Page 88 of Resisting the Temptation
“What do you mean?”
“Utah houses the headquarters of the Mormon Church, which has a lot of influence over the government. Alcohol laws are super strict, and there’s no gambling. There are church buildings and temples everywhere. You can’t really escape it here.”
“Is that why you moved to California?”
Emma tilts her head side to side while she thinks about her answer. “Yes, and no. Jordan’s parents wanted to move to a place that was more protective about transgender rights. I wanted to be in a place where I wouldn’t be scared to be my true self. Jordan’s an only child, so their parents kind of adopted me as their own after I truly fell out with my family. They helped me apply to college and get financial aid, they’ve met most of my previous partners, and they’ve celebrated my wins. It was a no-brainer to move with them when they asked.”
“I’m glad you had them. They seem really great.”
“They are. They’re the best pseudo-parents I could’ve asked for.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I want to ask her to meet them, because it seems like they’re an important part of her life, but I know I still need to tread carefully.
“Can I ask you something personal?” I muse.
“My word vomit isn’t enough for you?” she teases. I give her a flat look. “Ask away. I’m an open book.”
“I noticed you had a green ribbon on at the club, and you don’t say ‘boyfriends’ you use the term ‘partners.’” I don’t know how to ask outright, but I don’t have to.
Emma chuckles. “You’ve seen the pink, purple, and blue flag in my office, yes?” I nod. “I’m bisexual.”
“I wondered, but I didn’t want to assume.”
“I’m open about it. I’m not ashamed of it. You can ask me anything you’d like.”
“Good. I never want you to be ashamed of the things that make you you.”
Emma gives me a smile in return, and the topic of conversation changes.
Emma directs me away from the St. George traffic, through a formation of red and white rocks that looks vaguely familiar, and through some hills that look like volcanoes. When I point them out, Emma laughs and tells me theyarevolcanoes, but they’re inactive.
We pull into a small town with two gas stations, a small strip of businesses, and a church all on the main road. We turn down a side street, and I follow a bumpy road to the Gunlock cemetery.
It’s small, barely half an acre with a run-down park across the gravel road and a structure that looks like sketchy bathrooms.
“Do you want me to come with you?” I question when Emma doesn’t immediately get out of the car.
“Only if you don’t find it weird that I talk to them still.”
Talk to them?
I shrug, “As long as you’re not performing a séance.”
Emma gets out of the car, and I follow her as she opens a white wrought iron gate in need of a bit ofWD-40. I follow her down the cracked sidewalk and over the dried grass—avoiding stepping on the other graves—until we come to a gray upright headstone.
Emma plops herself in the crunchy grass, and I follow suit next to her, reading the inscriptions.
Their last name, Price, is carved on a banner above a mountain range with an elk on one side and a pine tree on the other, then there are two names and their birth and death dates.
Blythe June Prior
21 Feb 1925
18 Jan 2010
Rupert Lance
27 Jan 1923
