Talking with Janelle

You push through the door of The Brass Kettle, a bell chiming overhead. The interior smells like roasted beans and cinnamon—warm, amber-lit, with mismatched velvet chairs and a long copper counter. A few patrons glance up: a man with a laptop, two women sharing a scone. And Janelle, in the window booth, her hands wrapped around a ceramic mug that's seen better days.

She looks up as you approach. Her eyes track your face—the slight puffiness, the redness around your nose that no amount of concealer can fully hide. She doesn't comment on it. She just shifts her book to make room.

"How did it go?" she asks. Simple. No follow-up qualifiers, no loaded subtext. Just the question.

You slide into the booth across from her. The velvet seat is worn soft beneath your skirt. You set your crossbody bag on the table and take a breath.

"It was good. Really good, actually. She's... smart. Direct." You pause, choosing your words. "We talked about a lot of things. Identity stuff. Safety planning. And—medical transition. HRT."

Janelle's eyebrows lift slightly but she doesn't interrupt.

"She gave me a referral to an informed consent clinic. I called them on the sidewalk. I have an appointment Thursday."

"Thursday?" Her voice is careful, measured. "That's... fast."

"Two days. I know." You meet her eyes. "I want you to know something. The session wasn't just about you. About what happened at The Lantern. We talked about a lot of things—my whole history, basically. The dissociation. The fear about being trans in this world. You came up, but you weren't the whole picture."

Janelle nods slowly. Her fingers tap the cover of Giovanni's Room—she's holding it like a shield.

"I'm glad," she says. "I mean—not glad you had to talk about hard stuff. Glad that... I'm not the only thing in your head. That felt selfish, worrying I was taking up all this space when you're dealing with everything."

"You're not selfish for caring about how you affected me."

"I'm selfish for other reasons," she says, and then catches herself, pressing her lips together like she's physically stopping more words from escaping.

What does that mean?

A barista approaches—a lanky young woman with a shaved undercut and a nose ring, wiping her hands on an apron. "Can I get you anything?"

"Just water, please," you say.

"Sparkling or still?"

"Still."

She nods and retreats. Janelle watches her go, then looks back at you.

"I read the first chapter," she says, tapping the book. "David is awful. I already hate him."

"That's the correct response."

A small smile crosses her face—genuine, tentative. "My mom said to give you space. Let you lead." She exhales. "I'm trying. I'm not great at it."

"You're doing fine."

The barista returns with your water. You take a long drink. The coolness settles something in your throat that's been raw since the crying.

Janelle watches you over the rim of her mug. "Thursday," she says again. "Do you need a ride there?"

The question hangs between you. It's practical. It's also an offering—a way to be useful without overstepping.

"It's in Ridgewood. About forty minutes from Larkspur Hollow."

"I have a car," she says simply. "And I have no classes Thursday afternoon."

She's not pushing. She's leaving the door open and standing on her side of it, hands visible, waiting for you to walk through.