I bite my lip. I’m learning to not say the first thing that comes to my mind, I guess, because I don’t say, This wasn’t just some trip. This is my life we’re talking about here. My grandfather. My dad. And then I’m so glad I don’t say it, because I hear it, and for the first time it occurs to me: Me. My life. Aisha. Her life. Shit. How come I’m so selfish and stupid and dense sometimes? She has her own life, and all this time I was treating her thing with her dad like it was some side issue, when for her it’s the issue.

I close my eyes, afraid to look at her. Finally I get up the courage to speak. “You’re right. I didn’t get that. I’m sorry. I get a little in my head, I guess.”

She nods, and then she smiles a bit, and I think, Say something! Say you’re cool with it! Say a joke! Anything!

But she doesn’t say anything. Just keeps that little, content smile on her face.

As an old lady pushing a shopping cart saunters by, Aisha says, “I’m okay if you want to be the sidekick in my life.”

“I’d be lucky to be that,” I say. “And by the way, you can kiss girls. I’ll learn not to want to stab them in the eye.”

“So can you. And I’d be jealous if you started kissing some girl too, by the way.”

I blush, for the first time ever with Aisha.

“Thanks for that,” I say.

EARLY THE NEXT morning, we take a nice stroll with Gomer through the Castro, Turk’s neighborhood. He explains that when he moved there, back in 1975, it was pretty much all gay. It’s become a lot more mixed, he says, his expression sour.

“So diversity is a bad thing?” I say.

Aisha and Turk share a look. “I forgot we have a breeder in our midst,” he says. He pats my shoulder condescendingly as we keep walking. “No, sweet child. Diversity is not a bad thing. But neither was having one neighborhood in all of America — back then, anyway — where it was considered normal to be gay. In fact, that would still be a nice thing.”

I say, “So you want to be normal? That sounds boring.”

They share another look. This has been happening a lot, this two against one thing. In the last fifteen hours, Aisha and Turk have become this team, and for once I’m not jealous. I get it. They have something in common. I’m just happy to see Aisha smiling and joking.

Scratch that. Aisha, Turk, and Gomer are a team. I’m not sure if Gomer is gay, but he did sleep with Aisha last night — the lucky dog. He hasn’t left her side since, possibly because she gives him these epic belly rubs. He stretches out on his back and she scratches his belly with both hands. In response, Gomer’s eyes and mouth open as wide as they can.

Yeah, I can see why people love dogs.

Gomer is trotting, prancing, really, his tail up like he’s proud to be taking a walk. Every person we meet needs to stop and fawn all over him, and Gomer greets them by standing up on his hind legs and attempting to lick their faces when they bend down. We wind through tree-lined streets chock-full of Victorian houses scrunched together. When we pass a nondescript cream-colored building with purple doors pushed up against a row of skinny Victorians, Turk stops.

“This is my church.”

Aisha and I laugh. I’ve known the man for a day, and the one thing he isn’t is religious. Last night at dinner, he started oversharing about his lack of a sex life in the last two decades. I’d never heard a seventy-year-old person talk about sex before, and frankly I’ll be okay if I don’t again for a while. But Turk doesn’t change expression.

“You serious?” Aisha says, an eyebrow raised.

“As a heart attack. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re, like, Christian and a fag?”

“Whoa,” I say, but Turk doesn’t seem quite as taken aback.

“There are literally millions of us Christian fags, dear.”

“But don’t Christians basically think we’re going to hell?”

“ ‘Christian’ is a rather wide range. To group all Christians together is rather like grouping all homosexuals together, wouldn’t you say?”

I think back to Mr. Bailey saying the same thing, and I savor the irony of Turk and Mr. Bailey agreeing on something. Gomer pulls on his leash as a big dog trots by. Turk reins him in.

“All I know is my dad threw me out based on his beliefs, and he’s a Christian,” Aisha says.

Turk pulls her toward him, firmly but gently. “What your dad did,” he says directly into her ear, “that’s not Christlike, okay? That’s not Christian. Do you hear me? Do you understand?”

“Oh, he’s a real Christian all right,” Aisha says, and I feel my shoulders rise and tense.

“He may think that,” Turk says. “But true followers of Jesus Christ would never turn their back on a child who was suffering. That’s not conscionable. He’s living in fear.”

“Okay,” Aisha says.

We’re all more comfortable when Turk lets go of Aisha and we start walking again.

“Forgive me,” he says, chewing on his mustache. “I get so sick of assholes hijacking organized religion. Seriously. Somebody told your father, in the name of Christ, to kick you out of the house? Totally unacceptable. Sitting in a church makes you no more of a Christ follower than sitting in a Ford dealership makes you a Mustang owner.”

I say, “So you believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God? That he was born without his mom having sex? That he was crucified and resurrected? That he died for our sins? Really?”

“Actually, I was born Jewish.”

I raise an eyebrow, as best I can, anyway. “Turk? What kind of Jewish name is that?”

“It’s a nickname. My given name is Tzuriel. It means ‘Rock of God’ in Hebrew.”

“I think Tzuriel Braverman came up when we Googled Turk Braverman back in wherever,” I say. “We didn’t pursue it, as we didn’t think it was a thing.”

He laughs. “Tzuriel is my given name, and my professional name. I’m an author. I tend to write about religion and sexuality.”

“You write books about God?” Aisha asks.

He nods.

“Cool,” she says, and I’m like, Yeah. It is kinda cool.

“So you’re Jewish?” she asks.

“Well, I was born Jewish. I love the Jewish religion, what it stands for. In essence, Judaism is about being the best person you can be. I love that. As I’ve gotten older, though, I’ve dabbled here and there. I mean, how can you be Jewish or Christian when the Dalai Lama exists? How can you be Buddhist or Muslim when there’s Christ’s teachings? There are so many wise people who have taught us so many wise lessons. How can a person choose to follow only some of the wisdom of the world?”

I ask, “So you’re not Christian, but you go to church?”

“This is the Metropolitan Community Church. There are tons of open and affirming churches. To me, a church that isn’t open and affirming isn’t really a church at all. This one is run by and for LGBTQ people.”

I look at Aisha. She’s just staring at the building. “I wish I could go to a service here,” she says, and we go back to walking.

“Well, you’ll need to fly back and get your car, won’t you?”

Aisha nods. I’ve been so focused on our flight back to Billings later today and introducing Turk to my dad that I’d forgotten we’ll return here in a few days.

“Well then, it’s a date. You’ll love it. There’s so much love in there, so much kindness. I sometimes feel as though the walls can’t hold it all in.”

We walk for a while. I try to digest what he’s told me. He’s a Jew who goes to a church and loves the Dalai Lama. He talks about sex and he’s a recovering alcoholic with forty years in AA and he writes books about God and he drives his convertible too fast.