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Now here I am, in a car with Peter, listening to the exact same shit. Peter is so like my siblings sometimes, it’s disturbing. I wonder what he would say if he knew that I had to retake Calculus in high school or that I didn’t finish college, not even for fashion or design.
That’s always been a bone of contention in my family, something that’s brought up every time we’re together. If I’d justapplied myself, my parents like to say, then I would have done better.
I bet Peter’s family asks me those getting-to-know-you questions, and I’ll have to admit that I’m not smart enough or too lazy for college. Peter’s family is probably all super smart too. They might also be quiet like him. I might be zooming at fifty kilometers per hour toward a few days of dreary silence while a storm locks us inside.
I slump down in my seat.
When we get back onto the highway, Peter reaches over and turns off the podcast. He’s focused on the road, which is good, except that his knuckles are white as he grips the steering wheel. I didn’t notice that before when he was driving me to the airport. Is it the upcoming storm that has him so tense?
Peter said his family lives close by, so I am sure we will get there before the storm hits.
Though it is definitely a lot grayer outside.
Peter’s frowning too. Sure, he’s normally a pretty serious person, but this is a deep frown.
And he keeps glancing at me.
Peter flexes his hands, releasing the death grip, and taps his fingers on the steering wheel. He glances at me again and shifts in his seat.
I cross my arms and wait.
We exit the freeway underneath the sign for Baden. Once there’s an opportunity, Peter pulls over to the side, puts the car in park, and faces me. Or, faces me as much as he can with his seatbelt on.
“Listen, my family...” He stops and rubs the stubble on his jaw. “My sister will be there with her husband and two kids.”
“Okay,” I drawl.
“You don’t like kids, I know.”
I hold up a hand before he can continue. “I’m great with kids most of the time. I can behave myself, I swear.”
He shifts again, and I wait for more.
“My niece,” Peter says, pushing the words out. He’s staring at me, gauging my reaction. “She’s fifteen and going through a tough time. I know kids get moody and hormonal at that age, but you should know that she’s trans too. And if you have a problem with that—”
“Whoa, whoa,” I stop him, both hands up now. “I have no problem with that at all. Come on, would Nash work with me if I was a bigot?”
“Some people don’t allow their bigotry to show until they find an opportunity to hurt someone.”
Peter’s words come out with an overlay of pain and bitter truth. I swallow back any further protests. I know I’m lucky to be in an industry where being different is more celebrated than normal, and I’m surrounded by people who are generally pretty accepting. Heck, even my sisters, who I don’t see eye-to-eye with often, are involved in Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion programs in their respective companies.
I could tell Peter about all the people in my life who are under the LGBTQIA+ umbrella, about how one of my favorite neighbors is a drag queen, or that love is love is love, but I know that it would just be words. “I look forward to meeting your family,” I say instead.
He nods, and the crease between perfectly plucked thick eyebrows and the set of his stubbled jaw tell me that he’s still anxious about it, but that will fade with time and trust.
And Peter is trusting me with his family, even before considering his niece.Allof his family.
“I’ve never attended a Hanukkah celebration before.”
Peter’s hands relax a bit. “We’re more secular than traditional. My dad was raised in France as a reform Jew. The community here is Orthodox.”
A few minutes later, we pull to a driveway next to a small structure, and Peter turns off the car. Silently, we gather as much of our luggage as we can carry, and Peter leads me to the door of the building.
There’s a window to the left with a single electric menorah on the sill.
“Hello,” Peter calls as he opens the door. There’s a staircase leading down, and I realize this house is on the hillside, and we’ve parked at the top.
I brace myself for the rushing of feet and voices of greeting, but all is quiet except for a woman who calls from below, answering in Swiss-German.
