Genre: queer/social/new adult
Format: novel
Logline:

Katie North works on her Master’s thesis in Secular Theology when her dad, a conservative mega-pastor trying to reckon with his guilt and budding social consciousness, asks her to come back to church to help make reparations with the LGBTQ+ community, yet Katie isn’t interested in serving the institution. She’s on a mission to protect the vulnerable and deconstruct toxic doctrine while building a new theology that helps her community thrive, all while reconnecting with her first love, Jay, now named Jacob.

SAMPLE CHAPTERS:

Prologue: My Thesis

Humanity does not need religion to dictate ethics, for we each are born with an innate moral compass: our hearts. Religion, at its best, offers glimpses of truth, but no single tradition holds the entirety of the divine. Only together, in peace and humility, can we assemble the greater mystery of existence.

My name is Kate-Lynn North. I’m a graduate student studying Secular Theology at the University of Nevada Las Vegas, and this book serves as my master’s thesis.

Between these pages, I’ll weave together a memoir with theological arguments, cited statistics, and social critique. This creative work asks its readers to do more than analyze. To understand, rather than to merely know, I ask my readers to empathize. 

Intellectual labor alone cannot and will not provide effective solutions to the multiple crises our species faces today. We must evolve and adapt quickly to stabilize the chaos of the climate crisis, food insecurity, nuclear threat, and the rise of fascism, and reorganize ourselves into the great global ecosystem we have the potential to become.

There is an anthropological purpose for human diversity. Nature is collecting data, a library of survival strategies that significantly increase our chances of survival.

“Diversity is necessary to healthy transformative survival: and diversity is also one of the underlying sources of social conflict on this hair-trigger nuclear stockpile we call Earth. It should be seen universally that the loss of cultural diversity is as threatening as the loss of genetic diversity to the maintenance and salvation of humanity on Earth and in space. Diversity allows the kinds of specialization and interdependence characteristic of a complex and highly evolved culture. Delight in difference will thus become necessary, like oxygen, if humanity is to survive. Infinite diversity in infinite combinations is a key to survival.” 

― George S. Robinson, Envoys of Mankind: A Declaration of First Principles for the Governance of Space Societies

Consider this: if nature insisted on creating a variety of cultures that in turn created many different paths to the Divine, perhaps our survival also depends on our ability to come together and share ideas. To call holy people from all over the world, to gather the pieces of the puzzle and see how they fit, and perhaps behold a much grander vision than any one nation could have seen in isolation.

“Imagine there’s no heaven / It’s easy if you try / No hell below us / Above us, only sky / Imagine all the people / Living for today…” —John Lennon

ACT 1

Chapter 1: My Journal
January 12, 2026

I can’t believe he’s asking this of me. My dad. The same conservative mega-pastor who sent me to conversion therapy. The same one who told me to pray the gay away. The same dad who once thanked Jesus that I didn’t put a bullet in my head like Kevin did, and then turned around and forbade me from seeing Jay. Yeah. Him.

I’m not a kid anymore. I know that people can apologize without actually changing. They can soften without taking accountability. They can learn just enough language to sound like they’re evolving while keeping the same conclusions tucked safely underneath. 

Living by the golden rule means accepting others as they are, as I’d like them to accept me. Sure, I could argue whose identity is inherent and whose can or should be changed, but that’s a matter of perspective, too. I can’t make people understand what they just don’t get, and they can’t make me believe stuff that just doesn’t make sense.

So, after the conversion therapy. After the funerals. After Jay and I broke up, and after I came out as an ex-Christian, not an ex-gay, they did their best to accept that I would never fulfill their expectations. And I accepted that they’ll never be the parents I need them to be. And that might be okay. Not because my needs aren’t important, but because I have another family who meets those needs.

Chosen family is everything.

I go to my parents’ for dinner every Sunday. This is neutral territory. They know I won’t go to church, but I can be a part of their holy day in the most secular way possible.

Tonight, it’s just my dad and me. Dinner is over, and the dishes are in the washer. Aside from that, it’s a quiet night. Their cat, Jinx, purrs at my feet. They got it after I moved out. Empty nest sadness, they called it.

He sits across from me at the kitchen table, bald head shiny, thick hands folded, posture calm. Pastor calm. He grips a coffee mug and waits for the right moment. That’s part of his talent as a pastor. He prepares the soil before planting the seed. It’s like a Jedi mind trick. He just sits in the silence… and waits.

I’m receptive now. I can feel it coming. I sip my chamomile tea….

Finally, Dad says, “I’ve been praying about something dear to my heart.”

Of course he has.

“It’s time our church did better.”

I wait. I’ve learned not to rush him. Silence makes people say more than they intend to. I have my own tricks, too.

“It’s not right what’s happening,” he continues. “The current administration…” he shakes his head. “I’m partly responsible for putting them in office. Nevada swung red for him, and… well, I told the church to vote red. I mean, I didn’t say it like that, but I pointed them to the Bible, and the Bible pointed to him, and I didn’t warn them about wolves in sheep’s clothing. I can’t believe I didn’t see it.”

I avoid his eyes. I’m afraid that if we make eye contact, he’d feel the depth of my rage, and I might come off as overly aggressive. I’m trying to temper my anger, you see. Not for him, but for me. As much as things have changed, I still need my dad. “Gee, Dad,” I say, “it’s almost as if I told you he was a con artist. It’s almost as if half the country has been saying it for ten years.”

He exhales, seems to deflate. It’s a rare sight to see him defeated. “I shouldn’t have mixed religion with politics.”

“Told you that, too.”

“Yeah. I was wrong, Katie. I was dead wrong.”

“Yup.”

“Are you enjoying this?”

“Kind of,”

“Well, go ahead and eat your heart out then.” He sips his coffee. “You know, I see what’s happening in the Latino community. And in the LGB…TQ…” he pauses to make sure he’s got the letters right, “…plus?” He peers at me, waiting for my approval.

“Yeah, Dad. I mean, there are more letters now. But you can just say queer, you know.”

He shakes his head. “No, no, I don’t think so. I think you can say queer, since you’re part of the community. Because… wasn’t it once a derogatory word?” 

Now he’s virtue-signaling. He’s saying, See, I really do care. Look, I’m trying.

I exhale.

“Anyhow, the flipping Christian Nationalists are destroying our republic and making a mockery of the Church. And, well, I remember when you said that the name of Jesus was being defamed. I think you called it blasphemy. I didn’t get it then. But now I do, Katie. I’m sorry I didn’t see it before.”

I open my mouth to tell him that it’s okay. Except it’s not. I pause to change my response. “…I appreciate your apology, Dad.”

He nods. “I’m thinking of a new ministry,” he says. “We need to make reparations.”

“To the queer community or the Latino community? How about the Black community? Native? Women? Muslims? Pagans? The Church has hurt a lot of folks, Dad.”

He glances into his coffee mug. “I know, Kate. Between us, there’s only so much we can do. But with you being who you are, I think we should focus on the… can I say ‘the Alphabet community?’”

I chuckle. “That’s cute, but no. It’s up to us to define ourselves.”

He smiles, a real smile. Warm and open. “Well, you know, it’s something y’all ought to consider. The Alphabets. Kinda has a ring to it. But anyhow, let’s get back on track. The ministry… at its core, I want it to ask, ‘What Would Jesus Do?’”

“Jesus would be flipping tables, Dad, and condemning oppressors to hell.”

He takes a deep breath. “Maybe you’re right.”

Maybe.

He says it gently, like an offering. “I want you to lead the ministry. The Apostle Paul said, ‘I was weak to the weak.’ Maybe queer to the queer?”

“I thought you weren’t going to say that word.”

His eyebrows scrunch up, like he’s confused. “I was speaking as if I were queer. Queer to the queer. Belonging is implied.”

“I get it, Dad, but if you’re going to minister to the community, you need a simple, consistent message. If you say the word ‘queer’ isn’t for you, don’t say it.”

“Katie, I want you to be the minister.”

I look at his hands. The same hands that signed the paperwork. The same hands that rested on my shoulders while strangers told me my intelligence was leading me down a dark path.

“You want me to go to seminary,” I say.

“No, your Secular Theology degree will do. You are graduating this summer, right?”

I nod.

“Well, if you accept this assignment, the elders are prepared to make you a pastor.”

“Dad, I’m not a Christian. Do you know why I chose Secular Theology?”

“Because you disagree with the Church. But you still believe in Jesus, right?”

“Yeah, but not the same way you do.”

“You act more Christian than a lot of Christians I know, and I respect that. Our church is multi-denominational. We have differing beliefs. We don’t have to agree. Many of us have lost touch with the outside world and… we, we need your insight.”

I sighed. I didn’t expect that. I studied Secular Theology to deconstruct the doctrine I inherited.”

He raises his hand in defense. “I get it. America is moving into a post-Christian era. I know now, it’s not because they’re evil. It’s because the church is flawed.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“If Christianity is to survive,” he continues, “we need to adapt.”

“Well, that’s true.” I pause. “How does Mom feel about this?”

He looks away for a quick moment. A buffer. Whatever he says next will be a half-truth. “She agrees with me. She wants to see you fulfill your potential.”

“You mean fulfill your expectations.”

He sighs. “You can do anything you set your mind to, Katie. You’re brilliant. We’d love you if you chose to sell hot dogs on the corner. And. Our church wants to brand itself on conservative progress.”

“That’s an oxymoron, Dad.”

“We need more female pastors.”

“I won’t be tokenized.”

“You’re being impossible.”

“No. I’m being for real. You want me to come to the table but not speak my truth? That doesn’t work.”

He leans back in his chair and peers into his mug.

I take a moment as well. Let the tension dissipate. He is trying. His intentions are good. And I don’t see any other church leader trying to make amends with the community. I should be proud of him. I mean, I am. Yet… he’ll never understand. Maybe I should stop wasting energy trying to explain and just state my boundaries. 

I decide to speak into my anger. “You sent me to conversion therapy,” I say.

His face tightens in pain. “Yes, I did what I thought was right at the time. I’m sorry.”

“And now?”

Now he hesitates.

“It’s not man’s job to convert people. I believe God works through the school of life,” he says. “Through patience. Through obedience.”

There it is. The hope, still breathing quietly between us.

“You still think I’m wrong,” I say.

He exhales. “I still believe in the Bible.”

I laugh. A bitter, angry laugh.

He holds out a hand in defense. “I’ve heard your cherry-picking argument. You’re right, we don’t follow every rule. But it’s not up to me to choose which rules to follow. In any body of people, specifically the Church, progress is tempered by conservatism. Democracy requires a majority agreement. This is the way.”

I ignore his attempt to lighten the tone with pop culture references. Nothing about this is funny. “What about the people in the margins you claim to care about? What about God-given autonomy? What about people having their own personal relationship with God and differentiating, for themselves, relevant values from ancient history? You want me to help queer folks survive a church that refuses to stop hurting them,” I say. “You want me to stand between them and the same theology that results in murder and suicide.”

Side note: LGBTQ+ folks are four times more likely to attempt suicide than the general population, while transgender folks are 7.7 times more likely than cisgender folks. For the general population, religiosity is correlated with reduced suicide ideation and attempts, but for the LGBTQ+ community, religiosity is correlated with increased risk of suicide (theTrevorProject.org).

My dad doesn’t need statistics because he went to Emo and Kevin’s funerals. He witnessed those religious parents, who were members of his church, and they were devastated, not only with unspeakable grief, but with irreparable guilt and ever-consuming regret. He watched me, his only child, mourn my best friend.

“That’s not fair,” he says.

“No,” I agree. “It’s accurate.”

The room goes very still.

Outside, somewhere in the distance, a siren passes. Neither of us moves. Within the silence, a memory surfaces.

Chapter break: Orientation at First Sight.
April 22, 2009

We had just elected Barack Obama, our nation’s first Black president. At sixteen, I was elated. I thought this meant we were past racism, past our nation’s dark past, and I looked forward to electing a woman in the coming decade. Of course, I was a naive sixteen-year-old, half-white and very privileged.

My mom was the daughter of a Mexican immigrant who decided not to teach me Spanish because she didn’t think it would help me get ahead in life. English is the future, they said. Just like my grandmother decided not to teach my mother the Native tongue, Hiak Noki, in favor of Spanish. My dad told me that after he married my mom and she got pregnant, he was worried about how their brown child would fare in this society. It’s tragic to know that my Mexican heritage and any potential brownness were deemed negative in contrast to the privilege I’d be afforded if I weren’t brown at all, and by my own parents. If I could go back in time, back to the day my parents found out they were pregnant, I would appear to them like a biblically accurate angel, with four heads: one of a lion, another of an ox, an eagle, and a human, with great wings covered in eyes. I would visit them in the middle of the night and in a great, terrifying voice, say, 

“Hark ye, colonized Americans. Thy child is a descendant of the great Yaqui Nation, whose sacred land was rudely crossed by thy imperial, imaginary border. Thou sacred garden was granted to them, as they were appointed stewards by the Lord thy God. Thy heritage of thy child is worth more than all thy white privilege thou evil empire can afford. Cast thy brownness out not, for the Lord thy God is pleased with thy Indigenous American culture, saith the Lord thy God, Almighty among men and women and nonbinary folks everywhere.”

Too bad they never got that message. In any case, my whiteness became more and more evident as I stepped out from under the protection of my parents’ home. I could never have guessed that our first Black president would trigger a tsunami of white supremacists to rise and attempt to dismantle our republic, Hitler-style.

At that time, the beginning of the Obama years, I was sixteen, a Junior in high school.

The cafeteria smelled like pizza. The kids were loud and obnoxious, like usual. Chanel was home, sick. Or out skipping school and not telling me because she considered me a goody-two-shoe. I didn’t mind having lunch alone. I enjoyed my solitude. Who gave a shit what others thought of it?

By the way, my friendship with Chanel didn’t last past graduation. We chose different paths, and that’s okay. I wish her well.

“What’s up, Katie?” That was Ben, Varsity Wrestling. He stood beside my table. “Why don’t you come to the kickback at my cousin’s place?”

From the corner of my eye, I noticed his white and red varsity jacket. I said, “No thanks. I’m not really into it.”

Ben took a seat across from me and ran his fingers through his blond hair. “Why not? I’m bringing enough beer for both of us.”

I averted eye contact. I didn’t want him to think I was playing hard to get. “No thanks, Ben.”

I dug through my bag.

“Are you shy?”

I didn’t bother looking up at him. I pulled out my phone and texted Chanel.

U suck 4 not coming 2 school.

Ben won’t leave me alone!

“I’m not shy. I’m just not interested.”

“Are you gonna eat that?” I glanced over as Ben pointed to my chocolate-glazed donut.

“Yes.”

He frowned. “What are you interested in?”

An idea flickered in my mind, and I pulled out my chemistry textbook. “I’m interested in chemical science.” I opened it up to the chapter I’d read the night before. “Wanna study with me?”

Ben glanced at the book and peeked at his wrist watch. “No. Science is boring.”

I thought he was about to get up and leave.

He drummed his fingers on the table. “So, about the kick back, I can pick you up around eight and—”

“I’m not interested, Ben. I said no three times. Please, leave me alone.” 

There was laughter. Someone was eavesdropping. It came from behind me. I glanced over my shoulder, and I saw her. 

My eyes rested on her face.

Her black hair fell and curled under her chin. I marveled at her lips, full and glossed in glimmer. Her smile imprinted itself onto my chest. Yet, it wasn’t until she met my gaze that I fell in love. Her eyes were light brown, behind dark lashes. My heart stopped, I think, and I quickly looked away.

I turned and saw that Ben had gotten up.

He narrowed his eyes at me. “I know why. You think you’re better than everyone. You’re not, you know.” Ben left.

I turned again toward Jay, but she was in conversation with a bunch of skater kids. I’d never noticed her before. This was the moment that everything changed. 

It wasn’t love at first sight. It was orientation. But I didn’t have those words at sixteen. The words I had were “sin,” “temptation,” and “impure.”

Long story short, it was hell. My mind fought for the imperial doctrine, just as it was conditioned to do. My heart fought for its own nature.

Chapter Break: Jay is for Jacob (he/they)
November 12, 2026

I enter the coffee shop and see him sitting alone on a loveseat, a ceramic mug in hand, lost in his thoughts. The music is cheerful, about a new love connection. I take in the smell of coffee and the sounds of baristas clattering about, shouting names.

I stare for a few moments. His hair is short with a clean fade, yet his facial hair is still patchy, still in negotiation with his face. He’s handsome. I never thought I’d be attracted to a guy, but Jay wasn’t just a dude. He was a man who understood what it was like to live as a woman. What’s hotter than that?

His eyes flicker in my direction, and we hold each other’s gaze. He stands, a smile brightening his face. For a moment, I wonder what would have happened if Jay had been living as a guy when I met him. I would probably have introduced him to my parents as my boyfriend. We’d get the purity sermon in the living room. Dad would privately lecture him about house rules and such. Jay would come to church, just once, as a sign of respect, and that would be it.

I’d never get sent to conversion therapy. I’d never question the authority of the Church or the Bible. As much as that seems like something I would have killed for back then, I’m glad it happened the way it did. If I didn’t come out as a lesbian, I’d still be that sheltered little girl who believed everything she was taught. There’s a high chance that I’d be on the wrong side of history. And that would be the worst tragedy of them all.

I’m glad he was a she when I met him.

As it was, almost ten years of distance stand between us as I approach.

He stands, grabs me, one hand on my shoulder, the other reaching for my waist, and pulls me in for a hug.

The light stubble on his face scratches my cheek. I cherish the warmth of his body. The clean scent of his cologne. Underneath that, there’s a musky smell. That’s new. I feel his muscles tighten around me, then relax as he sighs.

“Thank you for calling,” he says.

A flood of emotions surfaces, and I pull away before they overflow onto my face and blur my makeup.

His hazel eyes meet mine, gentle yet ever present. “Thanks for coming.”

He has a girlfriend, I tell myself. And she’s not you.

We sit as a server approaches with a mug, “Here we go, a caramel macch with coconut. Enjoy,”

“Thank you,” Jay says. “It’s hers.”

“Oh,” They turn and hand me the mug.

“Thank you,” I say,

“Of course, enjoy,” and they walk away.

Jay leans back in his seat and crosses his legs. “I kinda assumed you still take your coffee this way?”

The sweet liquid warms my mouth as I sip, grounding me in the moment. “I actually don’t take sugar anymore, but this seems like the perfect occasion for a treat.”

He chuckles. “Look at you. You’re all grown up.”

I turn my attention back to him, letting my eyes feast on his new face. Wider. Shaper. Furrier. “So… you look great,” I say.

He smiles, a new smile. It brightens the room and opens up something inside me. “Thanks, Katie. You do, too.”

I get this nostalgic vibe, like we’re in high school again, except it’s new and exciting. “How does it feel?”

“Like… freedom.”

“Yeah?”

“Surgery next month, I can’t wait. As soon as I’m healed up, I’m going to Mexico, and I’ll be shirtless the whole time.”

I nod, mirroring his smile. “I’m so happy for you. Is it still Jay? He/ him?”

“Jay for Jacob,” he says. “He/they, I think.”

“Okay, what about your past self? When I think about who you were back then, how should I refer to that person?”

He drums a finger on his chin. “Good question. I guess it depends on the company. If you’re with like… church people, best to keep the pronouns consistent. They don’t need to know shit. But among chosen family, go ahead and use the feminine pronoun. I kinda miss being a lesbian.”

I let his words linger for a moment before chiming in. “Well… I hear some trans guys still identify as lesbian. You don’t have to let that go if you don’t want to.”

He sighs, “I do. I’m pansexual now.”

We make eye contact, and a silent communication passes between us. His eyes search mine. They ask: Is that okay? His smile answers his own question. He knows it’s okay. He knows he doesn’t need my approval. He knows I’m happy for him. 

I feel my face mirroring his, joyful.

His smile is contagious. He goes on, “It’s crazy how hormones can change your sexuality and gender expression. It’s led me to believe that most human expressions are gender expressions.”

“Really? Can you give me an example?”

He leans his head back on the sofa and stares up at the ceiling. “Well, remember I was such a beer drinker? Like I wouldn’t be caught dead with a fufu drink at the bar?”

“Yeah. You loved beer.”

“That was me playing the gender role, ‘stud,’ you know? I didn’t even realize I was doing it. Didn’t realize it was a gender role. Studs can’t drink margaritas. Studs can’t date men. Studs are supposed to be like men, but better. Studs should be able to do anything a man can do, but better, faster, and smarter, in all the ways that matter.”

“That sounds like a lot of pressure.”

“Yeah, I mean, as much pressure as it was… the male gender role is a hundred times worse. A stud is still a woman, and women aren’t required to compete with men. So, studs are compared to men when they excel, never when they fall short. When they fall short, society sees them as merely women, so it’s expected.”

“Interesting.”

“It’s all shit,” he says, “we need to dismantle the whole fucking thing.”

“Agreed,”

“Anyway,” he went on, “I was so loyal to that gender role, I couldn’t even let myself know that I really wanted a margarita.” He made a fist and pounded it into the sofa cushion. “I fucking love margaritas!”

“And men?” I asked.

“That, too.” He met my eyes. “That was unexpected. I had to confront some homophobia inside me.”

“You? You’re the least homophobic person I know.”

“I thought so, too, until I found myself wanting men. My first thought was, this isn’t okay, I don’t wanna be a gay man.”

I nodded, thinking of Kevin and Emo… “Yeah, I can only imagine what that’s like.” Then, I felt the warmth of his hand on mine. I glanced at our hands together, feeling the chemistry between us, mingling with grief. I met his eyes.

His light brown eyes looked deeply into mine. Without words, he said, I know. I miss him, too.

We sit in silence for a moment as the emotions surface. Our hands touching. Our grief stirring. A tear slides down my cheek.

Jay leans over to me and pulls me into his arms.

I let my head rest on his chest, flat now under a binder. I inhale his scent, his pheremones. I close my eyes and listen to his heartbeat. This is where I want to be. With him. My heart aches with desire. I don’t just want him. I want us.

Then, in a moment, he pulls away, retreating to his side of the couch. His body. His energy. His personal space.

I miss him. The ache in my heart intensifies as I feel my heart reaching out, asking, where did you go? Why? I remind myself that he has a girlfriend, and she’s not me. I exhale and notice that he’s tense. I pick up my mug and sip, daring myself to ask, “Tell me about your girlfriend?”

He presses his lips together and sips his coffee. The expression on his face tells me that he’s feeling guilty. Guilty for hugging me? Holding me? Or feeling something more than friendship? He fixes his face and fakes a smile. “She’s amazing.” He picks up his phone and glances at it, probably just a nervous tic, but it makes me feel like he wants to get away. “But, hey, enough about me,” he says, “What’s going on with you? When you called, it sounded serious.”

I exhale, refocusing my attention, allowing thoughts of us and not-us to dissipate, and letting the energy of the situation surface. The anger, frustration, and hope. “I’m finishing up my master’s in Secular Theology,”

“Secular Theology,” he asks?

 “Yeah, it’s a Humanities degree, it’s basically social ethics, but from a deconstruction lens. Most of us are sociology grads.”

“Ah. Very cool. Very you.”

“My dad wants me to use my degree to lead a queer ministry.”

He nearly spits out his drink. “Holy fuck. And? What’d you say?”

“I said a lot… and not enough. He wants peace but not accountability. Comfort, not truth. But…” When I look up, I realize he’s staring. We hold each other’s gaze as my heart softens into a dull ache.

Finally, he finishes my sentence.“…but you think you can minimize the damage, at least for the queer folk in his church.”

“They have ten thousand members now, Jay. Ten percent is… that’s a thousand lives.

He exhales and shifts in his seat. “You know, I never wanted this for you. I always hoped you would just leave the church and never turn back. Become a Buddhist or a Pagan even. I hate what Christianity does to you. It demands the best of you and gives back the worst of it. Humiliation. Oppression. Trauma.” He shakes his head. “You deserve a spiritual path that doesn’t require you to take abuse…” He shakes his head again, sighs.

“But I also know you can’t ignore suffering when there’s something you can do about it. I love that about you. You’re more Christ-like than all those pricks on TV put together.” He locks eyes with me again. Oh, those beautiful hazel eyes. “But besides all that, Katie. What do you wanna do? I thought you wanted to be a stage actor?”

“That’s a pipe dream.”

“No, it’s not. You have the right to do whatever you want with your life. You’re not obligated to save anyone.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

I exhale and sip my coffee. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I hadn’t deconstructed enough. Maybe I’m still caught up in a savior complex. Still… he’s right about the fact that I can’t ignore suffering when there’s something I can do about it. I glance back up at him.

His eyes scan my body, desire on his face. He can’t hide it.

Of course, my heart quickens. My skin seems to reach for his hands. I get a flash of us: his new body, my tender heart, on the kitchen counter. I wonder what he’s like now…I shake my head. He has a girlfriend, and I’m not her. 

When his eyes meet mine, he turns away. “Shit, fuck.” He chuckles, clearly embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I… I’m acting like a guy, aren’t I?”

I give him a forgiving smile. “You’re allowed to be a guy, Jay.”

“I know, but,”

“Do you?”

He chuckles as he leans forward. “It’s really good to see you, Katie.”

“You too.” 

**This work is human-authored. I use ChatGPT for research and Grammarly for minimal grammatical corrections. .**