June stuffs the rest of the clothes back in the duffel. “Don’t plan on me working tomorrow, Sam,” she says.

“No problem,” Sam assures her. “We’re a little bit stalled until the contractors are done. Call me if you need anything!”

“I’ll text!” June smirks at her.

I grab my bass off the bar. “Oh, is that yours?” Anya asks. “Sick! June plays guitar too.”

“That’s a bass, An,” June corrects her. “It’s bigger than my guitars.”

“Aren’t they the same thing, though? Like, it’s a bass guitar, right?”

“No!” June says at the same time as I say, “It’s different!” June grins at me and we head out.

There’s a Toyota parked at the curb near the top of the steps up from the bar.

“Anya usually gets shotgun for the leg room, but I’m not sure which one of you needs it more.” June looks between the two of us.

“I’ll arm wrestle you for it,” says Anya.

“No thanks,” I say quietly. “I’ll take the back with my bass.”

June shrugs, tosses the duffel in the trunk, and we pile in. The back seat is fine, although it takes a little bit of extra fidgeting to get myself buckled as I’m not used to my hips.

Anya twists around to look at me. “I’ll show you how to get shorter to fit in the back seat. It’s also super handy if you’re flying and can’t get an exit row.”

Just then, my stomach rumbles audibly.

“Oh, are you hungry?” June asks. “We already ate supper, but Anya’s probably ready for a snack.”

“Yeah,” I admit. “I was on my way home to get supper, but I got caught up in an occult ritual and all I got was shitty donuts.”

“Oh, yeah, that’ll happen,” laughs Anya. “How’s the Culver’s drive-through? Cuz I want ice cream!”

June and I are happy with this plan and a few minutes later, we pull into the drive-through. June catches my eye in the rearview mirror.

“Hey, what’s your name? I was going to ask you what you wanted, but I realized that we didn’t get properly introduced.”

“T—” I start to say, but the familiar sounds catch in my throat. I try again and it still doesn’t work. “I, um, might need a new name. For now, chicken tenders and fries will be fine, thank you.”

We get our food and sweet desserts and soon we’re pulling up to June and Anya’s house, which turns out to one of the many houses in the city that were built around 1920. “My mom is living in New York right now, but she still owns the house,” Anya explains as she unlocks the front door. “Her parents built it when she was little. I grew up here.”

I give her a confused look as I try to do the math and then I realize, “Oh, right. Magic shit.”

“Magic shit,” she agrees.

I hesitate, but decide to just get it out there. “I don’t know if this is weird to ask, but how old are you?”

“I’m thirty-one. June is thirty. We were in the same grade in school, because she’s smarter than I am.”

“Oh, good! I’m not crushing on someone twice my age,” I blurt out. Shit. I didn’t mean to actually say that. “I mean, it would be weird…if I was actually doing that…” I mumble.

I’m absolutely not looking at Anya and my cheeks are burning, but I can still feel her fighting to keep from laughing at me. Eventually, she says neutrally, “Mom says it matters less the older you get. But yes, you’re safe from weirdness.”

The front door opens into the living room. It’s cozy with soft lighting, warm wood, and a very large couch. “Make yourself comfortable,” says Anya.

I carefully put my bass in a corner, then plop down on one end of the couch and close my eyes with a sigh. Anya clears her throat. I open my eyes and look up at her.

“I’m not complaining, but I think you’ve forgotten that you’re wearing a skirt,” she says, her eyes not leaving my face, which immediately begins warming. Again.

I scoot up on the couch a bit and put my knees together. Anya sprawls next to me and gently elbows me in the side. “That’s why I never wear ‘em.”

June joins us on the couch and we finish our food in a silence which is mostly comfortable as long as I don’t think about how close Anya is sitting to me.

“I’m going to make some tea,” June announces. “Anya, can you give me a hand in the kitchen, please?”

I’m not sure how I feel about being left alone right now, but it’s nice to have a few minutes without any surprises or anyone asking questions or trying to take care of me. I can hear low voices in the kitchen and I assume they’re talking about me, but I find that I trust these near-strangers. Besides, it’s not like I have that many options when it comes to people that I feel comfortable confiding in.

I can’t remember the last time I had a good heart-to-heart with my parents or my brother. I withdrew a lot during my teen years and while we didn’t have a falling out, I just found it harder and harder to relate to them. I had friends in high school and college, but just never kept up with them, not even with my best friend in high school. My roommate Dave is a good guy, and while we work together very well as bandmates and hanging out together is comfortable, it seems like we never really go below the surface. A lot of my deeper conversations happen with Kelly, but while she shares a lot with me, I still find it hard to open up despite her warm and caring personality. When I think about it like that, it’s hard to escape the fact that the common denominator in all my relationships being shallow is me.

For better or for worse, I think I know what a large part of the problem is and I’m not going to be able to ignore it any longer.

“So is the gender thing something you were already working on or are you just figuring it out now?” Anya asks as she comes back into the room.

And there it is.

June, following her in from the kitchen shoots her a reproachful look and saves me from answering immediately by handing me a cup of tea. “Let me know if you want anything in it, but try it first,” she says.

I’m usually more of a hot black coffee drinker, but I accept the cup and inhale the aroma, which is both earthy and floral. It grounds me enough to answer.

“I…it’s not new. I was just trying to ignore it. How did you know?”

“It’s not like Sam failed to mention that you had in instant transition when she called June. I’ll answer any questions you have and teach you as much as you want about your powers, but lesson number one is that we look the way we want to. You’re a gorgeous babe because you want to be a gorgeous babe. One of my trans friends says, ‘If you want to be a girl, you can just be a girl.’ You’re just lucky enough to be able to speedrun the process.”

There are a lot of questions swirling in my mind and it feels like Anya must be leaving out some important steps. It doesn’t make sense that she knows I was a man up until a few hours ago and still has no problem calling me a gorgeous babe. Why isn’t she demanding that I prove I’m woman enough? It can’t be that simple! Maybe if she saw what I really looked like, she’d change her mind.

I’m resolved not to cry in front of these two women, but my eyes are already filling with tears. June gently takes my teacup from me.

Anya places a hand lightly on my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she says.

My resolve breaks and I take a deep sobbing breath. It’s as if something that has been tightly wound and hidden away inside my heart suddenly breaks free, tearing chunks of my soul out with it.

 

I’m five.

“All right!” says my kindergarten teacher. “We’re going to make teams! Boys on one side, girls on the other.”

I reluctantly go to the boys’ side. I’d rather be on a team with all my friends.

 

I’m eight.

I’m flying down the sidewalk on my bike. I take the corner into the driveway a little too fast and I go down hard. I try not to cry, but my knee hurts so much.

Dad comes running from where he was painting the garage.

“Hey, sport! You landed pretty hard, but you’ll be okay.”

I cry harder when Dad cleans my skinned knee with alcohol.

“Man up,” Dad says. “You’re fine!”

I just want him to hug me, but he doesn’t really do that any more.

 

I’m ten.

My mom has is catching up with a friend who dropped by. I’m playing with the friend’s daughter in the next room.

“You’re lucky,” I hear Mom say. “I love my boys, but sometimes I just wish I had a daughter. I feel like I’m missing out.”

There’s no reason for that to hurt, but it does.

Later, Mom tells me how much she appreciates me playing with Molly. “You’re just so good with girls. I think they like how gentle you are.” I feel a little bit better.

 

I’m twelve.

I’m in the bathroom at my grandparents’ cabin, changing into my swim trunks. As I strip, I catch a glimpse of my body in the full-length mirror on the door.

Maybe when I’m a little older and I start getting muscles, I’ll like how my body looks. I quickly pull on my trunks and try not to think about they’re covering.

The lake is cool and I feel so at home in the water. When I finally climb up on the dock, I quickly grab my towel and wrap it around me because I hate how my wet trunks cling to me and I don’t want anyone to see.

 

I’m fourteen.

I hate the boys’ locker room. I always change as quickly as I can, facing my locker the whole time. I try to ignore the crude banter around me.

“Hey, Anderson!” one of the boys calls. “When are you gonna ask that goth chick out?”

“We’re just friends,” I mumble. They don’t need to know all the reasons why it wouldn’t work with Jess.

“What’s the matter? She’s hot. Aren’t you into hot girls?”

Later, in the library, I tell Jess about it.

“If I were at all into guys, I’d ask you out,” she says.

I can’t even begin to sort out how that makes me feel. Instead, I slide a catalog across the table to her and show her the bass I’m saving up for. I got a beginner instrument for Christmas the previous school year, but I want a real bass.

 

I’m fifteen.

I’ve just walked in the door after school. The house seems empty. I know Liam has soccer and won’t be coming home till later, but Mom’s car was in the driveway.

I go up to my room to find Mom sitting on my bed. She’s holding the skirt and soft pink sweater that were hidden away in the back of my closet.

“I’m not going to ask where these came from,” she says. I don’t tell her that Jess made me try them on as a joke one day when she was visiting and then happened to leave them behind. I don’t tell her how sometimes when I’m alone in the house, I wear them in my room and it feels like the static in my head clears a bit.

“Being a teenager can be confusing, and sometimes we make mistakes,” my mom continues, “but you’ll always be my son and I’ll always love you. I just want the best for you and don’t want you to make life harder for yourself.”

She leaves the room, taking the skirt and sweater with her.

I take my bass out of its case. The rich low tones in my headphones blot out the world around me for a little while.

 

I’m seventeen.

I carefully close the incognito window on my browser and then put my laptop away. I’ve been spending too much time on the internet reading about transgender people.

I know I’m not really trans, because I didn’t always know that I’m not a boy and I don’t always hate my body. I’ve been working out a bit and I’ve got some muscles. I hope I can keep it up this time.

From what I’ve been reading, it sounds like I have what’s called autogynephilia. It makes me feel gross, but at least I know what’s wrong with me.

Besides, in the last couple years I’ve shot up and gotten a lot bigger and the idea of trying to turn that into something soft and pretty seems unrealistic to say the least.

I pick up my bass. At least music makes sense to me.

I do kind of wish I were trans, though.

 

I’m twenty-one.

I’m sitting at a table in the university dining hall waiting for my friends.

I still think sometimes about all the nonsense I put myself through in my teens. I’m happy as a guy. If I’m being honest with myself, there’s the occasional twinge of jealousy when I see a pretty girl, but women do have to put up with a lot of bullshit that I don’t.

At least the other guys aren’t giving me grief like they did in high school. There’s still a lot of stupid macho posturing in the dorms, but they leave me out of it.

I shift my bass in its gig bag to make room for my friends as they arrive. It’s pretty funny how I’m like the token straight guy in my friend group.

 

I’m twenty-seven and I’m having a meltdown in an unfamiliar house with two people I’ve known for less than two hours because I’ve been magically given the one thing that I’ve always wanted and never dared to ask for and all I have to do is accept it.

My sobbing gradually subsides. I realize I’m curled tightly and painfully into the fetal position on the couch with my cheek pressed into something firm and warm. I open my eyes and see that it’s Anya’s thigh. My tears and snot are all over the leg of her jeans. That’s one way to make an impression.

I can’t help but laugh at that thought. I feel Anya take breath, which I choose to interpret as relieved.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I guess I could have handled that a little different.”

“What she means is, ‘I’m a dumbass and I shouldn’t have forced you to deal with stuff that you weren’t ready to process yet,’” June adds helpfully from where she’s kneeling on the floor next to me. She passes me a tissue.

“Yeah, that,” Anya says ruefully.

I take the tissue and lever myself into a seated position so I can blow my nose without choking on my own snot.

“Oh fuck,” I groan. I was holding myself so tightly that every muscle in my back and shoulders is on fire.

I blow my nose. It only helps a little.

June gives Anya a look that presumably means something. Anya stands up and June takes her place on the couch next to me.

“Deep breaths,” June says. I close my eyes and inhale slowly, hold it, and exhale.

I feel June put her arms around me. “Is this okay?” she asks.

I nod, and concentrate on my breathing. It’s probably my imagination, but it feels like the warmth of June’s arms is spreading through my body, relaxing my muscles and easing the pain.

I keep breathing and slowly relax. There’s still a shitload of things I’m going to have to think through, but it feels less like a terrible secret and more like possibility and opportunity.

I’ve actually started drifting off when something tickles my nose. I open my eyes, but the room has been blotted out by…feathers?

“Oops, sorry about that!” says June. The feathers part and I realize that June had her arms and her wings around me. Enormous wings, the feathers the same midnight black as her hair, sprout from her back. The halter top makes sense now.

I blink at her. Now I have more questions, but my brain is done.

“I’m going to let you explain that tomorrow,” I say generously. “Is there someplace I can crash?”

“You’ve had a long day,” June says. “I’ll take you to the guest room.”

I follow her upstairs. She points out the bathroom on the way and shows me to a small room that’s mostly queen bed.

“We’ll be up for a while yet, so just let us know if you need anything,” June says. “Otherwise, sleep well.”

I mumble my thanks, take off my shoes, and lie down. I’m asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.