~o~O~o~

The name on my driver’s license, and every form of identification I have ever possessed in the twenty-seven years since a St. Louis physician attested to my live birth, is Cameron Ross Savin. I suppose that is my name still. But in a very real sense, I truly was born yesterday. I am a woman, and I would like my friends to call me Cami.

John-Paul Sartre said “We only become what we are by the radical and deep-seated refusal of that which others have made us.” I read that years ago, but only came to appreciate it yesterday when I discovered who I am, independent of who others want or need me to be. How that came about is a story all by itself, and though I must allude to it from time to time I won’t retell it here. If you are interested, that story is called “Duets.”

Discovering who I am, knowing who I am meant to be, was an ending of sorts; you can’t be reborn without some death of your old self. But it also represents the chance for a new beginning, and that is the story I want to tell now.

~o~O~o~

CHAPTER ONE

“Io rinascer mi sento”
– Verdi, La Traviata, Lunge da lei (Aria)

College Park, Maryland, December 1

I returned to my garage apartment after my Thanksgiving weekend travels around 1:00. The very first thing I did, just as soon as I closed my door, was to shake my long hair loose from the masculine ponytail I had worn for the benefit of the Transportation Safety Administration and the good folks at United Airlines. Then I stripped naked, slid a nude-colored, lightly padded panty gaff in place and hooked myself into a clean bra, followed by a pair of warm leggings and a comfy sweater. I opened my suitcase and fished out a pair of silicone breast forms and added them to the cups of my bra.

Finally, I could breathe properly. I can dress like a man and pass for one. That’s unsurprising, since my body is, and for twenty-seven years has been, biologically male. It’s also convenient, since Mr. Cameron Savin has a good job with the white-shoe D.C. law firm of Cavandish, Edwards & Gunn, and Ms. Cami Savin doesn’t have a job at all. It’s a problem – one of many – but I didn’t need to solve it immediately.

The only people I had to talk to today were my landlords Al and Javier, a couple who owned a beauty salon and lived in an apartment above their shop, and I was not worried about them. They are warm and generous souls who had taught the secrets of haircare, skin care, and makeup to a confused young waif who called herself Candi. I carry Candi’s memories, just like I carry Mr. Cameron Savin’s — the good, the bad, and the shameful. I will treasure many of those memories and honor them. But it’s time for me to make new ones that are wholly my own.

I called their apartment and Javier answered. After inquiring about their Thanksgiving, I asked if they were tired of leftovers and interested in some sushi. Good call there.

Javi suggested that I just get some take-out and bring it back to their place, which struck me as a great idea. By 5:30 I was knocking on their door with a heap of sushi and a bottle of sake.

Al opened the door and gave me a big smile and a hug.

Javier waved from the table, where he was setting out place-settings. Soon our chopsticks were fencing for booty and we were all feeling much better about life.

Al asked about my Thanksgiving trip, which gave me the opening I had been waiting for. “It was horrible, and hard, and fantastic, and scary. So . . . It’s complicated.”

“You were only gone four days!” Javier exclaimed.

Al shushed him. “Some days count more than others.” Looking at me, he asked, “I had a sense there’s something you’ve been wanting to tell us since you called. What happened?”

I started by explaining how my flight hadn’t gotten into St. Louis until midnight and how my father had kicked my brother Iain out because Iain baited him by claiming to be gay (he isn’t, but lots of his friends are and he was tired of Dad ragging on them). How Dad told me not to come back if I accompanied Iain to the bus terminal. How I found my suitcase outside the door when I returned from doing just that.
“You spent Thanksgiving at the airport hotel?” Javi was both offended and incredulous.

But that was just the prelude, and the rest was harder. “So, you know that I was going to Pittsburgh to visit with Liz, the woman who has been . . . helping me explore my feminine side. What I haven’t mentioned was that we were having an intimate relationship as well. I guess you could say we were each exploring our sexuality a bit. She was the one who helped me become Candi, even gave me the name.”

They were listening carefully and quietly, letting me feel my way through uncomfortable terrain.

“You remember when I first met, and I told you I didn’t know if I was trans?”

Al nodded.

Javi said, “I remember.”

I continued, “That was true. I didn’t know. It’s not like I’ve always had the feeling that I was a woman in the wrong body. So, in the beginning, Candi was kind of for play, but the ‘real me’ was Cameron Savin.” While Al and Javier had interacted almost exclusively with Candi, the rent payment came from Cameron Savin’s account, so they were acquainted with both ways I had presented myself.

“But increasingly, it started to feel like Candi was at least as real, if not more real, than Cameron. And they weren’t living all that peacefully in the same body. Like, Candi wanted this to be her sanctuary, and wanted you to be her friends, not Cam’s."

I took a breath, then continued. “Anyhow, that created a lot of strain, and then I needed to work more hours, and then Thanksgiving went completely off the rails. And it felt like, once Cam got to Liz’s place in Pittsburgh, he just gave up the fight. I couldn’t channel that part of my personality anymore. And the next day, I found I couldn’t be Candi anymore either – not the Candi Liz had known, anyway. It was confusing in a lot of ways, but also clarifying. I’m not Cam, and I’m not Candi. I’m both, and neither. But at least I’m a complete person, not two people fighting for control of one life."

I looked at them and smiled ruefully. "I’m sure this all sounds crazy.”

Al shook his head slightly, the ghost of a smile on his face. When Javi moved to speak, Al motioned him to wait a moment. Then Al repeated, in almost exactly the same tone, the question he had asked when I first walked into his shop: “What name would you like us to call you?”

Have I mentioned that I love my landlords? I tell them a story that might lead any sober person to wonder if he had rented his garage to a schizophrenic, and they just roll with it. “I’m sorry if it seems like I’m constantly rearranging myself. I’m not crazy. At least I don’t think I am. But, to return to our first real conversation, I am convinced that, whatever I may have thought in the past, I am a transwoman. And I would really love it if you would call me Cami.”

“Of course we will,” Javi said enthusiastically. “We’ll probably forget sometimes, though. At first.”

Al smiled and nodded. “Cami, don’t worry about how you think it sounds. Gay men, lesbian women – we have experience trying to create identities that are authentic in a world that’s built on very different expectations. I don’t think we would describe it in the same way – I know I never did – but we can certainly empathize with what you’ve gone through.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you both. I am so glad that I got up the courage to walk into your salon six weeks ago – you’ve been lifesavers. Really.”

Al waved this off, looking embarrassed but also pleased.

Javier said, “What will you do about work? That’s one area where you’re likely to have a harder time than we did, I think.”

“Yeah,” I sighed. “I haven’t figured that out yet. For the short term, I’ve got to keep acting like Cameron at work. It’s not like I’ve lost the ability. The only difference, I guess, is that now it’s an act. It won’t be me.”

“Are you sure you can’t just tell them,” Javi asked. “They could surprise you.”

I shook my head. “I’m not saying they won’t, Javi. They’re good people, I like them, and they seem to be pretty open-minded. But I’m part of a team that’s prepping for a trial that’s going to start in four months. There’s just no way they – we – can deal with the distraction right now. Everyone's putting in really long hours, we are all working well together and that has to continue if we’re going to be effective. If I suddenly announce that I’ve discovered that I’m female, all of those relationships will get scrambled, at very least for a while. That wouldn’t be fair, not to my colleagues, and not to the client.”

Al looked skeptical.

Javi gave me a thoughtful look. “Well, we aren’t lawyers, so we don’t have any way to judge any of that. You’ve got a pretty good head on your shoulders. But once this trial is over, won’t you just be on another trial team?”

It was a good question. “Probably,” I answered. “And I agree; it’s not like there’s ever going to be a good time. It’s never going to be easy. But I’m certain that this would be a particularly bad time. I’m just going to have to suck it up for a while.”

Al said, “You have to do what you think is right, Cami, and it sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought. But take it from a guy who spent a lot of years in the closet pretending to be someone I wasn’t: It’s going to take a toll."

I nodded. I could already sense that.

Al continued, "I really recommend that you talk to Sarah. She’s got a lot more experience than we do on the particular challenges that members of the trans community have to deal with, as well as contacts who may be able to provide you with support.”

I agreed. Sarah ran a boutique for trans people about ten miles from Al and Javi’s salon. But while she was near the top of my list of people to call, my sister Fiona placed even higher, for family reasons. That call was going to be much harder, and I wasn’t sure . . . well, I wasn’t sure about a lot of things. Mostly, whether to tell her I was trans.

So, when I got back to my apartment, I stalled. Did a little cleaning. Sent a text to Liz, thanking her for the wonderful weekend. It was 9:00, and I had just about convinced myself that it was too late to call. Then my phone rang.

“Beat me to it, Fi,” I said as I accepted her call.

“Hey, kid,” she answered. “Based on what I’ve heard from Mom, I’m guessing you had a pretty shitty Thanksgiving. You okay?”

Well, at least I don’t need to fill her in on Thursday’s family fireworks display. “I’m fine,” I reassured her. “I’m curious how Mom described what happened, though.”

Fiona reported Mom’s description, which was more or less accurate once you stripped off the editorializing about how Iain had committed abominations before God. Mom naturally was wholly in agreement with Dad’s decision to disown Iain and toss my suitcase outside.

I said, “So all things considered, it’s a good thing you decided to spend Thanksgiving with Henry’s folks, or he might be running for the hills.”
“Not funny, Cam,” she said. “Not for me. I’ve gotten to know Henry’s family since they’re right here in Boston, but Henry’s never even met Mom and Dad. I was counting on having him meet everyone in St. Louis for Christmas. We haven’t set a date only because I wanted Mom and Dad to meet him before we do. Now what’ll I do?”

I asked her what she was thinking and she said, “How can I go there for Christmas after what they did? I don’t give a shit who Iain is sleeping with, he’s my brother. What Dad did was evil, and wrong, and as un-Christlike as anything I’ve ever heard of!”

She was steamed. Not too surprising. She and Iain weren’t especially close, but both of them had Dad’s temper and a tendency to make snap judgments. Not that I disagreed with her on this one. I thought about telling her that Iain wasn’t actually gay, but he had specifically told me not to tell people, and it was his secret to keep or to tell.

I wasn’t sure that Fiona had thought through the implications of what she had said. When she paused her tirade, I asked quietly, “What about the wedding, Fi?”

“What about it?” she responded.

“I know you well enough to suppose you are planning the traditional ceremony. Are you going to disinvite your parents? Who will you want to walk you down the aisle?”

“I know,” she said, sounding miserable. “I know. I just can’t imagine not having them come, but I will invite Iain, too. If they can’t live with that, they won’t come anyway.”

I noticed she wasn’t mentioning me in all this, which made me more curious than upset. “Fi,” I said gently, “I know how angry you are at them right now. I’m with you on this. But if you want them at your wedding, I think all the reasons why you were planning to go out at Christmas still apply. Henry should meet them, and I would be surprised if they weren’t on their best behavior while he’s there. They’re going to want to be at your wedding too.”

Her hurt shaded into exasperation. “God dammit, why couldn’t you all have gotten along, just this once!”

She was crying and upset, so I decided not to take umbrage. “I’m sorry, Fi. You know this has been building for years between Dad and Iain. Based on what Iain told me, Dad was at him from the moment he walked in the door. There’s fault all around, but they’ve always been like a couple stags in rutting season.”

“I know.” Now she sounded defeated. “I guess I’ll have to bite the bullet and go out. This once. But I’m going to have to lay down my marker with them in advance. They are not going to discuss this crap while I’m there, or I’m out the door.” Then she said, “You’ll be there too, right?”

“Fi, did you miss the part of the story where they kicked me out as well, just for going with Iain to the bus station?”

“Oh, that,” she said. “You’re reading too much into it. Mom was clear that was just for Thanksgiving. You were being spanked, not disowned.”

“And now I’m supposed to just pretend that’s okay?” I was starting to get annoyed myself.

“Cam,” she said earnestly, “Please. Not for them; for me. I wanted us all there. Bad enough Iain won’t be. Don’t get stubborn, too. Please. Of all of us, you’ve tried hardest to keep the peace.”

I was quiet for a long minute. This was a fork in the road, and I knew it. I thought back to my earlier conversation with Al and Javier. How long could I go on, pretending to be the person they thought they knew, just to preserve harmony? Through Christmas? Through Fi’s wedding, whenever that might be? Didn’t I owe her that?

Finally I said, “I’m sorry. I can’t. It’s not a matter of pride, or being stubborn.”

“Bullshit,” she retorted. “You want me to act like what they did to Iain is okay, but you’re not going to get your hands dirty?”

I cut her off before she went further off the rails. “No. That’s not it. I can’t go back because it wouldn’t be fair to any of you. Wouldn’t be honest.”

“What are you talking about!”

“I’ll tell you, if you’ll be quiet long enough to let me. Please. This is hard. Can you let me explain?”

That seemed to get her attention. “You’re not gay, too?” she asked, sounding incredulous.

I processed that for a second. “No, Fi, I’m trans. Though I expect the distinction will be lost on Mom and Dad.”

Dead silence.

Then she exploded, “You’re trans? You mean you are going to show up to my wedding in a DRESS? What the fuck!!”

I knew Fi was upset and tried to make allowances, but this was too much. And now that I had let the cat out of the bag, there was no putting it back. I might have tried to swear Fiona to secrecy before I said anything, but it had felt pointless. If she decided to tell Mom and Dad, they would certainly disown me, but unless I was willing to hide forever that would happen sooner or later anyway. I doubt it would matter to Iain, but that’s mostly because I don’t really matter to Iain.

No, Fiona had been my only hope . . . and that hope had failed. I suddenly felt overwhelmed by sorrow, tired, and defeated.

“Good-bye, Fi,” I said softly, then shut off the phone.

I sat there staring at the blank screen until tears blurred my vision. I remembered the tea parties she had shared with her stuffed animals and me, in her outgrown party dresses, when I was four or five. How good I had felt; like she was sharing her secret world. Like I belonged. She had been maybe eleven, and I thought she was the coolest, most wonderful person in the world. She’d grown more distant of course, as she grew up and moved out, but apparently some of my old hero worship had survived the years. Making her rejection the one that mattered, the one that cut through bone to pierce the soul itself.

I felt very alone.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER TWO
“E per me nuovo, capir nol so”
– Mozart, Le Nozze di Figaro, Voi che sapete (Aria)

Washington, D.C. and College Park, Maryland, December 2-6

I got up the next morning and had to put on Cam’s clothes – my “Cam-o-flage” – and get myself to work.

The wild emotions of the long weekend left me tired, but also determined. My self-knowledge might have a very high price tag: family, probably old friends, my past. But, for the first time in my life, I knew who I was and where I was going. I wasn’t just going with the flow and taking whatever life would bring. I sat quietly on the Metro car, eyes open but focused inward, gathering myself for a new day.

My sense of new identity remained with me at work, even though I was wearing Cam’s clothes, interacting with Cam’s colleagues and engaged in Cam’s work. Regardless of what I was doing or who I was with, I was acutely aware that I was Cami — a transwoman, but a woman nonetheless. My sense of myself as Cameron Savin appeared to be irretrievably gone.

The shift in my identity gave me a few moments where I felt like an imposter, but I powered through it. Once I was engaged in the work, my mind shifted quickly to the task and I found that I had not lost my focus or ability. I put my problems aside and buried myself in reviewing the briefs and motions that opposing counsel had drafted, and which we had exchanged at the end of the weekend.

My personal interactions were pretty limited. We had a team meeting first thing in the morning to parcel out the work of going through the new filings, and everyone asked how everyone else’s Thanksgiving had been.

Naturally, I just said it had been great and made a light-hearted comment about the difficulties of travel over the Thanksgiving weekend. No one else said much more than that either. Our briefs replying to the other side’s latest submissions were due a week from Friday, and the team was very focused on that.

The days that followed were mostly the same: in work by 7:30; back home around 10:00. No time to do anything except feed my inner girl by slipping into one of my sexy nighties and collapsing into bed.

In the weeks before Thanksgiving, I had gotten up very early to put together and perfect a cheerleading routine for Liz’s viewing. I had found the routines to be both fun and great exercise, so I determined that I would keep them up. Liz had faulted both my flexibility and my physical stamina, and I wanted to improve both.

I did manage to arrange a time to meet with Sarah for dinner on Friday, so I left at 5:30, promising myself I would make it up Saturday. I went home first and dumped Cam’s clothes, cleaned up and shifted into my feminine presentation.

I gave my hair, makeup, clothing, and accessories even more thought than usual. Sarah worked with lots of trans women and had advised me, as a matter of personal security, to learn how to blend in. She was very aware of how well – or how poorly – transwomen were able to look, move and act like biological women when they wanted to. So I thought about who I was meeting, and where, and at what time, and the fact that it was early December.

I selected dark tights, a full skirt that fell below the knee in a rich red, a white blouse in a soft fabric with a camisole underneath and a short black jacket. I finished my look with a simple gold chain and my drop earrings.

~o~O~o~
Greenbelt, Maryland, December 6

Sarah and I met at Cedars of Lebanon, a Mediterranean restaurant that I had never tried before.

She got there first and was already seated, so she was able to watch me closely as I made my way to where she was sitting. She didn’t get up when I arrived at the table, but waved me to the seat opposite hers.

I sat, careful to smooth my skirt behind me on the way down.

After the hostess left, she said, “You get pretty high marks, Candi. Clothing and makeup are good. Your walk’s not bad; you might consider being less free with the swing of your arms from shoulder to elbow, and more free from elbow to hand. But that’s a minor thing. You definitely pass.”

I smiled at Sarah’s bluntness. She gets down to business and tells you what she thinks. I decided to spare the preliminaries as well. “Thanks, Sarah. That’s very helpful. So you know, I’ve decided on ‘Cami’ rather than ‘Candi.’ But that doesn’t matter so much. I really want to get your advice.”

“I’m assuming you aren’t looking for stock market tips,” she quipped. “So, what can I help you with?”

“I currently have to dress and act male for my job. I’m hoping I'll be able to have a discussion about my gender with my employer in a few months, though I don’t know how I’ll go about it. But what comes next?”

She looked at me quizzically for a few seconds. “What do you want to come next? Do you want someone to waive a magic wand and turn you into a real girl, marry Prince Charming, and live happily ever after?”

I blushed. “I guess that was a bit open-ended.”

“Ya think?” she retorted. Then she softened. “Listen, Cami, what comes next really does depend on you, on what you want. If you just want to be able to pass as a woman, I think you have sufficient skill already. You weren’t bad when I saw you a month or so ago and you’re a lot better now.”

I started to say something, but she waved a hand to stop me. “I assume that’s not what you want, or you wouldn’t need advice. If you want your body to start looking and feeling more feminine, there are medications that can help with that. How much of a difference the medications make depends on how your body reacts to them. Some girls do that, and nothing else.”

She paused to gauge my reaction, then continued. “Some girls aren’t satisfied with the effects that medication achieves, so they have additional surgery. The degree of surgery goes all the way from the purely cosmetic to complete sex realignment. Again, some girls don’t do any, some do a little, some do a lot. The further you go, the more it costs — and the harder it is to reverse.”

"I guess that all makes sense," I said. "But . . . I don't know where to begin."

She looked at me critically. "I'd say you've already begun, woman. But the next thing you’ll almost certainly need to do is discuss it all with your doctor. If you can’t trust your current doc or aren't comfortable with him or her, find another one. The last thing you need to deal with is some neanderthal who doesn’t believe transgender people exist. You need someone who has experience with gender dysphoria and other gender-related issues.”

The waiter came to the table and put down glasses of water. “Good evening, ladies. Can I get you something to drink while you look at your menus?”

We were ready with our full orders, so we gave him that info and he went off.

I watched his retreating back an instant too long.

Sarah was giving me a bit of a smirk when I turned my attention back to her. “Interested?” she asked. “He’s kind of cute.”

I blushed again. “I think I just like it when someone refers to me as a lady.” In truth, I felt decidedly strange about it. He was cute, and I had noticed. Had my identity shift gone so far that I was becoming attracted to men? That was a difficult thought to process.

Sarah looked at me speculatively, as if she understood my current turmoil. “Cami, you may find your sexual preferences are different, or broader, than they were as a cisgender male. It doesn’t always happen, but I’d say it happens more than you might think. It’s something you may need to face. Some transwomen get a bit weirded out by it; others don’t.”

I squirmed a bit as she continued watching my reactions closely. Finally, I said, “Okay; I can see that. I have been noticing guys more since the last time I saw you, but I’ve kind of suppressed it. I can’t imagine it’s something I’ll need to deal with anytime soon, and I’ve had a lot going on.”

“Don’t count on that,” she said earnestly.

It was my turn to look skeptical.

She was a bit sharp in response. “I’m serious. Don’t. Look, you may not believe it, but you are a good-looking young woman. Maybe even beautiful, on a good day and when you put your mind to it. You look pleased at that and I’m not saying you shouldn’t be. But men will be attracted to you, and they will hit on you. You need to be prepared for that in all sorts of ways. Know how to get away as gracefully as possible, if it’s not what you want, or you’re not ready, or you don’t feel safe.”

I nodded, trying to wrap my head around the idea that men might be attracted to me. Really?

“But even more,” Sarah continued, “what do you do if it is what you want? An intimate encounter with a man can be very dangerous for a transwoman. Men sometimes react very badly, even violently.”

That got through to me. I thought about it for a minute, then said, “I can see that. And . . . you’re right, I’m going to need to think about that some more. I’ve been avoiding it, I guess. Because the idea of being intimate with a guy seems . . . I don’t know. Weird? Taboo? But I also can’t imagine a guy wanting to be intimate with me.”

“It does happen, Cami,” she responded, surprisingly gently. “Don’t think intimacy isn’t possible for trans girls. It’s harder. Most guys aren’t open to it, and some are dangerously hostile. So, you do need to be careful. But there are special people in the world, male and female, who can see and love the person you are inside. Being trans doesn’t have to mean being alone.”

I tried to smile, though I don’t know how convincing it was. “Well, I’ll definitely think about it. And I take your point. This is something I need to be ready to deal with sooner rather than later.”

She nodded firmly in agreement, as our decidedly cute waiter swung by to deliver our drinks. This time I was more circumspect about checking him out.

Returning to the earlier part of our discussion, I said, “I do think I want to develop a more female body. I don’t know about surgery, but . . . I’ll be walking around, I’ll see other women, and just find myself wishing that I had their beautiful curves, their smooth skin. . . . I want . . . .”

I stopped, unable to continue articulating my thought. I wanted breasts that I could feel as well as see, and cleavage I could display without worrying that seams would show. I wanted an ass that popped without padding. I wanted more defined hips. I wanted a decent waist. It felt ridiculous when I tried putting it to words. Shallow.

Sarah leaned forward to finish my thought. “You want to look in the mirror and see the woman you know that you are.”

“Yes!” I said. “That. I want that.”

“Well, I know you aren’t a child, and you seem to have your head screwed on straight. But I still recommend you start with a good counselor. It’s important to talk all of this through. Before you do anything else. And for God’s sake, don’t try any mail-order or shady shit. You can really get messed up that way.”

I agreed, but would have anyway. As a rule, most lawyers don’t take unnecessary risks.

Our food arrived and we turned to lighter subjects while we ate. I got some possible professional contacts from her.

She offered to introduce me to other transwomen if I thought it would be helpful. I found myself strangely reluctant to commit to that, though I wasn’t sure why. Maybe I was worried about exposure until I was ready to come out at work; maybe I just wanted to think of myself as a woman, rather than thinking about myself as a transwoman.

In either event, Sarah didn’t seem surprised by my reaction and she didn’t push.

As we were getting ready to leave, she said, “Stay in touch, Cami. Being trans can be lonely. It can be hard. Some trans people can’t survive the pressure, but everyone feels it. It’s important to have a community, to have friends, who will support you. If you need anything, whether it’s advice or just someone to talk to, I’m here for you. And I want to know how you are doing.”

I was deeply touched, and thanked her for her offer. This was only the second time I had met Sarah, but she accepted me immediately and offered her support without hesitation. The contrast with my family was stark. But I couldn’t let my past life dictate my future.

I caught an Uber and headed home. As I was checking my emails on the drive, I got a call from Fiona. I stared at the phone for a moment, then decided to hit ignore. I had no desire to deal with more of her drama. I didn’t need the kind of “family” I had grown up with.

I got to bed at what was, for me, a reasonable hour.

In the wee hours of the morning I woke from a vivid, almost erotic dream. I was running along a jetty over deep, still water, mountains of white clouds piling in an intensely blue sky. Barefoot, wearing nothing but a lime-green, one-piece swimsuit with high-cut legs and a halter top, my long hair floating loose around my face. My body was soft and feminine and perfect, my breasts strained at the thin fabric of the suit as they bounced in time with my easy, joyful jog, and the muscles of my ripe, round ass were only highlighted by the green of the suit’s bottom.

The vision looked back at me over her white shoulder, soft, moist lips upturned in a smile of welcome as one slender hand rose to beckon me forward, onward, toward the end of the jetty.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER THREE
“Redis à ma tendresse les serments d'autrefois”
– Saint-Saëns, Samson et Dalila, Mon coeur s'ouvre a ta voix (Aria)

College Park, Maryland, December 7

I woke up Saturday morning feeling surprisingly well-rested. Determined to reinforce my good new habits, I drank a big glass of water, put on my yoga pants and sports bra, used a scrunchie to put my hair into a high ponytail, and got to work on my stretches and exercises.

I was managing about ten minutes of stretches, ten to fifteen minutes of vigorous aerobic exercises from cheerleading routines, and another ten minutes of stretches in the cool-off period. Liz put me through more, but I was working my way up to it. So I spun, jumped, kicked and danced to some up-tempo electronic music, my ponytail dancing along with me. It was a fun and self-affirming way to get the exercise I needed.

Finished, I hit the shower, happy and sweaty. After removing my breast forms, I washed thoroughly, shaved everywhere, and used baby shampoo on my hair. I patted myself dry, blow-dried my hair and left it loose, simply pulling it back from my temples and gathering that portion in the back with a barrette. It still had a fair bit of yesterday’s curl and looked pretty good.

Next came re-attaching my breast forms, putting on my panty gaff and choosing a matching bra and panty set in cream. I used light makeup and rose lipstick, then pulled my shirtdress over my head and belted it. Checking the whole effect in the mirror, I was pleased with what I saw.

I wasn’t going anywhere today; I was going to work from home instead. Cam had never worked from this apartment, which had been Candi’s refuge. But those artificial divisions had outlived their usefulness.

I am only one person, no matter what I am wearing, and I don’t need a refuge from the person I am at work. There was no reason that I couldn’t work from home on the weekends, like most other lawyers, nor was there any reason to dress like a male just because I would be doing legal work.

Admittedly, most real women (okay; that stung. Most “biological” women) would probably relish the opportunity to dress in sweats and forgo makeup. But I was home, I didn’t need to please anyone else and I didn’t need to fit in. So, I dressed for myself only, in clothes that were not only consistent with being a woman, but affirmatively celebrated my femininity.

I had a light breakfast, made a pot of coffee, threw a load of laundry in the wash, and got down to work. Before long I was deep in the weeds of the Federal Rules of Evidence, oblivious to the world around me.

Somewhere around 12:30 my concentration was broken by my phone ringing. I fetched it from across the room and saw that it was Fiona again. I let it ring longer this time. Maybe there was an emergency? While I dithered, the ringing stopped and she didn’t leave a voicemail. Presumably she would have if there had been an emergency of some sort. And the fact that she considered something to be urgent enough to call again didn’t mean I would agree with her.

Since I had been interrupted, I decided to take a few minutes and have some lunch. A little tomato basil soup, a couple slices of sourdough bread, and a wedge of cheese seemed perfect. That done, I sat myself back at my desk and got back to work.

I finished my drafts of two sections of our reply brief and sent them to Eileen O’Donnell, the firm’s chief trial lawyer who was running the trial team for the case I was working on, and David Parr, the junior partner who was the number two. Then I started researching the next section I had been assigned.

I got a mark-up on my first two sections from David around 4:00, followed immediately by an email from Eileen saying that she would review it after I had incorporated David’s changes. Clearly everyone was on their computers, working hard.

I put aside my third section and reviewed David’s comments and suggestions. He was a good editor, and there were a couple comments that required further research.

I probably had half an hour’s additional work left to do before I could flip the revised sections to Eileen when I received an email. It was from Fiona, asking me to please call.

Again, I ignored her. I was not going to keep Eileen waiting while I dealt with my damned family.

I was able to get the first two sections back to Eileen just after six o’clock. Later than I had hoped, but I had found some good cases as a result of the research David had suggested, so I thought the extra time had been well spent.

I was trying to decide whether to have a bit of dinner before returning to my third section, when Skype lit up on my computer. I had a moment of panic, thinking it might be Eileen or David, but the firm did not typically Skype for internal calls.

It was Fiona.

I was home. I was at a logical breaking point in my work. If there was some drama to deal with, this was as good a time as any. So I disabled the camera and answered. After a moment, Fi’s face appeared on the screen, looking distraught.

Just great.

I had never really noticed it before, but Fiona and I look a lot alike. Our faces, anyway. She has strawberry blonde hair and mine is dark, but the oval face, the nose, the chin, the hairline were all very similar. Her eyes are gray, while mine are blue. Except right now, her eyes looked red.

I decided to cut to the chase. “I’ve got a lot going on, Fi. Is this urgent?” My tone wasn’t exactly hostile, but it wasn’t friendly, either.

“Cam, will you please turn your camera on? So we can talk?”

As an opener, it left something to be desired. “We don’t need visuals to talk,” I responded. “And I think we exhausted our family chit-chat last week. Look, if there’s an emergency let me know. But I really am up to my eyeballs in work.”

She slumped in her seat. “Okay. I guess I had that coming. I mostly just wanted to tell you how sorry I am for last week. It’s no excuse – there is no excuse – but you caught me completely by surprise and at a really bad time. Can you forgive me?”

Fiona is pretty hard to resist – a force of nature and a genuinely good person, albeit one with a quick temper. There was no doubt in my mind that she was completely sincere.

But part of me did not want to relent or engage, regardless. It was a measure of just how shattered I had been by her rejection. I didn’t want to make myself vulnerable again.

Finally, I said, “I want to, Fi. And I’ll try, I promise. But I can’t begin to tell you how much you hurt me last week. I know Mom and Dad will never accept me, and I know Iain will never care. I was really hoping . . . .”

But I couldn’t continue; my throat constricted to the point where speech was almost impossible. I couldn’t tell her what I had hoped for. The thought just left my mind, replaced by a different feeling altogether — an overpowering sense of grief and remorse. All I could do was whisper, “I’m sorry.”

I wasn’t even sure what I was sorry about. But I was.

Fi was weeping as well. “Oh, Cam! I didn't reject you. I wouldn’t. You have to know I love you!”

I had no answer to that. Because in truth, I didn’t know it. It had only been a hope, and one I had given up on.

My brain finally caught up with my churning emotions and I realized why I was apologizing to Fi, and why I thought I ought to. I pulled myself together enough to articulate it.

“Fi, I was wrong last week. You wanted to bring Henry home, show him your family, make him feel as welcome as his family has made you. It wasn’t much to ask. But we couldn’t even manage that. We’re nothing but a rolling catastrophe, and all you have ever wanted was a solid place to stand, so that you could reach for the stars. We’ve never been that, we never will be. You deserve better.”

She tried to cut me off.

But for once I over-rode her — and Skype, as I happened to know from professional experience, kind of kills the less dominant voice when there is crosstalk.

“Don’t go home for Christmas. It’ll only break your heart. Don’t invite us – any of us – to your wedding. Have a mentor walk you down the aisle. Be happy. Henry has the good family, the decent, normal, caring family, that you deserve. You don’t owe us a damned thing, so get out while you can and don’t look back. Don’t ever look back.”

She looked completely stricken. “Is that really what you think? How can you imagine I would do that . . . would even want that?”

I gently responded, “You would never even allow yourself to think it. You are too good, too responsible, for the thought to form. But you’ve always wanted peace, and a normal, decent life. When you left for college all those years ago, you minimized your interactions with all of us. You were there when you absolutely had to be. But I think you knew you could never find what you need in our family.”

She lowered her head, so I was no longer able to see her face clearly.

I had said enough and decided to give her space to process it.

She was motionless for probably two whole minutes before she looked up. Her face was tear stained, but her voice was clear. “Maybe. Maybe I did run. I did need space. But I never stopped loving you. And I wouldn’t be good, or decent, or responsible, like you say I am, if I turned my back on you now.”

She raised her chin. “I let you down a week ago. I’m not going to do it again. I’m not. Now, would you please turn your damned camera on? Or, do I have to beg?”

I really didn’t want to do it, afraid that she wouldn’t be able to control her reaction and I would feel her rejection all over again. But I would not, absolutely would not, make Fiona Campbell Savin beg.

I took a deep breath, tried to control my expression, and enabled the camera. At least I had taken care with my appearance this morning.

Fi’s eyes widened and her hand crept up to her mouth, which formed in a silent “o.” She just stared at me, wordless, until I felt compelled to fill the silence.

“This is who I am, Fi. This is me. Are you really sure you can accept all of that?”

She shook her head slightly, like she was trying to clear her thoughts. Finally, she whispered, “You’re beautiful! I couldn’t even imagine you as a woman. I never saw it . . . now I don’t know how I could have seen anything else.”

I broke the mood a bit with a giggle. “Thank you for that. Though you might be surprised to know that I was just thinking how much we look alike.”

She certainly looked surprised.

“What?” I asked. “You never thought you were beautiful?”

That finally jolted her out of her reverie. “No! I didn’t, and I don’t,” she said, before adding an affectionate, “Jerk! But I also never saw the resemblance. Not like this, anyway.”

“Me neither,” I confessed. “Not until now. But with the help of some makeup and a more feminine hairstyle, it’s hard to miss, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” she agreed, still looking dumbstruck.

Then she started to smile, tentative and tremulous at first, but real and genuine. “I have a little sister!” she said, with wonder in her voice.

“And I have my big sister back,” I responded. We just stared at each other, sharing a moment.

I was the one to break it. “I’m sorry I dodged your calls. I should have trusted you more. But I wasn’t lying about being buried in work, and I do need to get back to it because there’s something I have to send off tonight. I didn’t ask you to keep my news quiet, so I don’t know if you did. But I haven’t told anyone at work, and won’t be able to for a while. If you could keep it quiet I’d appreciate it.”

“I didn’t tell anyone except Henry. We don’t keep secrets from each other, but we do keep each other’s secrets. I hope that’s okay?”

“Absolutely. Though I am curious about how he responded – if you feel comfortable telling me.”

“Oh, he was as upset as I’ve ever seen him,” she said. “At me. For the way I had treated you. You don’t need to have any worries about Henry.”

I was relieved, and said so.

She suggested that we talk again soon, and I happily agreed. We ended the call on a good note.

I needed a bit of time to process that conversation, so I made myself a quick dinner before settling back in front of my computer with a mug of hot tea. I finished my third section around 10:30, checked it for errors, and sent it off to Eileen and David around 11:00.

Then I changed into clean panties and a nightie, fell into bed, and immediately dropped into a deep and untroubled sleep.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER FOUR
“Vesti la giubba”
– Leoncavallo, Pagliacci, Vesti la giubba (Aria)

College Park, Maryland, December 8

I started my Sunday much as I had the day before, though I decided to add five more minutes to my workout this week. After my workout and shower I dressed casually in stretchy jeans and a blouse – what I thought of as my shopping outfit.

I was just finishing up my makeup when I got a call from Javier. We often get together for breakfast on Sunday, which is their day off. After a pleasant hour in their upstairs apartment, I returned to my own and checked my emails. Nothing yet from David or Eileen.

However, I did have a text from Liz suggesting that I should check Candi’s email account. This was an account Liz had set up for our private communications. Mostly, Liz had used it to send Candi feminizing assignments – part of our exploration of some mutual sexual fantasies.

That aspect of our relationship, which had been a source of great pleasure for us both, concluded amicably last week. I found that I could not be Liz’s Candi any more than I could be Cameron Savin. So I was very curious that Liz had sent another communication through that channel.

I went to my web browser, enabled private searches, and logged in to Candi’s account using the login and password Liz had selected. I found an email, several photo files, and a few larger video files. I opened Liz’s email first. She was characteristically brief, but her message was warm:

“Hey Cami — I hope you’ve had a good week, though I imagine it’s been challenging. If anyone can survive all the craziness, it’s you.”

“I’ve been missing you all week. More than I missed either Cam or Candi, which seems kind of strange. Anyhow, I decided to do something about it yesterday and spent a chunk of the day playing with the raw images from your photoshoot to create a set of more polished images. I had a blast, and I hope that you like the results.

“I’ve also included copies of the live feed from the GoPro. One is your cheerleading try-out, one is your photoshoot, and the last is from your ‘prom date.’ You may or may not want to see them – I know that Candi is done. But I promised you’d get copies of any photos and video, so I included them.”

“Love ya, girl! Liz.”

I wasn’t going to watch the videos today, that was certain. But I eagerly started reviewing the photos, and damn, they were good! She had made liberal use of greenscreening, so the shots were now reimagined in interesting locations.

There I was in my favorite A-line dress, walking on a broad path in a park. Or, sitting on the steps of a New York brownstone. In another shot, I was wearing my slinky red slip dress, hip thrust out, staring straight at the camera, while the blurred background intimated the motion of an active dance floor. Or, wearing my full-length halter-top dress, leaning slightly against a tree, playing with my hair and giving the photographer a come-hither look.

Then there was the classic SI pose: me kneeling on a beach, surf behind me, hands behind my head. I looked amazingly sexy – practically sex-crazed. Liz had eliminated any hint of my padded panty gaff, which was longer than the bottom of the swimsuit, so I looked naturally curvy. My skin glowed with moisture, my hair was blowing in the (artificial) wind, my eyes were narrowed, my lips parted, back arched, breasts and pelvis thrust forward. Wow.

The final shot was me in low light, reclining on a couch in nothing but skimpy pink panties and a diaphanous peignoir, parted in a very suggestive way. Again, the raw sexuality of the image was palpable.

There were two additional poses. In the first, I was dressed in a white corset and crinoline petticoat, my hair in an elaborate up-do, stretching down to roll a lacey stocking up one leg. Liz had recolorized it in sepia tones and made it appear to be set in an opulent dressing room.

In the final shot, which was not one of the rehearsed poses, I was in my halter dress, standing in a garden, looking adoringly into the eyes of a good-looking man in a linen shirt, my right hand resting lightly on his chest.

My breath caught. I was impressed at how she had combined images – no one was at our photoshoot other than Liz and me – but the photo really hit me. It connected forcefully with my conversation with Sarah. Was this really what I wanted? I didn’t know, but the photo roiled my emotional moorings.

Liz was a wizard. I had known that she had done amateur photography for years, and I should have guessed that she would have worked hard to master it. Liz is nothing if not a perfectionist. In her photos, I looked exotic, beautiful, sensual. Sometimes cool. In others, sizzling hot. But in every single shot, from the most innocent to the completely wanton, I looked thoroughly, stunningly, utterly feminine.

I remembered Sarah’s words: I want to be able to look in the mirror and see the woman I know myself to be. Liz’s photos were like that mirror, and I spent an embarrassingly long time admiring them.

I immediately sent Liz a reply email, telling her how thrilled and amazed I was by what she’d accomplished. At the end I added, “I miss you too, Liz. Tremendously. Any chance we can do a Facetime tonight, just to talk? All my love, Cami.”

Still no work emails, so I decided I would get my shopping done. Al had offered to let me borrow his car for a couple of hours, which gave me a bit of flexibility. There was a Nordstroms Rack just a couple miles away in Lanham, so that was my first stop. There were some things that I wanted to pick up to make it easier to dress as a woman whenever I wasn’t at work.

I cheerfully selected a couple more bra and panty sets, some hosiery, some tights, another pretty nightie (I have a weakness for pretty sleepwear!), another full skirt, two comfy sweaters and a cute peasant-style blouse with full sleeves. A couple of splurges were a pair of black leather form-fitting boots with a two-inch heel that fully covered my calves and a long wool winter coat in a bright, cheerful shade of red.

Still no emails from work by the time I was finished at Nordstrom’s, so I had time to drive over to Bethesda to stop at a Lululemon. I only had one workout outfit, and I was working out every day. Two more sports bras, two sets of yoga pants, another racerback top and a loose, thin hoodie joined my purchases.

While I was at the cash register I noticed two women from work – a paralegal and an attorney just a year or two older than me – walk in the door. I’m not prepared for this!!!

However much I wanted to come out at work, there’s an appropriate time, place and manner to do it. Getting clocked at an athleisure store while buying sports bras checked every single box on how to do it wrong.

I sat on my rising panic hard, putting on the poker face I had mastered as Cameron Savin while I tried to figure out an escape plan. But it was immediately clear that there was nothing to do but brazen it out and hope for the best.

So I finished paying, thanked the cashier in a soft voice, put my wallet back in my purse, and walked calmly to the exit, paying no attention to the two women, but doing nothing to avoid them either.

They were checking out a sale, chatting happily, oblivious to my presence or my terror.

I made it to the car, put my purchases in the trunk with apparent calm and drove away. After just a few blocks, I pulled into a strip mall and parked so that I could get my breathing and heart rate under control and still the tremors that had hit me. It was the first time I had been afraid of discovery since I bought my padded panty gaff from Sarah and started going out into the world dressed as a woman.

I wanted to go straight home, but I had to stop at a grocery store to get supplies for the week. Highly motivated, I finished quickly and was safely in my own space by 1:30. After putting away the groceries and making myself a cup of tea, I started cutting the tags off my new purchases and putting them away. I was going to need more hangers.

Although I like lots of music, I turn to classical when I want calm and peace. Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony was playing on my bluetooth speaker when I returned to my laptop. There was a message from Liz through Candi’s email, enthusiastically accepting my suggestion that we Facetime today and proposing 7:00.

I shot her a reply saying I would call her then.

I also had an email from Eileen, which copied David: “Nice work, both of you. I had a couple of nits, which you’ll see on the attached redlines. Cam, please incorporate. I’ll wait until David has finished his review of your last section before I go through it.”

Nothing would calm my jangled nerves like diving into work, so that’s what I did. I opened the first document and was able to go through her proposed changes in twenty minutes.

The second one took a bit longer. I was just finishing it when I got David’s email with his mark-up on my third section. He had suggested some significant re-arranging, but nothing in his mark-up required additional research.

I made revisions in line with David’s general suggestions and sent all three revised documents to him and Eileen around 4:30. With that done, I logged in to the firm’s billing software and entered my time.

I was about to get up when a Skype call came through. Surprisingly, it was Fiona. I clicked “accept,” happy to be able to do so without worry.

She looked better – much better – than she had when she contacted me the night before. The tension and strain were gone. “Hi sis!” she said, with a big smile.

I couldn’t help but grin back. “Hi, Fi! I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. What’s up?”

“I thought a lot about what you said yesterday and talked to Henry. I’ve been letting childhood dreams about what a wedding should be like interfere with more important things. Like you and Iain, just for starters.

“So I called Mom and Dad this morning and told them that Henry and I would not be coming out for Christmas, and while I would love it if they came to our wedding, they weren’t invited unless they apologized to you both and stopped behaving like Pharisees in the Temple.”

My eyes bugged out and my mouth hung open. “Holy shit! I’m guessing that didn’t go over well!”

She chuckled ruefully. “Nope. I got disowned too, and called every ugly name you can imagine, starting with ‘ingrate.’ But the more Dad bellowed, the more Mom shrieked, the more certain I felt. They don’t want me in their family? Well, fine! Because I don’t want them in my family either!”

Wow. This did not sound like Fiona, who had always been the Golden Child. I just shook my head in wonder. “Are you sure, Fi?”

“Yeah, Cam, I’m sure. It wasn't easy, but . . . .” She checked herself and asked, “It’s still Cam, isn’t it?”

“Officially, sure, and YOU can call me whatever you want, including ‘Jerk,’ so long as you still call me. But . . . .” I paused.

“But unofficially,” she prompted.

“Unofficially, I’m using ‘Cami,’” I said shyly.

Her broad smile never wavered. “Well, Cami, yes, I’m certain. Mom and Dad taught us values. They think we haven’t lived up to them. I think they haven’t. We can’t reconcile with that between us. Either they accept us – all of us – for the people we are, or we somehow repent of what they see as our wickedness. I can’t see you or Iain doing that, and I’m damned if I will.”

She shook her head, then added, “Wickedness my ass. You, me, Iain – we’re what God made us, and I don’t think God makes trash.”

I stared at her for a long minute, then said, slowly, deliberately, and warmly, “I love you, Fiona. I spent my entire childhood wishing I could be like you. Smart. Curious. Fearless. I’ve grown up in awe of your integrity. I am so proud of you. So glad that you are my sister!”

I’d clearly left her speechless. She just stared at me, and it was her turn to leave her mouth open like a fish.

Finally, she said, “If it weren’t for your tone, I’d think you were teasing me. I’m no hero, Cam – Cami” she corrected herself, “I’m hot-tempered and pig-headed. But . . . thanks. Apart from my Henry, I don’t think anyone’s said anything so sweet to me in my whole life.”

She paused a second, considering something. “I don’t think Cam would ever have said that to me. Always so reserved, so quiet. You’re a new person, Cami. And I’m really looking forward to getting to know you better. It was hard to separate Cam from my memories of him as a child, to think of him as an adult. I don’t think I’ll have that problem with you.”

I smiled at that; talking to one of my siblings as an adult and an equal had a lot of appeal. “Thanks, Fi. I’d like that. A fresh start, as adults. But you’ll always be my hero, whether you feel like one or not.”

She returned my smile. “So, what does your schedule look like? Got any plans for Christmas? I seem to be surprisingly free that week. Would you join us?”

I had made no plans for Christmas, which unfortunately fell on a Wednesday. But I wasn’t going to pass up this generous opening. “I’d love to join you. But is Henry okay with it? And won’t you be spending it with his family, if you aren’t going to St. Louis?”

“I told you – you don’t need to worry about Henry; he couldn’t have been more enthusiastic about inviting you. We’ll work things out with his family. My priority right now – our priority – is making sure you have a family too. Please come.”

Well, that got me crying. I accepted gratefully, thanked Fi, and asked her to pass my thanks to Henry as well. He seemed like a remarkable guy (which Fi certainly deserved), and I was looking forward to meeting him. We agreed to work out the logistics later, since I wasn’t sure how much I would need to be at work that week, and signed off.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER FIVE
“Una furtiva lagrima”
– Donizetti, L’Elisir d’Amore, Una furtiva lagrima (Aria)

College Park, Maryland, December 8, immediately following

I didn’t have the time to cook properly most nights, so it was a bit of a treat to cut fresh vegetables and a chicken cutlet and make myself a stir-fry. I even had a glass of dry white wine and let the calm begin to seep into my bones. When I was finished I washed and dried the dishes, then confirmed that I had no new emails.

That left me forty-five minutes before my call with Liz, and I wanted to spend some time freshening up.

Part of me wanted to wear my sexy new nightgown for her – royal blue, gathered at the bust and waist, deep v-neck with delicate lace trim. This was the part of me that still thought of Liz as my lover.

Indulging myself that way, however, was not fair to either of us. Liz was heterosexual; she had not feminized me because she was attracted to women, but because she was sexually excited by dominance, and I was excited by her being dominant.

We had explored our sexual fantasies together. But the play had turned serious for me, unlocking a deep-seated, unshakable desire to simply express myself as a woman. Nor was my female self necessarily submissive; I simply enjoyed being dominated in bed. Tonight’s call was not pillow talk.

Liz and I – Liz and Cami – were still feeling our way into a new relationship. We’d had a long talk at the end of my Thanksgiving weekend visit. I’d told her a bit about my odyssey toward womanhood, the connections I had made with Al, Javier, and Sarah, my family’s Thanksgiving explosion, and more.

Unusually, Liz had opened up as well. She told me more about the end of her marriage and her efforts to rebuild her life. This included her penchant for one-night stands to satisfy her body’s needs while protecting herself emotionally, including a guy she had deliberately picked up in a hotel bar a few weeks ago and had, uncharacteristically, seen several times since.

Derek was adventurous in his lovemaking and enjoyed trying new things, and Liz had decided that she was open to experiment after having pretty standard sex most of her adult life.

She had shared much more with Cami than she had ever shared with Cam. I felt like we were moving toward a relationship of confidants, of very close girlfriends. I had mixed feelings about that, since I was also still in love with her. And our lovemaking was powerful for me, even without the overt exploration of fantasies. But Liz had other needs and I would respect them.

Moreover, I was wrestling with the possibility that, as Cami, I might have other desires as well. Or at least, additional desires. Sarah had warned me that life for transwomen tended to be complicated, and that certainly tracked my experience so far.

So I went into the bathroom, took off my top, removed my makeup completely, shaved my face again, moisturized, then put on fresh makeup that would look better in subdued light and over a video connection. I triple-checked the makeup covering the seams of my prosthetic breasts, then slipped on a camisole and a soft, light v-necked red merino wool sweater.

I brushed out my hair, parted it a bit to the left of center, brought some over my forehead, left to right, holding it in place with a barrette. Then I brought the rest of my hair around to tumble over my right shoulder. I checked the look and decided to add a bit more mascara. Better.

It was ten of seven when I was done. I made myself a cup of tea, sat at my desk and switched to the macOS partition. At 7:00 on the nose, I called her over Facetime. Her image appeared, sitting in her living room next to a warm fire in her fireplace. She was using an iPad, but she must have put it on a stand.

I noted that she, too, had taken some care with her appearance, wearing a gorgeous green silk blouse in the same shade as her eyes, her dark red hair burnished and shimmering in the firelight, her lipstick and makeup subtle and perfect. A ruby pendant pulsed at the base of her throat. As always, a well-put-together woman!

Her smile was warm. “Cami! Damn, girl, you look good!”

“You too, Liz,” I said quietly.

My emotions were jumping all over the place, so I decided to get the conversation rolling while I still could. “I can’t believe what you did with the photos, Liz! You made me look like a model! I knew you were good, but honestly, I had no idea how good. They’re incredible. Not just professional. Real art.”

I was gushing, partly to still my nerves, but mostly because the photos had genuinely bowled me over.

Liz looked very pleased. “I’m so glad you like them. I wanted to give you something special, something personal. But I also wanted to make sure that you had some good memories of Candi. Just like you gave me back my good memories of my marriage.”

“Thank you! Don’t worry; I can’t be Candi anymore, just like you can’t be BethAnn. But I couldn’t have found myself without Candi; without you. I’ll always treasure those memories.” I tried to lighten the mood with a joke. “Also, the sex was great!”

Liz let loose a slow, predatory grin and drawled, “Indeed.”

We talked about safer subjects for a bit. Her work week, like mine, had been busy. She caught me up on the doings of some of her friends, whom I had met as Cam when we were dating.

She was surprised when I told her that I had broken the news to Fiona. “Really!” she said. “You came out to your family? Wow!”

“Well, not to my family generally,” I responded. “Just to Fi. But my parents would never accept me and Iain wouldn’t care, so Fiona is the one that matters.”

“How did it go?”

“Really badly at first. She was focused on her wedding and couldn’t see past how much it might mess things up if I showed up en femme. But she got back to me this weekend, apologized very sincerely, and couldn’t have been better about it. Apparently Henry, her fiancé, kind of shook her into taking another look at what was important to her.”

“So, you’re good now?”

“Better than good. Better than ever, really. She’s even invited me up for Christmas. I think we’ll have a better relationship than she had with Cam.”

“I’m so glad,” she said. “My family means a lot to me, even though we don’t get together very often. They were there for me when I needed them most. I can’t imagine how I’d feel if they rejected me.”

We talked about other things. I asked if she had gotten together with Derek.

She smiled and shook her head. “Not this week.” She joked, “How about you? Any hot dates this week?”

I shook my head in a "no." But I blushed, and decided I would broach my most difficult issue with her. Liz might understand, if anyone would. “But . . .” I started, then stopped, trying to think how to say this.

“But . . . ?” she prompted after a moment.

“. . . but I’m kind of struggling with this part of my identity, Liz.”

She leaned forward and said gently, “Tell me.”

“The more my feminine side has come out, the more I’ve started to notice guys. Think of them as attractive. I was at a restaurant on Friday with Sarah, the woman who owns the boutique for trans people. She caught me noticing the waiter – I guess I need to get more discreet.

“Anyhow, she said it wasn’t uncommon for transwomen to find themselves attracted to men, even if they had never been attracted to them before. She also warned me to get ready, to figure out how to deal with it when men tried to . . . you know . . . .”

“. . . hit on you?” she finished.

“Yeah,” I said. “Exactly.”

“Good advice, Cami. It will happen.”

I nodded. “I get that. Intellectually, at least. In my heart, I have trouble believing it. But that’s not the biggest issue. I’m just, I guess, weirded out by it.

“I feel like I’m a woman, all woman, deep down where it matters. And being with a man feels right in a way. That picture you sent – the one where you made it appear that I was being romantic with a good-looking guy – it was just overwhelmingly powerful. I could see it. Imagine it. Feel it. And it felt good, and right. But at the same time, weird.”

“Some of Cam still in you?”

“That’s certainly a part of it. I mean, all of my sexual experiences, as either Cam or Candi, were with women. I’m still attracted to women.”

I paused. This is difficult territory. I want to be honest. “Well . . . I’m still very attracted to you. Very. And . . . well . . . this is going to sound stupid, but I feel like I’m cheating on you, or at least, on what we shared, if I start looking at guys.” My eyes were bright, but I managed to get it all out without crying.

“Oh, Cami! I wish I could be your everything. You are so beautiful, inside and out. But I can’t. And I wish I could stop hurting you!”

I dabbed my eyes. “I do understand. Really. And I’m not trying to change your mind or lay some kind of guilt trip on you. Yes, it hurts that I can’t be your lover as well as your friend. But I can live with it. It’s part of being human. Please, don’t feel that you need to pull away. Please? I wouldn’t have mentioned it, except that I want to try to communicate how confused my emotions are about the issue of sexual orientation.”

“I won’t,” she replied. “And, not just for your sake. You’re very important to me. I feel like you’re closer to me than anyone. I trust you to get closer than I allow anyone to get.”

She paused, thinking, then added, “As far as sexual orientation goes, maybe you don’t need to decide right away? Some people are bisexual, after all. If you’re feeling attracted to men, don’t beat yourself up over it. You don’t have to do anything about it right now, and Lord knows you have enough going on without that.

“But your friend Sarah is right: you will need to learn how to deal with guys hitting on you. I can coach you on that. And if you decide that you want to get intimate with someone, you have to be careful.”

I decided I would take her up on the coaching, but not tonight.

She said, “I’ll confess, I created the photo of you with the handsome guy to see if it would provoke a reaction, one way or the other. You told me that your reactions to sexual stimuli were different in your female persona and I wondered how far that went. Or if you knew. Anyhow, I’m glad you told me. I’ll give you any help I can. Even if it’s just a shoulder to cry on. Don’t you pull away either, okay?”

“That’s a promise,” I said.

We talked a bit longer before we said good night. I checked my emails one last time, then decided I would get to bed early and bank some sleep. Another busy week was waiting.

But as I lay in bed, caressed by the silky smoothness of my new nightie, I thought about what an extraordinary week I had just finished. And how incredibly lucky I was. The only rejection I had suffered, hard though it had been, had been quickly reversed.

I had been given love and comfort – from Fiona, from Al and Javi, from Sarah, and finally, from Liz. If the key to survival – for anyone, but for a transwoman especially – is a community that can give love and support, I’m in good shape.

I had not prayed in a long while. I could find no solace in my parent’s version of Christianity, but I believed in my bones what Fi had said: we are what God made us. Before sleep overwhelmed me, I sent my distant creator a prayer of thanksgiving for all of the wonderful people in my little world.

And a prayer for courage, to face whatever would come next.

The remaining chapters of “The Holly and the Ivy” have been published by Doppler Press and are now available on Amazon Kindle.