1. Sam
"Decaf mocha for Samantha?"
I ducked my head to hide my gaze from the barista and the after-work crowd waiting for their drinks and sidled up to the counter at my favorite coffee shop in Seattle, grabbing my coffee as quickly as I could. I had a very important appointment with my e-reader tonight, but it had been a long week, and I needed some deliciousness to help craft my evening into the haven I needed to recover.
In my haste to get out the door, I barely managed to avoid tripping over a kid who'd darted in front of me. But when I jumped out of the way, my shoulder bumped into a patron waiting in line. I offered a quick apology as I stepped to the side, careful to keep my coffee upright as I headed for the exit, but the bulky guy whipped around before I could escape, his eyes flashing.
"What the hell?" he barked, and I cringed away from him.
"Sorry, there was a kid—"
"I don't care about your excuses! Watch where you're fucking going!" Then he turned back toward the front counter as if he hadn't berated me—loudly—in a store full of people.
Cheeks and eyes burning, I quickly scanned the other patrons, most of whom were cowering away from the altercation. I hadn't come here with anyone because I didn't have any friends—which I didn't readily admit because I hated the pity, but it was simply a fact—so I had no one on my side to put this guy in his place, and I certainly wasn't going to do it myself. I lived my life just keeping my head down, determined not to make waves. Which probably made me a coward, but there it was.
As I stared at the crowd, humiliation freezing me in place, I realized that though I'd spent most of my life by myself, I'd never felt so completely and utterly alone.
My feet eventually started working, and I flew for the door. My hands were shaking as I made my way outside into the cool October evening, coaching myself as I walked. Deep breath, in and out. I relied on my yoga breathing, honed over years of practice, to calm myself. Another. Just breathe.
My racing heart finally started slowing, and I hurried to the garage where I'd parked my SUV so I could get home and forget that had ever happened. I blinked, shook my head to clear it, and forced a smile that soon became genuine as I climbed into my vehicle.
Because tonight was special. Tonight was gonna be amazing.
Because today, my favorite author, C.L. Masterson, had released his latest book.
I was grinning from ear to ear as I pulled out into Friday evening traffic. C.L. Masterson—or Cameron, as I liked to call him—was an indie author who wrote steamy gay Daddy romance, and I was here for it. I loved the dynamic between two or more men in a kinky relationship and watching them fall in love. And sure, yeah, I was here for the sex, too. Because it was fucking hot.
After arriving at my tiny, four-hundred-square-foot studio downtown and changing into my comfiest pajama pants and softest T-shirt, I poured my cooling mocha into my "Read More Fucking Books" mug adorned with various sexual poses in a single-line drawing style, placed it in the microwave to heat it up, grabbed my favorite throw blanket, and settled into my cozy loveseat to start Cameron's new book.
I followed him closely online; I read every one of his often personal emails, which he always signed with his full first name. So I loved calling him "Cameron," even if only in my head. It made me feel like I knew him.
Did that make me stalkery? I wasn't sure. But no harm, no foul, I figured. He'd never know, right?
Because I loved going into Cameron's books blind, I hadn't read the synopsis; I only had the cover and title to clue me in to the book's content. As a result, I didn't even know the tropes except Daddy/boy—that was Cameron's thing now, so I knew that going in—but I didn't care. This was Cameron's writing, so I was certain I would love it.
Sure, some might say I had a crush on the guy. They . . . wouldn't exactly be wrong. But though his address on his emails indicated he might live somewhere in Seattle, I couldn't be sure. The address might be old or incorrect. But even if he did live nearby and he was single and we happened to meet, no way would he be interested in me.
Cameron wrote gay romance novels. Which meant he was probably gay, and I had zero chance.
Besides, no one fell in love with a romance author just from reading their books. Though I had read that sometimes people could tell a lot about a person by what they wrote, so . . .
What I knew about him was that he was a transgender man. That had never been a secret—it was right in his author bio and part of his brand. And I figured he was probably gay. But what I'd come to suspect after his more recent—and progressively kinkier—novels was that he might just be looking for a Daddy. He was giving off major boy energy.
The thought sent a thrill rushing through me, and I had no clue why. So instead of analyzing it to death like I normally would've, I wiggled into a more comfortable position on the couch, took a sip of my coffee, and downloaded the book.
I didn't know several hours had passed until my grumbling stomach wrenched me out of the love story of Jay, a carpenter-for-hire, and Jesse, the homeowner who'd hired him to help with the run-down house he'd purchased sight unseen. It was already swoony, and I was only forty-five percent in. Which, as most romance readers would attest to, meant that I was most likely getting to the good part.
But my hunger would not be denied, so I quickly ordered delivery from my favorite Asian place then picked my e-reader back up to keep reading. Had to pass the thirty minutes somehow, right?
Dinner came swiftly, and I kept going as I shoveled noodles into my mouth. And as I'd thought, the book was getting good. So with a full belly, I settled in for the night. With any luck—and no interruptions—I could finish this book tonight.
At fifty-two percent, a plot twist rocked my world, but as I kept reading, I could feel something start to shift. Around sixty percent, one of the main characters, Jesse, finally admitted to the other, Jay, that he was transgender. At sixty-eight percent, we got the story of how Jesse knew he was trans. At seventy-three, we saw Jesse and Jay sleeping together for the first time—and Jesse was a top . . . and wanted to be Jay's Daddy.
At seventy-six percent, I was bawling like a baby.
Because my entire world had been turned on its axis.
This.
This was it.
Thiswas why nothing had seemed quite right my whole life. Why something had always kind of felt off, but I didn't know any different, so I'd never questioned it before now. Why everything that led to this was disjointed and hazy until this one thing, this one thing locked into place, and the veil was lifted. And it all became clear.
In a singular moment, everything fell into place. That was me on the page. I was him.
I was a trans man.
My brain started to piece together memories from a lifetime that now felt disparate and strange. How, as a kid, I was jealous of my brother's toys. When I was obsessed with changing my name and went by a different one until people made me feel like it was weird. That time I even pretended to cut my hair by tucking it under my shirt and dreamt of never being forced to wear a dress again.
Like a dam had been opened, more memories came crashing in.
That time I got a baby doll with clothes for my birthday and couldn't figure out what the hell my parents wanted me to do with it.
The Christmas my brother got a race track with tiny cars and I snuck in to play with them when he wasn't around.
The time I got gum in my hair and my mom threatened to cut it all off—and I was secretly excited for that, though it never actually happened.
My prom where I wanted to wear something other than a dress but didn't have the cognizance to realize I could've worn a suit.
My first sexual encounter where I was so focused on the guy I was with and his body that I didn't even get off. The minimal sexual contact since because I didn't like penetration. The sheer terror of getting pregnant—and the utter confusion around why every woman I met seemed to want that when I didn't. The fact that I was always attracted to twinks who weren't exactly attracted to someone who presented as a woman, someone like me.
By the time I finished the book, my eyes were red and puffy, and my entire world had shifted. I knew, deep in my soul, that I was not the gender I was assigned at birth, not the woman I'd presented as for my entire thirty-seven years on this planet.
I was a man. In hindsight, it was so obvious, but I'd missed it until now.
I'd heard it said that we realize what we need to in the exact right moment, that we have to be in the right place in life, go through certain experiences, for some things to make sense, but I felt so . . . well, I didn't know exactly how I felt. Unmoored, maybe.
Clarity would probably come days, weeks, and months later. I hoped it would, anyway.
But for now, one question plagued my mind more than any other as I processed this life-altering revelation: How the hell hadn't I seen this before?