SEPTEMBER 7, 2016: 

 

“Jeez Jenni, what the heck happened to your hair?” She always had a frank way about her, saying the first thing that came to mind.

 

“My dad said that I’d get made fun of for looking like a girl,” Honestly, I was trying not to think about it.

 

“Yeah, my mom keeps saying the same thing. Why would anyone even want to do that?” I loved how she’d cross her arms and pout, as if she had the clearest vision of us all. Ironically, she probably needed glasses. 

 

“Fuck if I know. Maybe kids are meaner in middle school?” It was easier not to think about these things. I’d often get so upset if I did, so I typically just did what I was told, even if I knew it hurt to do so deep down.

 

I didn’t feel that way so much, with her.

 

“Joy.”

 

“Ugh, I hate having short hair…”

 

***

 

DECEMBER 12, 2024: 

 

At some point I found myself still crammed into our booth, laying atop Rachel as she was pressed against the wall. The close-quarters and the prolonged physical contact had to have been hell for her, but she didn’t complain. Instead, all I felt was the calm rising and falling of her chest, which I laid on. Rach was right: I’d never give up these ‘mommy milkers’, as she so eloquently put it.

 

Stroking my hair, Rach spoke in a soft tone: “We’ll need to get going soon.”

 

The sensation of my wife’s soft hand against my hair was so relaxing that I struggled not to fall back asleep. Still, a thought did persist: “I hope this isn’t going to mess up my hair.”

 

“Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll help you fix it up when we get to work.”

 

“Mmm, thanks,” I whispered back. I was glad that we were in the back corner of the café, it was a hell of a lot less embarrassing than having an identity crisis up front or surrounded by a ton of random people.

 

Well, better random people than people you know, I suppose.

 

“Hey, Jen?” Rach asked, inhaling as if she was trying to summon forth her strength.

 

“Jenni—yeah, Rach?”

 

“Remember how you said earlier that you, like, just did what people expected of you?”

 

“Yeah…it’s what got me through life, basically.”

 

“Y’know, like, it wasn’t easy, right?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“For me, I mean. Always having to fight-’n-stuff. I barely got through it,” her voice was getting emotional now.

 

I reached up and took her by one of the arms that she had wrapped around me and gave it a tight squeeze, “Rach, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

 

“—No, no, please, what I mean is, like, I only got through it b-because I had you there. You were always watching my back,” Rach’s voice trailed off into a soft giggle.

 

“In more ways than one,” I offered, looking up at my wife as best as I could at such an awkward angle.

 

“Omigawd, you little slut!” Even when she was pretending to be insulted, Rach was the cutest. “But, like, for real! You got me through the worst years of my life. That’s who you are, even if you don’t think you were ever anyone. You were—you are the best friend a girl can have, Jen.”

 

“Jenni—goddamn it bitch, you’re doing that on purpose now, aren’t you?” We broke into simultaneous giggles. “B-but really, Rach—I-it’s surreal having my life framed like that. I was just doing what I wanted to do. I was just being selfish, hoping that you would keep me around.”

 

With an amused hum, Rachel retorted, “Okay then. Keep being selfish. Tell me, like, what does Jenni want right now?”

 

I hated to say it—to even think about it—but I knew exactly what Rach meant. Looking up into her eyes, I knew exactly what she expected me to say. It was almost like she knew…or she wanted me to know that it was okay to say what she figured I wanted to say. It was maddening, but no matter how much I thought I was the only one looking after our backs, she was also looking after mine. Like wives ought to, I suppose. “You promise it’s not, like, stolen valor or something?”

 

“Promise.” It could be so damn frustrating how confident and wise this woman could be sometimes.

 

Taking a deep breath, I decided to say something that made me feel entirely too guilty to want, let alone tell someone: “I want to be trans. Like, okay, basically, I want to be a woman, y’know? Actually, wait. No, no, like—okay. Here I go: I’m a woman, Rach.”

 

Massaging the back of my neck casually, Rachel giggled so that—rather, as if—only I could hear her: “Gawd, you are such a bimbo.”

 

***

 

MARCH 27, 2024: 

 

“Omigawd Jenni, this phone’s camera is only 1080p!” My wife groaned loudly as she fiddled with her new phone. “What the hell? There’s no HDR! All of my photos are coming out as, like, fucking bland as shit looking! I’ll need to color correct these things, like, so much!!”

 

“Are you really surprised that the sketchy guy who wants us to work for his night club thing is cheap as hell?” I countered, casually flipping through my phone settings to set my phone settings to my usual preferences. “Why do you think this apartment is so awful?”

 

“Uh…shoot, I dunno? I guess—fine, you’re right!” Rachel sent me a test text message to confirm that she indeed had the right phone number for me. “But, like, STILL! All our photos are going to look like dogshit!”

 

“Just be glad that we can browse the internet and call one another again, hon,” I offered, hoping to steer Rachel down a more positive mindset. 

 

“Gawd, I miss Insta,” Rach pouted, slouching against a wall, “This sucks so much, I just wanna be a influencer again and, like, upload all day. Ooh, wouldn’t it be fun to do those YouTube reactions where we watch videos or TV shows and movies and react to them or something?”

 

“Sounds boring to me, hon,” I said, scanning the living room with my eyes again. No wonder the apartment was sketchy: it came barebones. Shoot, my feet and back were beginning to kill me. Walking over to Rachel, I sat down on the floor next to her by slowly letting my back drift against the wall.

 

We were going to need to buy some furniture. I wasn’t sure that I trusted him—okay, I definitely did not trust him—but Paul had given us $5,000 to ‘get our lives situated’ before we started working at the club on the third, as well as phones so he could keep in contact with us. Truth be told, I half-expected the phones to be bugged somehow, but then I remembered that it wasn’t like those sort of options didn’t come directly from the carrier, either. 

 

If I wanted to keep us off the streets, I was going to have to deal with a little potential spying from a perverted creep. At least, until we could figure what in the hell to do next. 

 

The police and the government were likely to hunt us until the end of time. Even a quick anonymous search was pulling up that the government was still searching for us as last month. Gen. Eric Wyatt Mann was still pledging to bring his daughter’s murderer to justice, and that included charging us for the death of our moms. 

 

My father had, unsurprisingly, kept off of social media since September, and the three stores had been shut down. As I had feared, the old man was bankrupt and ruined.

 

I had…difficult feelings about David Jeong, but I don’t think that I would have wished even that sort of humiliation upon him. Certainly not to think that his own son had murdered his wife, his son’s mother. 

 

The entire scenario just…stunk to me. Who sent that hit squad to the house? The only person that I could think of with that kind of power would be Gen. Eric Wyatt Mann, but even then, would he have been so sloppy? Had we truly evaded arrest for all of this time? None of it made any sort of sense to me.

 

“Jenni, look!” Rachel shoved her phone in my face hurriedly, “My Insta grew to sixty-nine million followers! Holy shit!”

 

“Nice!” I cleared my throat, embarrassed that that had been my first reaction. “Dear, I don’t think that’s a good thing. You do recall, right, that we’re wanted for murder? Of course people would follow your Insta!”

 

Not that I thought about it, it wouldn’t even be safe to log in to delete the account. Damn, I just hope that nobody who recognizes her based off of her cosplay photos realizes that she’s the girl that allegedly murdered her parents. 

 

Hell, how the hell did they expect Rachel and I to have murdered them with military grade weapons, anyway? How fake was the investigation into our moms’ deaths, anyway? None of it was adding up. 

 

“Yeah, but, like, if I could monetize this many people we’d be so rich!”

 

“That assumes that you’re ever allowed to go back to being Rachel J—wait, you literally put our marriage certificate as your last post?”

 

“Oh, well, like, yeah? I was excited, so I announced that I’d gotten married! Don’t worry, my deadname isn’t showing!”

 

A sour feeling stuck in my stomach, “Yeah? Well, mine is…”

 

“I mean, you plan on detransitioning when we go back home, right Jae?”

 

‘When’, she said. This girl still thinks that there’s a path forward for that? God, I wish I had her optimism, “Just Jen.”

 

“Okay? Like, I’m just saying, Jenni, that I don’t see the issue.”

 

I wasn’t entirely sure I could explain it to her. I didn’t know why it irked me so much.

 

Maybe I truly have given up on ever returning home.

 

Especially now that I looked like…this…

 

…and kinda…prefer it…

 

Turning on my phone’s camera and switching it to selfie mode, I looked at my reflection. My hair had just gotten down onto my shoulders, but it was in such a worrisome state that I knew that it was going to need a trim. I hadn’t had hair this long since I was a child, and I was beginning to remember why I had missed it so much when my dad had taken me to get it cut. It was nice having long hair again, but I still missed how I had had hair that touched down on my back. I could not help but wonder if I could ever go back to that length again, someday. I wasn’t looking forward to the catcalling or the creepy stares from men, but to be allowed even just a modicum of self-control over how I looked would have been nice. 

 

I’d probably look even girlier with long hair. I didn’t like how clockable I looked, either. Even though a girl stared back at me in the mirror I couldn’t help but fear that the world would see a man in a dress any time that I left the house.

 

And then call me one.

 

***

 

DECEMBER 12, 2024: 

 

Rachel and I arrived at work and swiftly armored up for the evening. Paul poked his head into the ladies’ dressing room, as he always did, and made a sour face when he saw me with my longer hair and modeling the dress I wanted to wear for the evening. Miss York had made it very clear to me that if she was going to be ‘paying for my services’ then I was to be me, in every way I so decided I was me, so against the common sense of working at a club where all the girls wore short skirts and showed off cleavage, I slipped into a navy blue piece that ran just below my knees, displayed my modest bust modestly, and showed plenty of arm. 

 

My body was mine, to show as much or as little as I liked, and I liked that.

 

Still, I’d made a mental note to wear something that would show off my legs next time. They really were toned as fuck.

 

Between four and six other girls typically worked with Rachel and I on any given night. We’d remained friendly with them, even going out for dinner on more than one occasion, but Rach and I’d worked hard to keep them at arm’s length should they get wind of our pasts, or even that we were anything more than friends. It was in moments like those when Freddie and Elle began to grow closer and finally become something of an open-secret couple that I found myself wishing Rachel and I had never made that stupid pact to pretend to be straight. Really, so long as we passed for cis—hell, didn’t look like we did last year—who the hell cares if we were openly bisexual? It’s not like that would lead back to us being the Jeongs, now living new lives as Yoshihara and Baker.

 

Christ, we couldn’t even share the same last name because of this fucking world. It was infuriating! When the fuck would I finally be able to scream to the world that Rachel was my wife and I hers?

 

…So much for being a cishet guy, I guess. 

 

The other girls were quite taken aback by my breaking character—not in a bad way, of course. I’d gotten plenty of compliments and praise for ignoring Paul’s whims so thoroughly. It was quite refreshing, in fact, to enjoy being ‘one of the girls’ around someone other than my wife. Perhaps the most dark comedy of them all, my mother was right: my wife was my only friend.

 

And a damned good one, at that. 

 

Armored up, Rach and I held hands as we waited for the beginning of our shift. “You okay?” I asked, motioning to our hands.

 

Rachel smiled back, giving me a quick glance before returning her vision to the floor. “Yeah, no, I’m good. Probably. Like, I just gotta turn on the charm once we’re out there and I’ll be fine,” Rach kept up the smile, although I could tell she was still feeling the pressure of it all. “Actually,” she continued, “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? It’s your first time not going out there in a suit! Aren’t you, like, worried?!”

 

It was hard not to crack a smile at how cute Rach looked, even when worried for my own wellbeing, “Oh, I am, of course,” I whispered back, “But…I think I’ll be fine? Like, I just have to be myself, right? No more of the pseudo-guy I was pretending to—” For some reason I couldn’t finish the sentence and couldn’t stop myself from breaking out into a fit of giggles. It was beginning to occur to me now why I’d felt so uncomfortable in that role that Paul expected me to play. 

 

It was beginning to occur to me now why I’d felt so non-existent before transitioning: I didn’t exist. 

 

Instead of asking myself what I wanted for me, and for my life, I’d just followed others because it was easier than facing life on my own.

 

But now…I wasn’t alone.

 

In so many ways, I hadn’t been alone since the day I met that amazing girl in the first grade.

 

Our phones vibrated, signaling the time. Standing up, still hand-in-hand with Rach, I pulled her up and beckoned her to follow me.

 

***

 

DECEMBER 12, 2024: 

 

I had been surprised to find that Miss York was alone tonight, her usual posse of fellow high-rollers off doing whatever they normally did when they weren’t here. Part of me felt bad that Miss York had interrupted any of her other plans for me of all people, but I reminded myself that it had been her idea to spend so much money on me in the first place, so it simply made sense for her to come for a consecutive night a week to entertain herself with me. 

 

Perhaps perceiving myself as something of an object for Victoria York was a poor decision on my part, but I was in such a…euphoric mood that I’d ultimately decided not to overthink things. With any luck the night would simply move faster now than it did on most nights and before I knew it I would be back in bed with my wife, ready to start a new day as myself.

 

“Tell me Jennifer, how are you liking the clothes?” Miss York asked, wearing a face that seemed quite confident of my answer.

 

“They’re lovely, Victoria,” I’d grinned between sips of a Coke I’d been working on. With the greater space available on the booth couch than normal I’d been adventurous enough to pull my legs up to rest with the rest of my body and propped my body against the backing of the couch to match Miss York. “I suspected you could tell as much, though.”

 

The 43 year old woman smiled coyly, took a moment to appreciate my relaxed form, then replied, “No issues with Paul, I trust?”

 

“No, no, not at all. Besides the usual, of course,” it was nice to not have to pretend to be aloof about what that creep usually did.

 

“Oh?” Miss York mused, “I’ve heard…murmurs about the kind of way he treats women, my dear. Would you say it’s unacceptable?”

 

“I would certainly say that it’s not acceptable for a man to walk in on naked and half-dressed women, and make lewd comments while staring at them, all under the guise of business,” I was beginning to be concerned that I’d perhaps spiked my Coke by accident with how freely I was speaking to a client about the club’s managerial-style, but at the same time I was so damned relaxed—while on the clock, even—for once that I almost didn’t care. The calm alone was just so damned nice! 

 

“I’m curious, Jennifer,” Miss York began, straightening herself up on the couch to take a more serious tone. “Do you believe that you could do a better job? Of managing Club Y, I mean.”

 

I couldn’t help but giggle at the prospect, really, “Pfft, I could certainly learn to manage the business-side of a club faster than Paul could ever learn not to be a ‘walking talking stranger danger’ case!”

 

Despite still being on the floor, Miss York and I shared a laugh at my jab. Out of the corner of my eye I caught Rach shooting me a look to make sure everything was fine. I couldn’t not reply with a quick smile, just to reassure her.

 

“Still missing something?” Miss York asked, snapping me back to attention.

 

Hiding my embarrassment as best I could, I stammered, “Wh-what? N-no, ma’am, I’m actually—”

 

“Now Jennifer,” Miss York scolded, “What have I told you about being formal with me?”

 

“Not unless your husband’s around?” I joked, recalling what I’d heard at the boutique the other day. 

 

Miss York couldn’t stifle her impressed smirk, “Oh, dear! You’re a clever one, Jennifer, I do say.”

 

“Thank you, Victoria,” it was wishy-washy of me—and I was clearly brown nosing—but I couldn’t not go with the flow. Miss York had a way of taking ownership of any conversation she wanted, and at this point I frankly didn’t care so long as I was simply being myself, and not some creep’s vision for me.

 

The more I thought about it, the more I’d begun to realize that I was still discovering just who the fuck Jennifer Yoshihara even was. Even before this crazy year had made it impossible for me to think about what I wanted to do with my life I was beginning to realize that I’d still not quite realized what I wanted to do. What could I even do? Look cute? Hold the camera for my wife while she jerked off into a camera?

 

For the first time in my life, I was beginning to realize that I was actually ready to begin searching for an answer to those questions. It wouldn’t be easy—especially since I was now out of the closet and stuck living under a table—but it was a start. 

 

I wanted to fan these flames until they burned up the whole world.

 

Miss York placed a hand on shoulder, bringing me back to the scene at hand. She had terribly well-manicured hands with acrylic nails shining a bright red, even under the moodier lighting of the club floor. I looked the older woman in the eyes and saw just how amused she was. I hadn’t been trying particularly hard to be attractive to her, but the lack of understanding almost made the entire affair exciting to navigate. “Tell me, Jennifer—and forgive me for being so forward—would you like breast implants?”

 

My composure almost immediately collapsed at the question. I had to imagine that I was staring at the poor woman like a dumbass. At one point I’d caught my mouth ajar—it really was quite hard to think over the sound of my own beating hard.

 

At my silence, Miss York immediately changed her body language and slid her feet off of the couch so as to stand. “Oh dear, Jennifer, please don’t short-circuit on me,” she offered me a hand, and I instinctively took it so that she might guide me to my feet, “I was merely curious if you might perhaps enjoy a larger bust, is all. You seem quite fond of that other girl’s bust over there. What was her name again? Raven? Raquel?”

 

“Rachel,” I corrected, still trying to reboot after the offer. “But, like, omigawsh Miss York, I couldn’t possibly—”

 

“Tut-tut, dear. I said to call me Victoria, did I not?”

 

“Omigawd, yes, yes, please, I’m sorry, Victoria, I just—”

 

“Had bigger breasts on the mind?” Miss York laughed. 

 

I feared that my face was turning as red as Miss York’s nails, or perhaps as dark red as her hair with the way I was now holding my breath. Why would a wealthy—and drop-dead gorgeous—woman even bother asking me that? Unless…

 

…I mean, she’d already bought me so many outfits, paid for hair extensions, even! Now she wanted to…

 

It was hard to think straight. Surely there was an ulterior motive? But even then, if there was, wouldn’t I still be getting what I wanted? Or…what I thought I wanted? I’d never quite thought about it directly, to be fair. Yeah, I loved Rachel’s larger breasts. I’d even considered trying Progesterone. But did I actually want to go through with getting implants or all things? Would I get them for my own sake, or to pass better, or to compete with Rachel or to please some bored, horny, wealthy benefactor? 

 

I had felt so much euphoria with just the breasts that I had been growing for over a year, would having large breasts increase that feeling even more?

 

Would it feel as relieving to fill a top even more than I did now as I dreamed it would?

 

Finally, I heard my voice again: “Um…I mean, I’ve thought about it?” Yeah, for all of fifteen seconds, Jenni!

 

For her part, Miss York smiled and looked down into her champagne, “I see…” I couldn’t read her reaction.

 

Afraid of what exactly her reaction meant, I hastily replied: “I mean, yeah, it would be nice—really nice, actually. But also…like, M—Victoria, I’d feel so guilty putting you out like that!”

 

Miss York shot her eyes up almost immediately, their fire burning brighter than ever, “Oh, no! Jennifer, my dear, please think nothing of it! It would be money well spent and money I wouldn’t ever notice was missing from my accounts.” 

 

“B-but, still—and I’m not sure if I can afford to take the time off to recover from a surgery right now. I—I’m trying to save up enough money for—”

 

“Oh dear, is that so?” 

 

“Uh…yeah?” 

 

A wry smile crept across Miss York’s face, “Perhaps come and work for me and my husband directly, then?”

 

I wasn’t sure what to make of Miss York’s offer. Work for her directly? But…that wasn’t going to be possible, unless I explained that I could only work under the table. “Victoria, that really is a lovely offer, but I’m afraid that I—”

 

“Can’t go about giving out your Social Security Number?” the older woman laughed, more amused than surprised.

 

Taken aback by her predictive answer, I hesitated for a moment before answering, “Er…yes?” I watched her body movement for any sudden movements, afraid of what she might do.

 

Oh fuck, was she an undercover Fed? Was she working me for details about my mother’s death and the death of Rachel’s moms?

 

Slowly, the woman placed her right hand on the inside of my left thigh. It wasn’t the first time, but in this dress I’d suddenly felt so much more vulnerable.

 

“My dear,” Miss York whispered into my left ear, a soft giggle tossed in there somewhere, “Why do you think that it’s called ‘Club Y’?”

 

“Oh.”