On Wednesday, I awake to a light dusting of snow on the ground. Unfortunately not enough for a snow day, either kid or adult version, since today Jackson Daugherty, owner of the Frontier Hotel Experience, is coming in for a meeting. I’d hoped since he has to drive from Wyoming that somehow, somewhere along the way would be too treacherous for him to risk the drive. Alas not.

I arrive early to work at Metro, Loveland’s premier (and only) marketing firm, so that I can spend the first few hours getting the mock-ups finalized. Thank god Nicole, Metro’s account executive for Frontier, is running this show. I just have to sit in on the meeting and answer any questions about the actual design work. Nicole hates Jackson as much as I do, but she’s much better at hiding it.

We spend the hour before the meeting in the conference room, hooking up her laptop to the screen, setting out water bottles, and giving each other pep talks. I know she was here late last night, working on the proposal and media plan. If this were any other client, it would be a fun meeting. Talking strategy and creative ideas is what Nicole lives for, and she’s one of the best I’ve ever worked with.

“Right this way, Mr. Daugherty,” we hear our receptionist say before she appears in the doorway, escorting an older man wearing a cowboy hat and a bolo tie into the room.

“Jackson,” Nicole greets the walking cliché that is our client, and while her voice remains friendly, I know the fact that she only uses his first name is deliberate. “Won’t you have a seat? I hope the drive wasn’t too bad.”

Jackson sits at the head of the table and cracks open the bottle of water. “Pity you can’t have scotch in the boardroom these days. Curse of political correctness.”

Only a fool would believe Nicole agreed with the statement, but she plays her part well, forcing out a laugh. “Well, that, and the fact that we might wind up with some truly bizarre advertising for you, Jackson.”

He grunts and mutters something about pussies not holding their liquor.

Nicole ignores his comments and presses on with her presentation, organized in three parts. The first part covers the overall strategy and goals she has developed for the Frontier Hotel Experience, which unfortunately does not include a new name.

I get to keep my mouth shut and blend into the background for this portion of the meeting. Thank god. Jackson hasn’t spared me a second glance. I dressed conservatively this morning in a navy turtleneck and grey slacks, with my hair pulled into a topknot. The most risqué thing about me today are my heels and my lace thong, that last item which he will never see. And most importantly, I’ve kept my mouth zipped. When the second part of the presentation begins, showing off the actual designs, I’m up.

I created three different versions of the same advertisement, mounted onto foam board for display. They use the same photo, but each has a slightly different feel to it. Nicole also has a family of coordinating materials mocked in photos on screen.

“This first one is a modern take on country,” Nicole says as I unveil the first board. “It says you’re getting a country experience, but you’ll be doing so with the very finest of modern comforts and amenities.”

Jackson sits forward in his chair and pounds the table with his fist. “Ah, see, Chase was a much better model than those pansy-ass pretty boys your designer had before. I was right to suggest it.”

When we first put together our ideas, I used a stock photo, much like I always do, as a placeholder. Jackson was not happy with the masculinity, or in his opinion the lack thereof, displayed by the model. He recommended we use Chase Matthews, last year’s Frontier Rodeo bull-riding champion.

Oh, how badly I want to tell him that his prize-winning archetype of manly perfection showed me exactly how he won those titles after the photo shoot. I bucked and I bucked, but that cowboy rode me to completion.

Other than to crow over his suggestion, Jackson has no opinions on the options we present him, and Nicole finishes up by showing him the recommended advertising schedule.

If it weren’t for the weather, I’d happily suggest we play hooky and celebrate surviving the meeting with margaritas.

“Thank god that’s over. Further proof that all men are assholes,” Nicole says, tapping the tip of her water bottle against mine in a toast.

My brain zings to Parker with the thought, not all men, but I keep that to myself. It would be like begging Nicole to ask me about my personal life, and that’s the last thing I want. Especially when I know last Friday night was the most I’ll be getting from Parker McWilliams. Funny how it’s the straight guy that makes me want what I can’t have.

The rest of the day passes without incident after the Frontier meeting, and after work, I decide that instead of getting a drive-through salad, I’ll make my mom’s white bean soup. The grocery store is as packed as ever since most of last night’s snow melted by midday. I get the necessary ingredients and get out as quickly as I can.

When I get home, I change into my flannel pjs and a hoodie, first thing. Double socks. I sync my phone to my speakers in the kitchen and pull up my upbeat cooking playlist, causing Panic! At The Disco to blare throughout my apartment. Comfort and music are the two most important things to consider when cooking – true fact.

I’m so glad I decided to cook. There’s nothing in a bad day that a little music and good food won’t cure. I set out my huge cooking pot and start to cut up carrots, greens, potatoes, onions, and celery, sliding each into the pot from the cutting board in time to the music. After I add the broth, drained beans, and spices, I put the lid in place and set the timer. In an hour and a half, I’m going to have a tasty soup. And enough leftovers to eat soup every day for a month, but that’s totally beside the point.

Of course, I could invite someone over to join me. A formerly, probably mostly, straight boy who likely misses the home cooking his wife used to provide. But that would just seem desperate.

Deliciousness scents the air and I kick back onto my couch to browse my social media while I wait. The rock climbing group I used to belong to back in high school has a few new posts, some from just last weekend when they took a group ice climbing. It looks so fucking cool; I’m insanely jealous. I scroll past, wishing I had the time to join them. The Gender Center in Denver has a post for a New Year’s event, which I missed. It’s obviously been a while since I logged in.

My breath catches in my throat at an older post, a picture from around Christmas. My aunt Lila, the aunt that still talks to me and kept me as a friend online, posted it. It’s my father’s whole family gathered around my stepbrother and the woman who apparently became his wife on December 23.

When my parents divorced, my dad moved across the country with his replacement family. Stephen, my stepbrother, embodied everything I didn’t – manly, good at sports, at least the ones that counted, straight. I removed them from my social media feed so that I didn’t have to watch my father being a father to someone else growing up. I saw enough through Lila’s posts to have a general idea of what I was missing.

The post starts me down a rabbit hole, first her pictures of the wedding, then links to Dad’s pictures of the happy couple, and finally Stephen’s own account. There are silly pictures of Stephen with his groomsmen. Sweet pictures with his bride. And the very worst – the picture of Stephen with Dad’s arm wrapped around him in a proud embrace.

The timer on the stove goes off, but I’ve lost my appetite. All that work and deliciousness to waste. And here I thought there wasn’t anything good food couldn’t fix.

* * *

“Mal, could I see you in my office?”

Ryan Miller, my boss, stands beside my desk on Friday afternoon. I share the room with four other graphics designers. The lead designer is my direct boss, but “Ry,” as he insists we call him because Metro is a “cool” place to work, is the owner and president of the company.

It’s never a good thing when Ryan, because mentally I refuse to call him Ry, has to get involved. Our account execs and designers work directly with the customers, and we have great relationships with most of them. Ryan comes off like such a smarmy businessman that he tends to put them off when he inserts himself into their business, with the exception, of course, of Jackson Daugherty. Jackson rivals Ryan in smarm and insincerity.

“Take a seat.” Ryan signals the opposite side of his desk after I’ve followed him back to his office.

As I sit on the posh leather and metal chair that Ryan reserves for his office alone, I rack my brain trying to think of what this could be about, what I could have done, but I come up with nothing. I’ve met all of my deadlines lately and haven’t had any complaints about the quality of my work.

“Mal, I know that since you’ve been with us at Metro, you’ve been sort of in flux personally.”

My forehead wrinkles downward to match my frown.

“You mentioned it to me when I hired you, and I was okay with you taking some time to find yourself. You creative types, that’s the kind of thing you all do.”

I force a smile on my face and hope it doesn’t look too pained. This is the same thing I’ve found with so many other marketing firms in the area. Owners and operators with a disdain for creativity. Why start a creative business if you hate creative people so much?

“But now we’ve had a customer complaint. And I can’t have your flights of fancy disrupt my business.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not following,” I say, even though I’ve been here before. I’ve heard this song so many times it’s guaranteed a top spot on my greatest hits album. It will be an angsty ballad titled something like Man Up, and will be followed by the pop hit Really? You’re Outdoorsy? “All of my work has received excellent feedback. I haven’t been notified of any complaints.”

“The issue isn’t your work, Mal, it’s you. Or I guess I should say, it’s your silly insistence to wear girl clothes and use strange pronouns. We might be in Colorado, but we’re still in ag country, and a lot of farmers and ranchers and businessmen who grew up in those areas don’t appreciate a boy running around acting like a girl.”

And here I didn’t think Ryan could ever be worse than my previous boss, who advised me to “Just pick one.”

“If I do my work, sir, and they like it, then I don’t see why how I dress or what I am called is any of their business.”

“Because if they pull their business from us, then it becomes my business. Go by Mal if you want. But stop it with the dresses and heels and silly pronouns.”

My throat is dry. Parched. My eyes are so dry they burn when I blink. I’m so dry I’m going to crumble into nothing. I vaguely wonder how many times I’m going to have to put myself back together. In my short life, it feels like it’s already been too many.

My fingernails dig into the leather of the chair. I call on all the fury I can muster to burn away that self-pity and redirect it to its rightful target. I grit my teeth at Ryan fucking Miller.

“And if I refuse?”

* * *

Nicole chases after me in the parking lot.

“What the fuck just happened?” she asks with arms waving wide back toward the building.

Ryan stood guard as I emptied my desk, and though Nicole watched with wide eyes from the doorway, she wasn’t able to confront me until now.

I check the back door and see Ryan through the glass. “You’d better go back in. I don’t want you to get shit too.”

“Please,” she says with an eye roll. “Ryan wouldn’t have a company if it weren’t for me. I’ll risk it.”

“Still, he’s watching. And it’s cold out here.”

“Then you and I are going for margaritas. I’m going to get my coat and I’ll meet you there.”

I don’t even need to ask where we’re going. There’s only one restaurant in Fort Collins that we go to for margaritas. The only one that has drinks so strong, they actually have a limit to the number they will serve you. The Juarez.

It’s early enough on a Friday to snag a small cocktail table in the bar area. I claim it and set my coat on the other chair to prevent anyone from grabbing it. Nicole shows up less than a minute later, making the gesture unnecessary. She heads straight to the bar, then comes back with two icy drinks balanced in her hands. They’re so big, you almost need both hands to hold one.

“Okay, now what happened? Ryan shut the door to his office after you left.”

“Apparently one of our clients threatened to pull their business if I didn’t stop dressing like a girl and using weird pronouns.”

I take a sip and wince at the alcohol and at the cold. Frozen margaritas to match the frozen outside. Hopefully the alcohol will kick in soon and warm me up. And if I trust anyone to let go and drink with in public, it’s Nicole. Anyone who can go toe to toe with Jackson Daugherty and come out the winner is a badass in my book.

“Fucking Jackson Daugherty.”

I nod and shift my eyebrows in agreement. “Ryan didn’t say who, but yeah, you can guess.”

“Fucking Ryan Miller,” she says and slurps the straw into her mouth with her tongue. It’s a move I bet most guys would thoroughly appreciate. I might have to practice it.

“Did you put our name down for a table?”

“No, I wasn’t sure,” I say, and look around. People file into the restaurant as Friday afternoon quickly turns into Friday evening. The Juarez is a favorite place to unwind after a shitty workweek for many a resident. “We might be too late.” Ugh. Uncertainty is not a trait I’m intimate with. I need to turn this attitude around, but I’m all out of gumption at the moment.

“Never fear.” Nicole winks at me and saunters back to the bar. A minute later she returns with one of the cocktail waiters in tow. “Are nachos good for you, Mal? I’m thinking a double order.”

I agree and Nicole thanks the waiter profusely for the help.

“Stop flirting or you’ll put me off dinner entirely,” I say, but with no heat to my words.

Nicole laughs. “You’re just jealous I got to him first.”

I shake my head with a smile. Nicole has taken over my persona this evening, leaving me a boring, mopey mess. “Not everything is about sex, you know. Some of us now have to think about jobs and resumes and fucking bank accounts.” I got serious way too fast, wiping the smile off my own face.

“That’s why tonight is my treat. So wallow away, my friend. And I’ll do whatever I can to help you find a new job. I’ve got a few friends in Longmont. Might be farther than what you’re looking for, but it’s a start. And I’ll write you a glowing reference, so be sure to mention me.”

“Thanks, Nicole. You’re a good friend.”

“Damn straight,” she says before hooking the straw back in her mouth.

“Nope. That’s Jackson Daugherty you’re thinking of,” I say, because joking about it is all I have. “Which I’m sure he’d only be too happy to prove to you.”

She manages not to choke on her drink, still sipping while she flips me the bird.