Graceless (Grace Notes #2)

They held her close.

“Lane?”

“Yeah?”

“What if…it turns out you actually like me?”

Lane was silent for an incredibly long time.

“Shit,” they said softly. It was the last thing Cassidy heard before she fell asleep.

Chapter Sixteen

“Lane.” Rosalie’s voice was warm when she looked up and saw them in the doorway of their office, right in the heart of the center. She got to her feet and gave them a big hug. “God, it’s still weird seeing you be an actual adult. Look at you!”

Lane hugged her back. They could never quite look at her without feeling like they were staring at the sun. That first morning, when Lane was just fourteen, they’d crept into the center, hunched and limping, both eyes swollen almost closed. They were terrified. No adult had ever helped them before, but they knew they needed to try. They couldn’t take another night like the one they’d just survived.

Rosalie had been in the office that morning too, still a brand new social worker. Her eyes had widened when she’d looked up and seen Lane, but her voice was calm and her hands were gentle. Lane had panicked when she’d tried to convince them to accompany her to the emergency room, so rather than risk them fleeing, she’d called in a favor and brought an ER doctor to them right there in the office instead. Then she’d brought them into the emergency housing out back, into their own room, and said the words Lane had been dying to hear their whole life. You’re safe, she’d said gently. No one is going to hurt you again.

Rosalie and Savannah were tight, both then and now. Lane had once asked Savannah how they met.

“She saved my life,” she said simply, something soft flaring in her eyes, then changed the subject.

When they’d asked Rosalie for the story, hoping for more detail, Rosalie had just smiled and looked away.

“She saved my life,” she told them. “Now, let’s go over your schedule for next semester.”

Lane privately figured them as ex-lovers, but that might have just been wishful thinking. Rosalie wasn’t megastar stunning like Savannah, but she was exactly the kind of woman that people thought of when they used the term girl next door to low-key explain that someone was hot. With her silky auburn hair, sea-green eyes and knockout body, she absolutely could be a bombshell, but instead she dressed down in a studiously casual way that seemed to be intentionally disguising her beauty, preferring to be taken seriously rather than admired. Lane, quite honestly, had no problem doing both.

“How many have we got for tonight?” they asked her now.

“Eight,” she said. “Literally everyone who was here for the last class is back, and they brought two friends. I think you’re a hit.” She smiled at them. Lane grinned back.

One Saturday a month, Lane led an art class at the center. It was nothing special in that Lane was not really any kind of artist. They taught the same things they’d learned there when they were in their teens: how to screen print, or make a stencil, how to cut prints into leather. Once they’d just made some damn friendship bracelets out of thread. The point was never the art. It was always about giving the kids a reason to come in, to spend time with each other, to be around safe adults from their own community, to have someone they could ask for help, if they needed it.

Everyone gathered around the craft table as Lane walked in. As always, Rosalie had left little blank name tags so the kids could write their preferred name, and if they wanted to, their pronouns. Lane wore their own, always happy to be a non-binary role model to someone who might have never found one, or someone for whom it might be life-saving.

One of the new kids caught their eye immediately. They’d written “Jay” on their name tag, but left the pronouns blank. Their eye contact was intermittent, but each time Lane passed by or spoke to them, they looked absolutely electrified. They seemed about fifteen or sixteen years old.

“I totally found this therapeutic when I was bored, recovering from my top surgery,” they found a way to mention as they showed the kids how to use the tools to carve out patterns on the small practice strips of leather. When they casually glanced up, Jay was staring, a tiny light flaring in their big brown eyes.

Afterward, Lane asked Rosalie about them.

“Jay,” she said slowly. “They’re one of the lucky ones, in a way. Their mom sent them to us, hoping they’d find friends and support.” Lane felt a wave of relief. Jay wasn’t one of the kids who’d end up on the street then. “They’re getting bullied at school, though,” she said, a trace of concern furrowing her brow. This was Rosalie’s bread and butter, but Lane knew she was worrying the same thing they were worrying. Gender diverse kids experiencing rejection and persecution had a terrifying tendency not to make it to adulthood.

“One for me?” they asked, and Rosalie smiled.

“I hoped so.”

In recent years Lane had taken on a few of what the center called mentorships. Kids were paired with safe adults who they might relate to, to show them that they had the chance to thrive.

“But first,” Rosalie nodded to the other chair in her office, “tell me how you’re doing.” Lane shot her a look, but she just raised her eyebrows until they sat. Lane wasn’t a client anymore, but it was the deal for all mentors in the center that they had a formal check-in. Rosalie took no risks that anyone dealing with vulnerable kids might not be in good shape themselves.

“I’m good.” They shrugged. Rosalie, who’d counseled Lane for years, wasn’t put off.

“Any panic attacks?” she asked directly.

“Not a one,” Lane said with relief.