rand was a few inches shorter than she was. She’d thought Rand was taller, but she supposed it was her confidence and gait.

  Then she saw the ring on Rand’s left ring finger and her heart slipped from its lofty perch and landed with a thud right in front of her feet. Shelley was sure she’d trip on it. Rand was married. She should have known that, but the truth was she only knew of her activism and work, nothing of her personal life. Before the elevator, she didn’t even know what Rand looked like. Shelley wanted to excuse herself from dinner but was uncertain of the reason. Was she attracted to Rand? The answer was yes.

  Tony had been right all those years ago. They were friends and he never pressured her for more. He filled the hours of her loneliness, and their chemistry made the world seem less barren and bleak. She’d known then but lacked the capacity to do anything about it. Shame spread through her like lava, decimating everything it touched. She was a mystery to herself, a stranger living inside her own body. Shelley counted the tiles on the wall between the two elevators.

  Rand turned to her with a smile. “How long have you been vegan?” Shelley caught her breath. “Are you okay?” Shelley’s mind raced. Not only was Rand beautiful, she was kind and intuitive too. Was beautiful the right word? “Shelley?”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” Shelley said. “I drifted away in thought. It happens.”

  The elevator doors finally opened. Rand waved her in first. “Flights of fancy?”

  “Should see me with a good book,” Shelley said.

  “You like to read?”

  “Love to,” Shelley said eagerly, and then retreated again. She turned to face the elevator doors, aware of Rand. “What did you ask me?”

  “I wondered how long you’d been vegan.”

  “Since I was sixteen,” Shelley said.

  “That’s young.” Shelley didn’t volunteer anymore. “My wife was vegan.” Shelley was curious. “She passed away. Three years ago.” Instinctively, Shelley rested her hand on Rand’s arm, waiting. “Mood bomb. Sorry.” She smiled, lines around her eyes crinkling. Shelley looked at her with tenderness but pulled her hand back quickly.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you. Exactly three years ago next week. Probably why it’s top of mind. But we don’t have to spend a lot of time on it. I don’t mean to weigh us down. I’d like to talk more about what happened on the show, if you’d like.”

  Shelley did, and they walked, the late afternoon sun fading, the streets filling with pedestrians leaving jobs, rushing for subways and buses. Shelley was jostled by the throngs of crowds and lost sight of Rand after she was caught in a swell and swept into the middle of the road. Shelley didn’t have Rand’s phone number and panicked, but then there were warm fingers around her wrist and a tug. Rand pulled, arm around her waist.

  “I hate New York City,” Rand said, hauling Shelley to the open space on the sidewalk against the building. “Let’s get a cab. Wait here?” Rand flagged down a cab, beckoned Shelley, and together they fled, momentarily relieved of the chaos.

  * * *

  Shelley took the final bite of her vegan dahl makhani, cooked in coconut milk, ginger, and tomatoes and smiled at Rand, happier than she’d remembered being in her adult life. She didn’t quite know how to qualify that thought and share with Rand in a way that wouldn’t make her seem desperate and strange, so tucked it away for later. The small restaurant was hidden on Bleecker, in a downstairs room below a bar, deep inside Greenwich Village. The noise above disappeared as they stepped down the stairs.

  Their food came quickly, and they spent most of their time in casual conversation about the menu, food, and other restaurants. The brick walls were exposed, and metal frames hung from wires. Shelley assumed they were pictures of patrons, but she didn’t ask. A small curtain separated the dining area from the kitchen, which didn’t look very big, a common feature of NYC restaurants.

  “I ate so fast,” Shelley said with a shy smile.

  “It was just one dish,” Rand said. “Let’s get some pakora?” Shelley motioned to the menu, which Rand tipped toward her. Shelley pointed to a dish. “Potatoes too. These have spinach.” Shelley held up two thumbs in agreement. Rand waived to the server and placed the order.

  “I’m food motivated.” Shelley sipped her Diet Coke, laughing as she folded her napkin in her lap.

  Rand had both elbows on the table. Shelley was drawn toward her and inched forward. What was she doing?

  “Most vegans are, I think. If you can find food, you love to eat,” Rand said. Shelley agreed, uncertain what else to say. “You’re not who I thought you were. I spend all this time telling people not to have preconceived notions about who people are, and I do it too.”

  The tiles on the wall drew Shelley’s attention, but she willed herself not to count. Instead, she met Rand’s eyes. “It’s not all unfair, your preconceived notions. I honestly don’t know what I’m doing. Or why I’m doing it. It’s like I went to sleep sometime in my teens when I should have individuated and just powered down. Lately, I don’t know. Everything inside of me is changing.”

  “What’s changing?”

  “I don’t know if I’m saying that right,” Shelley said.

  “It’s not about saying it right or not. It’s about saying what you feel. The answers can be conflicting and confusing.”

  “You sound like a therapist,” Shelley said.

  “Well.” Rand pulled a face. “Sorry. You agreed to dinner. Not a session.”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m just not sure how to answer. I don’t know the answer, I guess.”

  “That’s fair.” Rand took a drink.

  “I was wondering,” Shelley said, uncertain, but plunged ahead. “Rand. Is that your real name?”

  “Rand Thomas sounds fake,” she said. “Miranda is my given name. By the time I was seven, I knew I was no Miranda. I woke my mom up one morning and asked to be called Rand. She and my father agreed, made the changes, and here I am.”

  “Your parents just agreed?”

  “If I’d told them I wanted to be a boy, they’d have supported me. That didn’t feel quite right either. I just didn’t want to be Miranda. Everything else seemed acceptable. My parents are San Francisco leftists. My mom teaches English literature at Berkeley, and my father is a biochemist researcher.”

  “I can’t imagine. You know who my parents are.” Shelley tried to process the idea of a childhood so different from her own.

  “I don’t take my privilege for granted.”

  “Is it privilege?” Shelley questioned Rand earnestly.

  “To be loved, accepted, supported, and included for exactly who you are, with no expectation of change? I think it’s the best privilege there is.” As an onslaught of confusing emotion erupted, Shelley momentarily lost her balance. Rand put her hand on her arm. Her struggle to restore calm must have been obvious. It embarrassed her. The warmth of Rand’s hand traveled through her light thermal, and a tickle of desire unwound in her stomach, adding to the confusing pile of emotions Shelley was buried beneath.

  “Shelley,” Rand said, “whatever it is, when you’re ready, if you need help, whatever—” The pressure of Rand’s hand on her arm intensified before she released her grasp. “I can listen. Be your friend.”

  Shelley, normally a master at sublimation, struggled for recovery. “Thank you.” She held Rand’s eyes, and the server set down their food. Her friend. Was it normal to feel heat burn through the middle of you when a new friend touched you?

  “Hate to interru
pt a moment, ladies. But I’ve got your pakora,” the server said.

  Shelley forced a smile. “I might share this,” she said, desperate to change to subject. She pushed a few pieces onto her plate. “Might.”

  Chapter Four

  Rand waited on the sidewalk. The sun set as they ate, and now the city buzzed with nighttime electricity. The swarms of people were settled into apartments, trains to the boroughs, or tucked away in restaurants like the one from which she just stepped. Rand visited the city from time to time but was noticing more than normal. In a blinding moment of clarity, she realized it was likely because of Shelley. There was something innocent and youthful about her enjoyment of the city, a sort of hope Rand lost years before. At dinner, she discovered Shelley was almost a decade younger. Maybe it was that, Rand thought as Shelley came up the stairs.

  Rand didn’t want to leave her and greeted her with a smile, heart hammering. The emotion was new and surprising, the draw was undeniable. Shelley stopped in front of her and lifted her bag on her shoulder. “Are you busy?”

  “No,” Shelley said, eyes alive.

  “Let’s walk to Times Square. Can you believe I’ve never been?”

  “Really? But my feet are tired. Let’s take a cab,” Shelley said. “My turn.” Shelley moved to the curb, watching oncoming traffic.

  Their hands brushed against each other. Rand thought about taking Shelley’s hand. She was so distracted by the thought, Shelley’s shout at a taxi startled her.

  “Got one,” Shelley said. Rand waited for Shelley to get in and slipped in next to her, sitting close enough that she felt Shelley’s arm and thigh against her own.

  Shelley didn’t move away from her as she spoke to the driver. “Times Square, please.”

  He yanked the car into oncoming traffic and Rand slid closer to Shelley, reaching up to grab the handle above the door. “Hold on.” Shelley laughed, as they were thrown across the back seat and the driver turned crazily into oncoming traffic. Rand turned, braced against Shelley’s side.