Eight #2
She flipped through so many memories starting from the year they both came out in high school all the way up to Daphne’s flippant comment about Gillian not being a lesbian anymore.
She’d been so flustered it hadn’t even occurred to her to ask how Daphne currently identified.
She could not fathom Daphne being straight, but Brooke had taught her a lot about bisexuality, and Sawyer served as a beautiful, breathing example of fluid identities.
Surely she didn’t expect anyone to remain bound by the labels they’d claimed at seventeen.
Still, as was often the case with Daphne, Gillian’s clinical understanding of a situation felt woefully insufficient to explain the emotions accompanying it.
Curiosity clawed at her, and once Gillian latched onto a question, she wasn’t the kind of woman who relinquished it easily.
Had Daphne gotten trapped in a heterosexual fling?
Had she married a trans man? Izzy certainly shared DNA with her mother, but that didn’t mean she’d been conceived the old-fashioned way.
Daphne’s assertion that she wasn’t a single mom suggested …
Gillian shook her head. She’d drive herself crazy trying to guess all the unorthodox choices Daphne may’ve made over the course of her lifetime.
Brooke’s voice came back to her, asking why she was sitting here turning the puzzle over like a Rubik’s Cube when the woman who had all the answers was across the hall.
Gillian wasn’t a conversational coward, and she was tired of acting like one. Rising purposefully, she walked back through the waiting room, collecting two cups of coffee on the way.
Daphne’s door was cracked open, and peeking in, Gillian found her lying on her back staring up at a ceiling draped with billowing blue fabric.
Her expression was dreamy, and the act of watching a stranger in bed felt intrusive enough to make Gillian clear her throat loudly.
Instead of jumping up, Daphne merely rolled onto her side and regarded her with deep brown eyes. “Yes?”
“I brought your coffee.”
Daphne regarded her suspiciously, as if waiting for the punch line.
“I added cream and sugar, which seemed the most likely combination, though now that I’ve said it, little about you ever follows the most likely trajectory, so perhaps you take it black, in which case you can have mine.”
Daphne pushed herself to a seated position. “Not a chance. Life’s hard enough without adding sweetness where you can. Given my whims, I’d add milk chocolate to mine every morning. Do you really drink your coffee black?”
Gillian extended one mug to her. “Only at work.”
“Because at work, you’re a very serious, walking archetype of order and discipline?”
“At work, my colleagues mutinied and replaced my cream with oat milk, which tastes vaguely as though it’s been filtered through a bowl of Cheerios.”
Daphne laughed. “It does. I think that’s why so many people love it, but it makes sense that you wouldn’t.”
“Because I’m naturally inclined toward bitterness?”
“Maybe, but also because it trades the richness of cream for a subtle sweetness. Of course you’d prefer the natural silkiness to a trick of the tastebuds.”
She hadn’t considered that. She’d only allowed herself to be mildly torqued at the idea of changing something which hadn’t been broken, which brought her back to the reason for the visit.
“Anyway, I didn’t mean to cut you off when my phone rang.
I was genuinely interested to learn about Izzy, and I hadn’t meant to assume anything about your relationship status.
She mentioned a father, which didn’t connect with my limited experiences of you.
I realize gender identity and sexual orientation are complex continuums, of course, and … well …”
Daphne bit her bottom lip as if trying not to smile.
“You certainly don’t owe me any explanations.”
“But you’d like one,” Daphne said easily enough.
“I’ll admit my curiosity is piqued after meeting her last night. She looks so like you, but her demeanor is …”
“Not,” Daphne finished with a frown.
“I’m sorry if it’s inappropriate for me to wonder.”
“No. I told you rather pointedly that curiosity is a great gateway. Way for that to come back and bite me in the ass,” Daphne said flatly, but there was still humor in her dark eyes.
“I thought you might point your interest toward my work, but baby steps may be in order, so I’ll answer yet another question you haven’t quite asked.
I’m not married to a trans man, or to anyone else for that matter.
I’m a single woman, but I’m not a single parent. ”
Gillian eased down onto the futon across from the bed. “I’m listening.”
Daphne chuckled. “What makes you think I’m going to tell you anything more.”
“Have you ever not told me more than I asked for?”
“Well played.” Daphne crossed her legs. “But I have to warn you, I’m deeply protective of my family. I give big mama-bear energy, and I have plenty of practice biting off heads when someone gets between me and my kid.”
Gillian nodded. It made sense, perhaps more than anything else she’d said so far.
“I won’t justify my choices, either. I made the best decisions I had available to me, and I don’t regret a single one of them, no matter what anyone else finds off-kilter or unconventional.”
“Daphne, we’re sitting in an office with a bed. Is what you’re about to tell me more unconventional than that?”
Daphne smiled. “Probably on par with that, but you’re right.
I suppose I’ve trained you to expect the unexpected with me.
Izzy’s father is my best friend, Hugh. We met in art school.
We bonded over being the flighty youngest children of well-off families we’d disappointed both in our refusal to become bankers or lawyers and by being gay as the day is long. ”
“So not a fluid identity?” Gillian scratched one item off her list of possibilities.
“Not on that front, but Hugh and I were also a bit embarrassed to admit that despite our total commitment to the queer, bohemian lifestyle, we both wanted kids. It started as a running joke that we’d disappointed our parents by wanting to be artists, then disappointed our fellow artists by wanting to be parents.
Then one day, it didn’t feel like a joke anymore. ”
“Our words create our reality,” Gillian mused.
“Yes,” Daphne said with a little more enthusiasm. “Soon we were making plans. Everyone thought we were crazy, and I think most people still believe we were reckless, but we were almost thirty, and when you’re that young, you have this sense you’re running out of time.”
“Right.” Gillian remembered the feeling. “Thirty feels like falling off a cliff until you turn forty.”
“Which we both did this year, but Hugh and I were clearheaded and deliberate, or rather he was, and still is. He argued that we balance each other out better than most people who fall into bed together and wake up pregnant.”
Gillian refrained from saying that sounded like a low bar, but Daphne had picked up steam, and she wanted to know how this story ended.
“Hugh had landed a job dealing art and was picking up clients. I was still painting. We spent a year planning how he’d provide insurance and income while I’d be home to care for the baby, and so on.
Neither of us could’ve imagined the emotional impacts of bringing a life into the world, but I’m good at asking ‘what-if’ and Hugh’s good at finding answers.
He decided we would marry in name only to have the same legal rights and protections.
We were already living together at that time, and we planned to share parenting responsibilities equally, which again, is more than most heterosexuals can agree on. ”
“What about if either of you fell in love or wanted to have a life of your own?”
“We sketched out some basic rules and promised to trust each other to keep learning and growing together.”
Gillian shifted slightly at how much the arrangement left to chance.
“Don’t start with me, Gillian,” Daphne warned.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“No, but you thought it. I can feel the need to argue building in your energy field.”
Gillian rolled her eyes at the very idea, but arguing would only prove Daphne’s point, so she sidestepped. “How has the arrangement worked for you?”
“Wow, you’re such a therapist.”
“Thank you,” Gillian said, fully aware Daphne hadn’t intended the comment as a compliment.