She walked deeper into the grove. A circle of trans women sat on a blanket, sharing a bottle of rosé and comparing electrolysis stories. One of them—young, with a buzz cut and gold hoop earrings—waved Mara over. “Love the dress! Where’d you get it?”
So here she was, standing at the edge of the picnic, barefoot in the grass, feeling the sun press warm against her collarbones.
“That’s Sam,” Dez said. “Their moms are the ones with the sourdough starter that has a name. I think it’s called Bread Pitt.”