~o~O~o~
CHAPTER TEN
“Apostrophes, cris et tapage poussés jusques à la fureur”
– Bizet, Carmen, Votre toast (Aria)

Washington DC, January 13

“Hey David – got a minute?” I was standing at the door to David Parr’s office, and it was another Monday in the trenches. Suit, dress shirt, tie, hair in a club – I had my work mask firmly in place.

David looked up from his screen and waved me in. “Sure Cam, what’s up?”

“I spent some time this weekend trying to find a few clips from Dr. Silverman’s deposition testimony to use in our presentation to the mock jury. Just some highlights. I had only read the transcript before. Listening to him . . . I just don’t think he’s going to come across well. Their expert sounds better.”

At that last comment, David’s eyebrows shot up. “Trotter is a complete idiot! He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” Richard Siverman was our expert witness on liability; Caleb Trotter was the Defendant’s opposing expert.

“I agree. But . . . I’ve read their reports, I’ve read the sources they site . . . . the jury won’t have. And Trotter just sounds credible. Silverman . . . he mostly seems pompous.”

David had defended Silverman’s depo and had taken Trotter’s. But it had been over a year ago, and he had never watched the video. “Pompous, huh? Ouch. I’d better go back and watch the tape. We can definitely work on style issues when we prepare him for his trial testimony, and that’s what really matters.”

I went back to my office, one worry less on my plate, a whole lot more waiting for me. Getting a case ready for trial is just an incredibly intensive endeavor. It was lots of long days, and detail work, and meetings. With clients, witnesses, experts, and technicians. And, of course, with the other attorneys. The work rolled on and never stopped.

~o~O~o~

College Park, Maryland and Baltimore Maryland, January 17

For the first time in a long while I had actually rented a car – a Rav4 – for the weekend. I had cut out early from work (far from the only one doing so the day before a three-day weekend), and I did not need to be in Baltimore until 7:00. But I had spent the long week looking like Cameron Savin, and Cami needed a bit of fluffing before she faced the world.

Nair. Shower. Shampoo. Conditioner. Mousse. Curlers. Turban. Moisturizer. Reattach prosthetic breasts and nail extensions. Polish.

This was always my favorite moment in my transition back. While my hair and especially nails were setting I couldn’t really do anything. So I would often just sit in my comfy chair, wearing my silky bottle-green dressing gown, absorbing the sensual feel of the fabric against my skin, the peculiarly feminine smells of moisturizer and nail polish, and whatever music I chose. I was invariably calmer when the interlude ended; more ready to face whatever followed.

The day was clear and cold, with the temperature just above freezing. I was meeting Nicole, Maggie, Nicole’s maybe boyfriend and Maggie’s . . . double date, perhaps? . . . to go to a movie, so the right play was tight jeans tucked into my high boots. I wore a more-conservative-than-usual, heavier than usual wool sweater over a camisole. I wanted to look good, but I didn’t want anyone to think I might be trawling.

The evening might well be awkward. Nicole reported that she had spoken to Bruce about my being trans and everyone was chill. But who knows?

For the same reason I was very careful with my makeup, and I did my hair in my go-to casual style (loose braid tumbling over one shoulder). Feminine, but simple. Just a girl hanging out with friends on a Friday night. I added plain stud earrings and the lovely watch that Liz had given me for Christmas, wrapped a patterned wool scarf around my neck, shrugged into my winter coat, and then headed out.

We had agreed to meet at the theater since everyone was coming from different places and several were coming from work. Nicole, Maggie and Bruce were already there when I arrived. I gave hugs to the girls and said a cheerful, “Hi Bruce!”

His response was equally easygoing. We were chatting for just a couple minutes when Trey came around the corner. I was surprised to see Tom with him. Any potential awkwardness was avoided with generic “Hey guys!” greetings from Nicole, Maggie and me.

The price the guys had to pay for fair company was that Nicole and Maggie were anxious to see Coda, a movie about a musician, played by Patrick Stewart, who tries a late-in-life return to giving live performances, only to suffer from stage fright and instability. The guys were good sports about it.

We went into the theater to sit down. Tom picked a row and was followed immediately by Bruce, then Nicole. That, I decided, was my cue. I followed Nicole and was followed by Maggie, then Trey. So I was neatly bracketed by my girlfriends. No awkwardness there.

Except that the whole “Let’s avoid any awkwardness” thing was pretty awkward. I kept my sigh silent.

The theater was a new design which served food during the movie; there was a long, bar-style table in front of each row of seats. While we were waiting for the show a server walked down the aisle in front of us and took our order. Generally I wouldn’t be a fan, but I was pretty hungry and I hadn’t had a chance to eat. Our food even came before the previews were over, so someone in the kitchen was hustling.

Then the feature started and I let myself get lost in the movie. It was a tight story – the movie only went an hour-and-a-half – and I enjoyed it. Like the main character, I have found solace and peace in Beethoven’s sonatas.

Nicole and Maggie were more deeply touched, unsurprisingly. They both had such boundless joy in their music that the idea that debilitating performance anxiety can occur later in a career was a scary one.

The guys didn’t have a lot to say about it.

Trey suggested we should all grab a drink at The Tornado, a bar the guys knew that was not too far away. It was only a bit after 9:00 so everyone was game. We decided to condense to two cars since The Tornado didn’t have a big parking lot, and I drove Nicole and Maggie in my rental. They were still talking animatedly about the movie.

I was getting quiet as I noticed that we were driving to an area that looked darker, grittier, and possibly less safe.

We pulled into a poorly-lit parking lot and I found a spot to park near the dumpsters in the back. At my suggestion we left our coats in the car since it might be tight quarters indoors.

Inside, The Tornado was pretty full, with a mix of people at the bar and at high tops. I pulled Nicole and Maggie back to a table near the kitchen, the guys following in our wake.

Trey said, “I’ll get us a pitcher.” He waded into the crowd near the bar. Bruce and Tom were saying something, but I couldn’t make out much through the noise. Nicole and Maggie were looking a little lost.

Trey came back juggling a pitcher of beer and six glasses. I begged off on the grounds that I had to do more driving. That was true as far as it went, but I would have passed on the drink even if I wasn’t driving. I didn’t feel comfortable.

Everyone was talking loudly, struggling to be heard. The Bucs/Saints playoff game was blaring on the TVs over the bar, drawing an enthusiastic crowd. The sharp “crack” of cue balls breaking filled the area on the other side of the bar.

The beer flowed. The noise got louder. Wilder. I didn’t need to look at my watch – my beautiful, delicate, lady’s watch, so very out of place in this place, to know the time. It’s time to get out of here.

Suddenly there were other faces pressing toward us. Hungry faces. “Hey babe – come home with me. I’ll show you a good time!” This was, naturally, directed at Nicole.

More faces behind that one. Angry faces. Drunken faces. Bruce was rearing up, furious. Trey and Tom surged to his support. There was shoving. Voices getting angrier. Someone threw a punch. The sound of glass breaking. Red, furious faces. Uncontrolled. I saw someone start to approach us – Maggie, Nicole, and me – from the side, while our “gallant” gentlemen were otherwise engaged.

Time to pull the ripcord.

“C’mon!” I shouted. I grabbed Maggie’s hand – she was closest to the new threat – and pulled her forward, put my other hand on Nicole’s shoulder, leaned in and barked, “Follow me!”

Then I plunged through the swinging door into the kitchen, pulling my friends with me and dashing to the back. Red tile. Stainless steel. Sounds and smells of cooking, frying. Bar food. Cooks and dishwashers. Surprised faces.

“You’re not allowed in here,” a large Black woman said as we barreled through.

“Just leaving!” I said, and opened the door that led to the dumpsters in the back – as well as the parking lot. The freezing, cleansing air hit us like a slap, filling our lungs.

My car was close. Nicole and Maggie were now racing behind me. I had the keys jammed in my fist with one protruding through my fingers – a tip I’d heard in a self-defense class ages ago that I’d never thought I’d have to use.

It also meant I wasn’t fumbling for the car keys, so we were inside in a flash. I was out of the parking lot and turning up the street just as people began spilling out the front door, the fight still very much in progress.

“What the fuck!!!” Maggie exploded.

Nicole was shaking.

I just drove. Out. Away. Somewhere that looked safe. When we hit an area that was quiet and well-lit, I slowly pulled over to the curb.

Nicole was in the passenger’s seat, crying quietly.

Maggie was still sputtering.

I put a hand on Nicole’s shoulder and said softly, “Nicole, honey, it’ll be okay. It’s alright. We’re safe. Let me take you home; we can get your car tomorrow.”

She nodded but couldn’t speak. I looked in the back seat.

“Maggie? Maggie?” I managed to get her attention. “Could you tell me your address?”

She gave it to me, I fed it into my phone, and got us moving.

Their row house was maybe fifteen minute’s drive. By the time we got there everyone had calmed down some, but they were clearly shaken. Nicole – always graceful Nicole – fumbled with her keys and dropped them.

I swooped down, picked them up, and unlocked the door. Got them both inside. Locked the door behind us.

They stood like they weren’t sure what to do.

There was a small, inhumanly tidy living room to the left of the entryway; I pulled them in. “Sit a minute.” I got them off their feet. Then I went back to the hallway and followed it past the staircase to where I assumed – correctly – the kitchen would be.

Nicole and Maggie were musicians and neatniks, so they had what I was looking for and it took no time at all to find it. In short order, I was going back to the living room with three steaming mugs of green tea.

They were talking, thank God; the shock was wearing off. Nicole was saying, “How could he do that? He just charged into a fight and forgot all about us!”

I handed her one of the cups, gave the other to Maggie, and then sat down. “He’s a hockey player, Nicole. His go-to response is to drop his gloves and throw punches.”

Maggie said, “God, I felt so unsafe. What were we even doing there?”

It was a good question. It had been clear to me walking in that we were out of place. Given how each of us were dressed, how our hair and makeup were done, we blended in perfectly at the nice theater and would have looked right at home in a trendy bistro or wine bar.

The Tornado, however, was just a working-class bar in a working-class neighborhood. It would be perfectly safe for locals. It probably would have been safe enough, but rough, if we had dressed to go there. The guys, being guys, hadn’t thought anything of it, but the three of us had stood out like suits in a biker bar.

I thought of Sarah’s advice, so critical for transwomen: You are safest if you blend in. It was good advice for cis women too.

They talked for a bit. Really just venting more than talking.

When they wound down, I asked, “Will you be okay?”

Maggie sighed and said, “Yeah. I’m . . . upset, but mostly I’m mad. I’ll be okay.” She looked at Nicole.

So did I.

Nicole looked down, as if she could pull an answer from the dregs in her tea cup. Her eyes were bright with tears she refused to shed.

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” she said, though her voice still shook. “Mags will tell you, I have a bad habit of getting all enthusiastic about guys before I really know them. And then something like this happens. Well. Not like this exactly. But something. I’ll get over it. Him. I always do.”

I said, “He made a mistake Nicole. Well, two. Are you sure you want to write him off so quickly?”

She shook her head. “He didn’t just put me at risk, Cami. He put my friends at risk, too. And then took it as some challenge to his ego when . . . when . . . .”

She stopped and took a deep breath. “I’m not some damned battle prize. He acted like someone was challenging his manhood, not like someone was threatening me. If you hadn’t been there, I don’t know what would have happened to us. Either of us.”

“Too right,” Maggie fumed. “I was so mad I was about to start scratching and clawing at people. And that wouldn’t have ended well.”

We sat for a minute, lost in our own thoughts.

Nicole looked at me. “I know you’ve got places to be tomorrow, but I can’t imagine you want to drive right now. Will you stay the night? We’ve got a couch in the spare room upstairs. I think we could all use some rest. And . . . I’d feel better with you here.”

“We both would,” Maggie agreed.

Nicole was right. Now that the emergency was over, the adrenaline had dissipated and reaction set in. I wasn’t tired, I was exhausted. I accepted gratefully.

She loaned me a flannel nightdress and brought me into the spare room upstairs that they used as a TV room. She came in after I had changed with a big poofy comforter, which she insisted on tucking around me. “Thank you for what you did tonight. I couldn’t even think straight. When everything started to happen, I just froze. It was like a bad dream.”

I held her right hand in both of mine. “You’re safe now, Nicole. Safe. Okay?”

She nodded, but her eyes looked less certain.

~o~O~o~
I woke up some indeterminate amount of time later, my heart pounding, my breath short, my body bathed in familiar cold sweat.

Nicole was kneeling next to me, worry lining her angel’s face. “Cami? Cami?”

I grabbed her hand, tried to anchor myself back in the present. To remember that I was here, that I was safe. I was not on my knees. There was no monster above me. Just me, and my friend, who was distressed.

Breathe. Ragged. Try again. Breathe.

Nicole was saying something. What? Listen! Breathe.

“Cami, I couldn’t sleep, then I heard you calling out. Calling for Fiona. Are you okay? CAMI!?”

Fiona! Fiona in danger!!! Breathe, dammit! Think!

I finally pulled myself out of the nightmare. Got my lungs to start working. Felt the fear, the terror, begin to recede.

I squeezed Nicole’s hand. “I’m sorry. Bad dream. From . . . from Christmas.” I remembered that I had told Nicole about the attack. About Jonathan.

She understood immediately. “Does this happen every night?”

I shook my head. “At first. Not now. I did get some medication. But . . . . oh, Jesus, that was bad.”

She just held my hand in both of hers while my pulse and breathing slowed. After a few minutes, she said, “Cami, you’ve got your nightmares and tonight I’ve got mine. Why don’t you join me in my bed, and maybe we can both sleep?”

And that is how I woke up, spooning with the Most Beautiful Woman I Had Ever Personally Met, who was my very dear friend. I had slept the rest of the night peacefully, dreamlessly, and so, to all appearances, had she. Her heart-shaped face looked calm, peaceful, untroubled.

I gently extracted myself, tucked the comforter close against her back, and tiptoed downstairs.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Et songe bien . . . .”
– Bizet, Carmen, Votre toast (Aria)

Baltimore, Maryland, January 18

I got a much later start than I had hoped.

While Nicole and Maggie slept, I found that the house contained only tea (sadness!), though at least some of it was black. There were eggs, onions, mushrooms, and gruyere cheese. No luck on tomatoes. No bread of any sort. They had a frying pan suitable for omelets. Bueno.

After chopping the onions, slicing the mushrooms, and shredding the cheese, I heated some water and made myself a cup. Still no sound from upstairs.

I decided to grab a shower. Afterward, I gave myself a careful examination and didn’t see any untoward hair growth overnight. Not surprising since my face- and body- hair is sparse and grows slowly at the best of times. I changed back into my clothes from yesterday, then used my makeup mirror to add just a touch of lipstick and eyeshadow.

Maggie emerged from her bedroom just as I was about to go back downstairs. She gave me a smile, walked over, and gave me a long hug. “Thank you for yesterday. You’re a lifesaver.”

I let go and gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Go do your business; I’ll have some breakfast ready for you in a couple of minutes.”

She raised her right hand, squeezed my left shoulder, and then disappeared into the bathroom.

Her omelet was coming off the stove just as she came downstairs, hair in order, wrapped in a long bathrobe and her feet swaddled in fuzzy slippers. I put her plate and a mug of tea on the kitchen table for her.

She blew me a kiss and sat down while I started making the next omelet.

“How did you sleep?” I asked her.

She grinned. “Great, but I always sleep great. If I have dreams, I never remember them. How about you?”

I had to confess that I’d had a bad night and Nicole had undoubtedly had a worse one. “I got the sense she’d been awake the whole time before I woke up, and I have no idea when my night terrors hit. Might have been 3:30 for all I know. So I’m glad she’s sleeping in.”

Maggie said, “I had a text exchange with Trey last night.”

I raised an inquisitorial eyebrow.

“Apparently Bruce had been frantically trying to get in touch with Nickie and she was ignoring him. Probably shut her phone off; she usually does.”

“Usually?”

“Yeah, she wasn’t kidding when she said she gets ahead of herself with guys. But impulsiveness works both ways. When she gets pissed, she doesn’t hesitate to swipe left.”

She returned to her earlier point. “Anyway, I told Trey we were fine, no thanks to them. He was still making excuses by text when I said we should all remember having a nice time skating and leave it at that. He didn’t get the hint, so I told him that he and Bruce should lose our numbers. Fortunately we never said where we live.”

I sat down to join her when my omelet was ready. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out with you and Trey.”

“Meh. I wasn't really interested. Bruce was the pick of that litter and – don’t tell Nickie I said this – I wasn’t all that sold on Bruce either.”

“Oh?”

She shrugged. “Trey was a nice enough guy. Good-looking, sure. Likes hockey, football, basketball, in that order. Likes country western music. Oh, and beer. He really likes beer. Brews it, I think. Anyhow, not a great deal of overlap. I just went along last night because Nickie wanted some cover. Like you did, I expect?”

“Yes, though . . . I really enjoyed skating with Tom. It was . . . .” I found myself blushing.

Maggie smiled at me wickedly. “Oh, was it?”

I laughed. “Yeah. But like I told Nicole, I think he guessed I wasn’t all that I seemed to be when he grabbed my hip to keep me from tumbling, and he bugged out after that. I was surprised to see him last night.”

“Do you think maybe you were imagining things?”

I shook my head. “He made sure we weren’t sitting together at the movie – and thank you, by the way, for running interference for me when it came to seating! Anyway, I wasn’t any happier about how the guys behaved last night than you or Nicole."

I paused, considered, and added, "I think you had it just right. We had a lovely time skating; it’s a great memory. But I’m not spending more time on him than that.”

She made a small, dismissive wave. “Bye, Felicia.”

“Exactly!”

We finished our omelets and rinsed off our plates, then sat down to finish our tea.

Maggie said, “For what it’s worth, I think you’re more than you seem to be. You couldn’t have gotten us out of that jam last night any quicker if you had planned it in advance.”

I shot her a surprised look and shook my head in disbelief. “Of course, I planned it in advance, Maggie.”

She wouldn’t have looked more surprised if I had said I’d been hatched by space lizards.

I leaned forward and grabbed her hands for emphasis. “I wanted to talk to you about that this morning. To both of you, but you’ll pass it on. I don’t know Baltimore, but I know enough to have been aware we left the nicer parts of town within blocks of the theater. Then we pull up and the parking lot isn’t lit properly. We walk in and we stand out like circus clowns. We. Weren’t. Safe.”

“I should have just driven on, and that’s on me,” I said, giving her hands a squeeze. “I didn’t want to rain on Nicole’s budding romance. But at least I was able to get us a table by the back exit, and make sure we left our coats in the car, so we didn’t have to go looking for them if we needed to leave in a hurry.”

She nodded and looked both thoughtful and sheepish. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. Nick and I were just merrily talking away. I guess we figured we were with three hulking hockey dudes, so no one would hassle us. We both know better. In a rough place, big guys with girls can be magnets for a brawl.”

She paused, then gave me a quizzical look. “I guess I’m surprised you know all that. I mean, I know you’re trans, but . . . you didn’t have to go through your teens and twenties thinking about personal safety the way a girl does. Did you?”

I agreed, I hadn’t. “But, as a transwoman, I really have to be even more careful, and that’s something that’s been firmly impressed on me. If a guy who is thinking about a little fun finds out I’m not built the way he expects, there’s a decent chance I end up dead. The good ones – like Tom, for example – just walk away.”

Maggie looked pale. She thought a minute, then opened her mouth to say something, only to close it again.

I gave her a fond look. “Whatever it is, I won’t be offended. Go ahead.”

She blushed and said in a rush, “Why do it? Why put yourself through all that, subject yourself to all that . . . all that hatred. All that danger. Was being a man so bad?”

“It wasn’t ‘bad.’ But I discovered it wasn't who I am. On top of which, I really, really love being a woman. I could never go back.”

She sipped the last of her tea and sat for a moment. “My little sister had a classmate who was trans and we’d talked some, back when she was transitioning. But I’d always been comfortable in my birth gender and I’ve never envied guys much. Other than thinking they don’t have to deal with periods and bad hair days and catty friends and worrying about what to wear.”

“Yeah, there’s that, I guess!” I chuckled.

“You know, I've tried, and I just can’t see you as a guy. When Nickie came back from New York, she was all bubbling over with enthusiasm – you know how she is! – about this new friend she had met on the train, and how I just had to meet you. She said you were the most thoughtful, caring woman she had ever met. ‘Cuz it was Nick, I discounted it for the enthusiasm effect. But I shouldn’t have. I’m so glad we get to be friends.”

Well, if she was trying to make me tear up, she couldn’t have come up with a better way. So when Nicole stuck her head in the kitchen and asked, “Did I hear my name being taken in vain,” she caught me with eyes full of tears. Again.

But I dabbed them dry just as Maggie said, “Yup, as usual!”

I got up and gave Nicole a hug. “Hey sleepyhead. How are you doing?”

She hugged me back. “Much, much better!” Then she gave Maggie a hug too.

“Hey!” Maggie joked, “what did I do to earn that?”

Nicole held her at arm’s-length and said, “I’m just feeling really grateful for you this morning. I’m sure I’ll get over it!”

I sat her down where I had been. “Sit still for a minute and I’ll get you breakfast.”

She laughed. “Damn, girl. Will you marry me?”

We laughed and I whipped her up an omelet, which turned out looking the best of the three, though that said less than I would have liked. Henry’s omelets, I thought, are delicious AND look good. Even the magnificent Fiona didn’t deserve him.

We talked a bit more while Nicole ate her breakfast and had her tea. Maggie had a second cup, but I was wanting my coffee. When they were finished Nicole hopped upstairs and changed into casual clothes. Maggie was going to wait for a shower. So I gave her a good-bye hug, then drove off to the theater with Nicole to get her car.

She was quiet for a bit, then said, “Thanks for joining me last night. I just couldn’t get to sleep no matter how hard I tried.”

I reached over and touched her leg – about all that was within easy reach while I was driving. “I was touched that you felt comfortable asking me.”

“Why? Because you’re trans?”

I nodded.

“Cami, I’ll say this as often as you need me to, but you’re as much of a woman as I am. More important, you’re my friend and I trust you. Most important – because I can get carried away, as Bruce demonstrated, again – Mags trusts you, too.”

I thanked her for the compliment, but added, “Don’t let the world snuff out your enthusiasm, Nicole. Much less some guy!”

We arrived at the parking lot and I circled it carefully before pulling up next to Nicole’s car – at 9:30 on a Saturday morning, the only one in the lot. It had been the one place Bruce might have found her since she had to go back for it, but there was no sign of other people.

She threw me a smile. “Thanks, girl!” She popped out, once again graceful and vibrant.

Once she was in her car and moving, I pulled out of the lot and drove back to College Park.

~o~O~o~
Hagerstown, Maryland, 1:00 the same day

It was almost noon before I had left my apartment – three or four hours later than I had planned. I had no regrets about staying overnight at what Nicole and Maggie fondly referred to as “Opera House.” I felt very close to them both and whatever else it had done, yesterday’s experience brought the three of us closer together.

But I was starting to wonder whether I was trying to fit too much into a day. And, I was getting cold feet about stopping to visit Gammy Campbell. It would be after three before I could even get there. After hemming and hawing, I decided to get a second opinion and called Fiona over the car’s speakerphone.

After four rings, I got her message; when it was done, I said, “Hi Fi, it’s Cami. Hope you’re well. I got a card from Gammy Campbell asking what was up between Mom and the three of us, and I thought I might see her since I was driving to Pittsburgh, to fill her in. But I’m running late and I’m having cold feet. Any thoughts?”

While I was leaving the message I got a standard Apple text – the type you send with one click – saying “Sorry, I can’t talk right now.”
Cumberland, Maryland, 1:40 the same day

My phone gave a “ding” and I saw another text had come in. I pulled off to the shoulder to read, “Tied up but got your vmail. Talk to her, she might surprise you. Text how it goes.”

Text how it goes? I wonder what emergency had Fi so tied up on a Saturday. But, I guess I had her advice.

I got back on the road and made a second call, this time to Liz. She picked right up. “Cami! How’s travelin’?”

“Hey Liz! I’m on my way, but I’m going to be later than I’d hoped – maybe too late for dinner.”

She asked whether everything was okay, and I explained about my late start and the stop I was planning in Morgantown.

“She doesn’t know?” Liz asked.

“No. But, I’m not hiding from family, so she’ll find out eventually.”

“Given that you haven’t told your parents, I’m not sure how you figure ‘not hiding from family,’ but I’m sure you’ve got some convoluted explanation for that.”

I laughed. “Well of course I do. I’d tell my parents if we were still speaking to each other, which, after Thanksgiving, we’re not.”

“Lawyer!”

“Yup!” More seriously, I added, “She doesn’t know what’s going on, and she wants to help. Help Mom, mostly, I guess. But all of us. No one’s going to tell her anything if I don’t. Mom doesn’t know, Iain doesn’t care, and Fiona won’t because it’s my story to tell.”

She was quiet for a minute; I wondered if we had lost the connection. But then she said, “She probably won’t accept you, Cami. She’s got to be in her eighties or nineties now. They grew up in a very different world. Are you ready for it?”

It was my turn to be silent for a minute. “I hope so. I steeled myself for it, but as you know, I’m never really ready for rejection when it matters.”

“And she matters?”

“I think she does. Yes. Of my blood relations, she’s the only one other than Fi and maybe Iain who might accept me. The Savins never would; that’s where the fundamentalist strain in my family comes from. And Grandpa Ross has been gone a long time.”

“Be careful then, Cami. Will you?”

I promised I would.

“Listen,” she said, “while I’ve got you . . . I’ve got a bit of turbulence on my end, too. I was hoping we’d have tonight and tomorrow morning to catch up, but my brother – Thor, the youngest – asked if I could look after my niece overnight; he and my sister-in-law really needed a night off. I couldn’t say no, so I’m afraid I’ll have some company when you show up. But he’ll pick her up in plenty of time for us to get ready for tomorrow’s shoot.”

I laughed. “I am trying to picture you dealing with a baby, and my mind boggles.”

“Laugh it up, girlfriend,” she growled, “I’m going to volunteer you to help!”

We wrapped up the call and I promised I would let her know when I left Morgantown. I settled down and concentrated on driving, watching the thin, winter sun light the hills and woods of Western Maryland.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Себя на суд Вам отдаю”
– Tchaikovsky, Eugene Onegin, Onegin’s Aria

Morgantown, West Virginia, 3:30, later the same day

“Good afternoon, I’m here to visit Catriona Campbell.”

The pleasant-looking woman behind the desk smiled. “You’re here to see Cat? Oh good! One of my favorite people! She’s in room 203. Up the stairs, turn left, down the corridor.”

I thanked her and walked up the stairs, trying to still the butterflies in my stomach. How many times will I have to do this?

How many times will I have to face family, old friends, and put my truth before them. How many times would I feel the weight of their judgment? A line from an old movie leaped into my mind: “You have been weighed. You have been measured. And you have been found wanting.”
How many times?

Her door was closed. I stood before it, uncertain, and smoothed the skirt of my shirtdress. Tugged on the white cardigan I was wearing against the cold. Maybe she was sleeping. Maybe I shouldn’t bother her. Maybe ignorance is bliss.

Eventually I tired of my internal debate, raised my hand, and then knocked.

A surprisingly strong voice answered. “Come on in. You will anyway.”

I’m not sure what I was expecting. It had been a lot of years since I had seen her and she had been in assisted living for a while. Perhaps she was spending most of her time in bed, plugged into the TV, watching reruns of Turner Classics.

No. She was sitting in a recliner that looked comfortable. She had a book on her lap and was dressed in stretch pants and a knit top. Her eyes, blue as my own, were still sharp as she looked over her glasses at the latest intruder. Though her once iron gray hair was now wispy and ivory white and her formerly stocky frame had thinned, it was still Gammy Campbell.

“Yes?” she asked, politely enough.

I stood there, not sure what to say.

She looked at me, beginning to show some annoyance. Then her eyes narrowed and she cocked her head. “You aren’t my granddaughter, but you look like her. I’m fairly certain I haven’t forgotten someone. So suppose you tell me who you are and why you’re here.”

I closed the door behind me and stepped into the room. “I am your granddaughter, Gammy. But you’ve always known me as your grandson.”

She just stared at me, pretty much like I assume owls stare at field mice.

I thought, You have been weighed . . . .

She said, heavily, “Cameron.”

You have been measured . . . .

I just stood, feet and knees together, an errant schoolgirl before a stern principal, waiting for judgment.

Finally, she waved to a chair that looked like it had come from her old kitchen table. “Oh, sit down. I won’t eat you. Tell me what this is all about.”

I walked to the indicated chair, where young Cameron had no doubt sat numerous times, eating Gammy’s cookies and chatting like a magpie. I smoothed my dress behind me and sat down, catching Gammy’s glint at the feminine gesture.

“Gammy, I got your card. And I thought I owed you the truth. This is the real reason no one’s talking to each other. Although,” I added wryly, “Fi and I are the only ones who actually know that.”

Gammy shifted in her seat. “I’m not typically slow, but you’re going to spell that out for me. Your mom’s not speaking to you because you dress like a woman, except she doesn’t know it?”

So I told her how Mom and Dad had disowned Iain at Thanksgiving when he said he was gay; how they had locked me out and refused to speak to me when I went after Iain; how Fiona had canceled her plans to come home for Christmas and introduce her fiancé to the family, and had insisted they apologize to Iain and me if they wanted to attend her wedding.

How they had disowned her instead.

She listened silently until I finished. “All that sounds . . . well, it sounds like Howard and Aileen. And like Fi and Iain for that matter. Though I noticed that you didn’t actually say he was gay.” She got a gleam in her eye when she saw that she’d scored on that point. “But I’m still not seeing what it has to do with you wearing a dress and looking like a co-ed.”

“Fiona only gave them her ultimatum after I told her that I couldn’t join her for Christmas in St. Louis because I had come out as transgendered.”

Gammy thought about that. “She’d have gone otherwise, even though they’d disowned Iain?”

I looked away and said softly, “That was me, Gammy. She wasn’t going to, but I knew how much it would mean to her for Mom and Dad to be at her wedding. For Dad – for her daddy – to walk her down the aisle. I tried to talk her into going out there with Henry, but she wanted me to agree to come, too. And that’s when I told her why I couldn’t.”

Gammy was quiet a long time, lost in thought. In memories. “Well. I guess you finally found that the price tag for keeping the peace in our family was too steep even for you.”

I looked down, not sure what to say.

“Still,” she said, “you picked a strange place to make your stand. Tell me why.”

I opened my mouth to answer but she added, with a sharpness indicative of a competent woman too long surrounded by patronizing youngsters, “And kindly assume that I did not stop paying attention to what was going on in my country or my world in the 1950s.”

I nodded in acknowledgement. “I don’t actually know if it helps if you’ve read about transgendered people, or watched anything on TV. That 'what' is easy to describe, but you asked ‘why.’ That’s hard. But I’ll try."

I paused, trying to think of how to bridge the gap between her world, her experiences, and my own. I had thought about little else during the long drive from College Park, but still I struggled for the right words.

"I know in my heart, I know with every fiber of my being, that I’m a woman. This is what I was meant to be. It’s not about enjoying wearing a dress, though I do. It’s about feeling a completeness, a rightness, when I express myself as a woman, when I relate to other people as a woman.

“I can still look and dress like a man, but when I do, it feels phony. Fake. I feel as out of place as you would if you wore a man’s clothes and tried to live and interact as a man. And I don’t want to live a fake life. A half life. I won’t.”

She chewed on that for a bit before responding. “Well, you’ve got a nice way with words, so you didn’t waste money on your schooling. But I’ll be honest with you. In my life, I’ve never had much patience with people who talk about living 'authentically.' Whether it's artists or musicians or whatever. Authenticity’s a luxury most folks can’t afford.

“My pappy played a mean hornpipe; he’da loved to be a wandering musician. But there was work to do, and mouths to feed. There was a wife to care for. Bills to pay. He was a good man. The best. If he’d followed his dreams, I wouldn’t be alive. Nor would you.”

You have been found wanting.
“You say that your decision to be transgendered is why you and Fiona can’t reconcile with my daughter. The reason the woman who gave you life will go through her life, go to her grave, without the children who should be there for her. Without seeing her grandchildren, if she ever has any.”

She looked at me with hard eyes. “So tell me: Is your ‘authenticity' worth that price?”

That finally got my ire up. I would be damned if I was going to bear the sins of the world, or even of my parents. I raised my head and said, in an even, clinical tone, “I don’t agree with your premise, so I can’t answer your question.”

“Explain,” she challenged.

“I’m perfectly willing to reconcile with your daughter,” I continued in the same tone. “As would Fi. I think you would agree, however, that under these circumstances,” I gave a gesture indicating my feminine look, “she would not reconcile with me?”

“I certainly agree with that,” she growled.

“Then the key to escape the fate you paint so poignantly is in her own hand, not mine, isn't it? If I am willing to accept her as she is, without conditions, is it unreasonable of me to ask that she do the same?”

She glowered at me. She had a daunting glower. “If you decide your happiness requires you to be an ax murderer, is it your mom’s fault if she stops talking to you?”

My eyes got as hard as her own. “Her decision, certainly. But if you think that’s an analogous case, we don’t have anything else to say to each other.”

She glowered another moment, but then she chuckled. It was a spare, dry laugh and not very merry. “Give that school of yours some money. You finally learned how to fight.”

She leaned forward. “All right. I don’t like it. It’s unnatural, and it’s self-indulgent. But that’s all I’m going to say on the subject. It’s your life and I’m not about to stop speaking to my kin just because they make choices I don’t approve of. Or, I would have stopped talking to your mom a long time ago.”

I looked at her warily, reluctant to lower my guard. This time her chuckle sounded more natural. “Not the sweet Gammy Campbell you remember?”

I gave Cam’s half smile and shook my head. “No.”

“Well, remember what I said about ‘authenticity’ being a luxury. When you were a child I gave you what you seemed to need. And Fi and that rascal Iain. And Aileen for that matter. But you’re all grown up now, and I’m eighty-six and have the luxury of being myself.”

“Which,” she added, “doesn’t mean I don’t still love all of you, even if Fi’s the only one who seems to have the sense she was born with. I’d be tickled if you were all happy, and over the moon delighted if you were even remotely capable of getting along. But if even you gave up on peacemaking, Cameron, what good can I do?”

“Me?” I said, stupidly.

“You,” she responded. “Always trying to get along. Trying to keep Howard and Iain from killing each other. Trying to keep Fiona and Aileen from sniping. I thought it was admirable. Futile, of course. But admirable.”

Whatever I had expected from Gammy Campbell, it wasn’t this. Fiona had said she might surprise me. I wondered if Fi had a clue.

Finally, I braved her fierce glower. “Can you tell me why, Gammy? Why was it futile? Why is my family so . . . .”

“So broken?” she finished.

I nodded.

She sat back, sunk in thought. “You look like a co-ed, but you reason like an adult. I guess you ought to know some of it. Some parts aren’t mine to tell."

I nodded in understanding.

"You know that your parents had a child between you and Iain?”

“They WHAT?”

“Huh,” she said. “I guess they didn’t mention that? And Fi would have been three. So she might not have remembered. Anyhow, yes. A little girl. Heather. I held her in my own hand. But she was premature, underdeveloped. She would have lived today, probably. But she didn’t make it; died after two days.”

I must have looked horrified. Sweet Gammy Campbell gave me another hard look. “It happens, Cameron. I buried two of my own, to have just one survive. It happens.” Her tone softened and she added, “Less now than when I was young, praise be. But it happens.”

“Anyhow,” she continued, “Heather’s death really cut them both. Howard was bad, Aileen was worse. I was looking after Fiona and Iain for a while so they could pull themselves together. I couldn’t do anything else. Eventually they found a way. Howard went back to his father’s church. Aileen went with him. It was pretty . . . well. . . . "

She seemed reluctant to continue, but eventually she brought herself to. "Look. I grew up Scots Presbyterian and we were God-fearing, full-Bible Christians. But mostly I grew up poor. Survival was our first religion. Howard and Aileen . . . it was different. They became very devout. Very committed to their church, their pastor. I couldn’t complain. They got back on their feet. They brought the kids home. Cared for them. But . . . .”

It was my turn to finish her sentence. “ . . . but they just kept getting crazier?”

She nodded reluctantly. “It was like a drug, I guess. Helped a lot at first, but then it just started to take and take. It was all rules and ‘thou shalts’ and ‘shalt nots’ and who’s in God’s good graces and who’s on the outs. All fear and fire. There was no joy, no life in it. Just pie-in-the-sky when you die. And then there was politics, and guns, and what all that seemed to come from the same dark place."

She spent a moment lost in memories; the bleak look on her face attesting that they were not good ones. "I did what I could for you kids, to show you a different way. But I wasn’t your momma. Then Fiona moved away, and Iain moved away, and you were getting almost old enough to move away, too. So when Jill needed me back here in Morgantown, I leaped at the chance.

“I just couldn’t deal with it anymore. I keep in touch, and God knows, I love her. He knows that I do. But I can’t save her, and I can’t keep watching her eat herself alive.”

I couldn’t believe it, but tears were streaming down her weathered cheeks. I found myself kneeling by her chair, her hands in my own. I didn’t say anything; I didn’t have anything to say. I could no more fix what ailed our family than she could.

I could only join her in weeping for it. For Gammy’s bitter, broken heart. For my parent’s guilt. For Fiona and all the love she had felt, and had lost. Even for Iain, reacting in spasms of anger to a world turned dark.

I don’t know how long we stayed like that. But Gammy disengaged a hand and laid it against my wet cheek, half benediction, half acknowledgment of our shared grief.

“Ye make a convincing enough lass, Cameron,” she said wryly, a bit of her father’s western highlands lilt creeping into her voice. “But ye see why I was over you so hard. I’ve never been able to get your mother to bend. If you’re committed to this – and you’ve convinced me you are – there’s nothing I can do. Aileen will have to deal with being alone. At least she has Howard.”

She said the last sentence as an afterthought, with an obvious tinge of distaste. My expression must have asked a question; she said, “Never you mind. He was a good man, once. A hard man, now. Not my favorite person, but I wasn’t married to him.”

I got to my feet, slowly. She looked up at me. “You’ll have to tell them yourself; I’ll not be sparing you that.”

I nodded.

She added, tartly, “Assuming, of course, that you all get to the point where you’re speaking to each other for just long enough to explain why you really shouldn’t be.”

“I’m sure the day will come. And, I will tell them.”

“You know about hell, I suppose?”

I thought of my upbringing. “It’s been mentioned.”

“I expect they’ll give you a refresher course.”

I could only nod. “Thank you . . . for trying, all those years. You made Christmas so special. And thank you for hearing me out, at least.”

She looked at me, eyes dry and clear once more. “And thank you, Cameron. For having the guts to tell me in person. Keep in touch.”

I bent, gave her a kiss goodbye, and then left her.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Così l'effluvio del desìo tutta m'aggira”
– Puccini, La Bohème, Quando m'en vo (Aria)

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, later the same day

I arrived at Liz's house around 6:30, which was better than I had feared earlier in the day. She was uncharacteristically flustered, but I wasn’t surprised. Liz had oodles of nieces and nephews and I had none. But she was just not a baby person. Never would be.

I kissed her cheek, dropped my stuff in the guest bedroom, and took baby Ingrid out of her hands. Ingrid, I thought, was adorable.

So Liz got some food together, which – while not her favorite thing – was well within her comfort zone.

I bounced Ingrid gently while we talked and I told Liz about my strange encounter with my grandmother. She managed to serve something that I could eat one-handed, which meant that I didn’t have to put Ingrid down. I didn’t want to.

By 9:00, Ingrid needed more in her stomach. I sat in the comfortable chair by the fire, held Ingrid against my body, and gave her a bottle. I found myself wishing I could give her my breast instead, that I could feel this beautiful infant taking nourishment from me.

I became aware, peripherally, that Liz was taking pictures. I might like copies of those.

~o~O~o~
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, January 19

I was, as usual, up early. Ingrid had gotten up twice during the night and I’d handled it both times, having finally convinced Liz to leave the Pack ‘n Play crib in my room. Ingrid and I got along well. And, I had gotten to bed early, so my total sleep quotient was still okay. Well, no worse than usual, anyhow.

By the time Liz’s brother Thor (honestly, that’s his name) came to pick up Ingrid at 8:00 that morning, she was cleaned, fed, and in a fresh onesie. I had handed her back to Liz, who handed her to Thor.

Thor was a big man, though he looked enough like Liz to make their relationship plausible, if not obvious. He was effusive in his gratitude.

Liz said, “Thor, really. Any time. That is, any time Cami’s here!”

We all laughed.

He got his daughter and all of the paraphernalia that traveled with her loaded into his car, then he drove off, waving.

I looked at Liz.
She looked at me.

I said, “So . . . got time for a little workout before we have to do the primping stuff?”

“Is that a challenge?”

I laughed. “Maybe . . . . Give me a minute.”

I popped into the guest bedroom and re-emerged, minutes later, dressed in a crop-top red sweater with capped sleeves, a ridiculously short white skirt, and sneakers. ‘I’ve got my uniform; where’s yours?”

This time she laughed even louder. “It is a challenge!” She disappeared into her own bedroom. When she came out, she was dressed in her old cheerleading outfit – the one I had worn when I pretended to “try out” for her squad.

We went downstairs to her exercise area and she put on some up-beat electronic music. Then we challenged each other.

She would do a series of cheer exercises. I would try to duplicate them, then I would do a set and she would try. Unlike our last session, where she was playing the coach, we were just two women bouncing around, challenging each other to kick higher, to jump higher, to move better.

She finally threw in a split and I just managed it.

Success!!!

After thirty minutes we were hot, sweaty, and cheerful. I was nowhere near as good as Liz, the former queen bee of her high school cheerleading squad, and never would be, but we both had fun.

I said, “So, did I make the team?”

“Keep tryin’, kid!”

We went upstairs and took showers. I took a blow-dryer to my hair right away to get it dry. Since Liz wanted these pictures for her website, I had decided my picture should look a bit less recognizable. So the folks at the salon were going to attach a wig and do something dramatic and different for my makeup.

Liz emerged a bit later, dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a crisp white shirt. As usual, she looked perfect, since she very much looked like a photographer.

Liz drove to her salon, which had been told the same story about a photoshoot as last time, but this time it was even true. They finished my nails and makeup in about forty-five minutes, then came out with the wig. My own hair was pulled back and put in a tight bun against the back of my head and they fussed with a wig for a few minutes before letting me see it.

“Your own mother wouldn’t recognize you,” Liz said.

Since my mother doesn’t even know that I’m a woman, I thought Liz was probably correct.

Nevertheless, I was flabbergasted. My makeup was dramatic, with peach undertones I don’t usually have, and false eyelashes that actually looked good (normally, I don’t like how they look on anyone).

The hair was an effusion of honey-gold that flowed half-way down my back as well as over my shoulders and down my chest. It was abundant, and very, very girly. I could pass for eighteen. Well, twenty, anyhow. Maybe Dolly Parton had been onto something all those years with her wigs!

We thanked the ladies at the salon, then went off to the next destination. Liz had worked a deal with a local bridal shop where they gave her a discount on rentals for the day in exchange for advertising and credit on her website. She picked up a wedding dress, two bridesmaids’ dresses, three tuxes, and the necessary accessories. We loaded them into her car and brought them back to the house.

It was about 12:30; the rest of her crew wasn’t showing up until 3:00. We had a quick bite to eat – some premade soup and toast – then got to work. I helped her set up her greenscreen and re-do the bridal trellis she had put together last time, decorating it with artificial flowers. Once it was up, a couple of people could move it around without too much trouble. Then we set up Liz’s camera gear and lights.

I went back into the guest bedroom and stripped down to my padded panty gaff and my prosthetic breasts. Liz, who had seen it all before, came in with me and started handing me items, one by one. First, a white, boned corset, which she proceeded to tighten mercilessly after I put it in place. Then a pair of snow white panties with a gorgeous lace pattern. Then, once again, she gave me a petticoat in crinoline.

She stopped to admire her handiwork. “I like you better with your own hair, but the blonde is certainly dramatic!”

We went into the main room and I sat in front of the green screen and was once again photographed rolling my stockings up my legs. Liz gave me artistic direction throughout. “A little more bend in your right elbow. No! Too much! Keep it a nice, curved line. Curve your back a bit more as you bend down. Point your toe . . . .” All the while, she was snapping photos like a madwoman.

Eventually she finished that series of photos. “Okay, Sweetie. It’s time. Are you ready?”

I nodded, and she brought out the dress. Surprisingly, Liz had gone with a dress that was both sleeveless and strapless.

She unzipped it, arranged it, and had me step into the middle of it. Then she brought it up until it was in the right place, carefully zipped it back up, then fussed with the satiny fabric until it lay shimmering atop my crinolines.

“Wow,” she said.

“Let me see!” I didn’t even know how the bodice was held up, except that it was remarkably stiff. Probably it stayed up because it didn’t want to disappoint Liz.

We went into her bedroom and I looked in her full-length mirror. She brought one of her cameras and took pictures of me admiring myself in the dress. I was captivated by the image, able to imagine myself as a bride – lovely, fresh, and perfect as any girl on any wedding day. I would have wept, but I couldn’t ruin all of the makeup.

We added shoes, and a thin gold necklace with a striking pendant. She put a ring on the long tapered fingers of my left hand, and then she gave me a bouquet of artificial flowers.

We went back to the area where the green screen was set up, and she started taking lots of bride shots. The bride standing. Sitting. Smelling her flowers. Looking dreamy . . . . You’ve seen the poses in any number of wedding albums. She used them all.

The last time I was here, I had not gotten into a wedding dress, but I had worn the corset, the stockings, and the crinolines. And she had laid me gently on my back, raised my legs high, and slowly, inexorably, fulfilled my wish by popping my cherry with the aid of a strap-on.

I realized I hadn’t had any sex since that day. Hadn’t even masturbated. And here I was again, this time fully a bride. And Liz was close.

So very close.

The bride closed her eyes, unbidden, and bent her nose to delicately sniff the non-existent aroma of the artificial flowers. Liz kept taking photos; it was a pose, after all, even if she hadn’t called it. But I was just getting myself back under command. I had an overwhelming desire to be held, and kissed, caressed, petted, fondled, loved . . . .

I drew a long, deep breath through my nose, feeling the air fill my lungs, expand my chest, push against the corset. I thought of Nicole, getting ready to sing, and I slowly, slowly, exhaled through my slightly parted lips. Again.

“Cami? You still with me?” I suddenly realized Liz had been giving instructions, and I turned my attention back to them.

Her friends Fernando and Tish were the first to arrive. Tish was probably her closest friend, unless I was. But they were very close. She looked up at me – Tish isn’t very tall – and extended her hands, palms up.

I took them lightly in my own.

“Cami. It’s good to meet you. And, it’s good to see you again.”

It was an odd greeting, but it was an odder circumstance. They had never met Cami, but they had hiked, kayaked and rock climbed with Cameron.

Fernando just stood back and said, “Wow. Just wow. You look fantastic, Cami!”

Her friend Tim Jackson arrived next; he actually gave me a two-handed hand-shake. “So good to meet you, Cami!”

Janet Talmage was the last of the crew that I knew, though Liz had expanded her circle a bit since last August. Janet gave me a gentle hug. “You make a lovely bride.”

The two new editions, Bob and Carla, arrived together and were apparently an item. With everyone there, Liz had them get changed, disbursing them to various parts of the house for that purpose.

The bridesmaids wore pale blue satin; the guys wore classic tuxes, but the groomsmen had vests in the same material as the bridesmaid’s dresses. Tim was wearing a white brocade vest; he would be playing the groom.

Liz went into maestro mode. She organized different groupings. Under the trellis. Away from the trellis. Talking to each other. Laughing. Sitting at a table. She took shots of Fernando pretending to give a toast. Of me pretending to throw the bouquet.

She took lots of shots of me with Tim. By his side. Looking at him. Looking down demurely while he bent his head toward the crown of my hair. Laughing with each other.

It was fun and funny. Liz kept it all moving as she snapped millions of pictures. Finally, she assessed that she had enough raw footage. Everyone disbursed again to get out of their wedding attire and back into street clothes.

Liz came in with me, since she didn’t need to change and knew that I would need help. Not without regret, I stepped out of the beautiful wedding dress, which Liz hung with appropriate care. Then she was behind me, working on the laces of my corset while I took careful breaths and tried not to imagine her hands wandering, just a bit.

To here, or maybe here . . . .

Finally I was free of the corset. The rest was easy enough, and soon done. I switched into a pretty A-line dress, as the crew was going out to celebrate the successful shoot at a nearby restaurant.

I also removed the wig, placing it on the loaned wig stand, brushed out my own hair, and returned it to my preferred over-the-shoulder loose braid. The bridal makeup also had to go, replaced by a more casual look.

The dinner was lovely. Everyone was friendly and nothing seemed at all awkward. I guess it stood to reason. These were Liz’s friends, doing this as a favor for Liz. I was no threat. They had known me before, and they had been friendly, but ours had not been the type of friendship that would have survived the end of my relationship with Liz.

As the evening wore on I slipped out, needing a moment with my own thoughts. I felt a shiver as I stepped to the railing on the patio and looked into the darkness. In nice weather, they had tables on the patio, and wine, and laughter. But tonight it was clear and cold, and I was alone with the stars and my thoughts.

I felt Liz’s presence in the darkness at my back. A light, soft touch where my neck meets my shoulder. And a whispered voice saying, “I want you, Cami.”

Neither the voice, nor the presence, were Liz. It was Tim, my “groom for the day.” He stepped closer. I could feel the warmth of his body. His fingers slid down my shoulder, touched the bare skin of my upper arm, while his other hand reached up and cupped my opposite shoulder. His voice was low, urgent, at my ear.

“Please, Cami. I want you so bad.” I felt the touch of warm lips, a kiss at the base of my neck.

I said nothing.

“You know you want it too, Cami. You know you do.”

And it was true. Oh, it was so true! I wanted “it,” and I wanted it bad. I wanted it now. I wanted to be held, and loved. I wanted kisses and sweetness and power and urgency. I wanted heart racing and blood pounding. I wanted . . . . Oh, I wanted!!!

But I didn't want it like this. I barely knew Tim. He was Liz’s friend, not mine. He and Cameron had gotten along fine when Liz and Cameron were an item, but I couldn’t tell you three interesting things about him. I had never felt any spark, any sexual tension, with Tim. I wanted it alright. But not with him. Not tonight.

I raised my right hand and gently stilled his wandering fingers. Keeping my tone light, I said, “Not on the first date, Timmy! I’m not that kind of girl!”

His hands stopped moving and he was still.

My heart beat slowly in my chest. One beat. Two.

“We have tonight, Cami. Who knows what tomorrow brings?”

Three beats. Four. Five.

“We can choose what it brings,” I suggested. Six. Seven. Eight.

“Okay, Cami.”

The hands withdrew and he walked away.

I stared into the dark, the cold seeping into my bones. Wasn’t I worth a little romance? Or was that too much for a transwoman to ask? Should I be grateful that any man would want me?

I thought of Steve, the first man to kiss me. Of Tom, his strong arms around me as we skated around the rink. Both gone, vanished, as soon as they knew what I was.

The night had no answers, but I had my own. How many times had I said it, when I faced rejection? The heart goes where the heart goes. I had never had sex, as either Cameron or Cami, without being in love with my partner.

The loves had been few and, with one exception, had not lasted. But in the moment, they had been real. Liz was cheerfully willing to have sex to give release to her body’s wants and needs, but I was not Liz.

I would have love, or nothing at all.

In the meantime, I thought, I should probably break down and talk to Sarah about a vibrator.

To be continued . . . .