May 18th, 2022, 9:57 p.m., Tacoma, WA
It had been a month since I’d last seen my sister in person, though we talked or texted a few times a week or had the occasional SnapChat video call. She’d argue we’d been closer growing up, but that wasn’t how I remembered it. These days, and likely due to some maturity on both our parts, on top of the love we had for one another, there was a generous layer of respect-frosting spread over our relationship that we both appreciated.

We certainly could have a more involved relationship, but our careers and life in general made carving out time difficult. On the flip side of that idea, I’m not sure I’d want her overly involved in my life, and I wasn’t sure I could put up with some of the drama that seemed to weigh hers down at times. I always felt we were alike in most opinions or beliefs, yet different in how we’d approach solving problems.

One thing was certain: we were always there for one another no matter what.

Tonight, per some forgotten decision we’d made on one of those video calls, it was my turn to host her at my place for dinner. She reminded me of that last week, a bit more aggressively than I was accustomed to from her, and we eventually worked out a time we could finally get together. We both had busy lives in the software development space, so finding any time our schedules lined up, even on a weeknight, wasn’t something to be passed up.

I knew she’d have to battle traffic from her condo in Bellevue to get to mine in North Tacoma, overlooking Commencement Bay, and as per usual, I got slapped right away with a couple minutes worth of her bitching about said traffic when she finally arrived at 6:48 PM. I half thought she was actually early, and while traffic was certainly something to contend with, her normal mode of operation made her habitually late for everything, so I wasn’t actually expecting her until closer to 8:00 PM. For a microsecond, I considered pointing that out when she took a breath from her complaining, but I didn’t because it would have belabored said complaining.

I also could have mentioned it was the same for me when I had to drive the 36 miles to her place on a weeknight after work, but I was smarter than I might look and didn’t need her hauling off and actually smacking me. She was prone to doing that as the older sibling when we were younger, and even now as adults she would take great pleasure in smacking me—in fun or jest. My revenge was always to outthink her to get my licks in, and I pretty much won the majority of any mental sparing we did.

Her penchant for complaining this evening was just beginning, as I was about to find out, and she picked up with a vengeance when dinner was delivered via DoorDash. I’d heard it before, many, many times before...

"What twenty-eight-year-old man can’t cook?" she complained.

Logic dictated I could either order food and be complained at, or I could try to cook something and be complained at about the food not being edible for years to come. I chose the path of least resistance. I wasn’t stupid, though; I was relying on extremely good Indian cuisine to shut down the extent of her complaints. Having to reheat some of the food in the microwave after it was finally delivered, though, her sixth complaint of the evening came right after the one concerning the length of time it took to get said food delivered.

To counter her complaints, I always had plenty of her favorite adult beverage on hand, and she wasted no time downing the first one after arriving and then popping open another before she’d finished a small plate worth of Butter Chicken, rice, and half a piece of Naan. The complaints would eventually slow as the alcohol began to have an effect on her. I knew this from experience, but I wished it would hurry up and mellow her out so I could enjoy this time with her.

As we ate, the complaints moved to a common target, which was work and coworkers. I mistakenly threw a few logs on that fire, but in an attempt to corral her whining more about her job, I asked for her opinion on a coding design problem. Her being a highly skilled Java developer and I being a lowly Microsoft C#/.NET platform developer, it was the perfect bait to move the conversation elsewhere. By her estimation, though, my coding skills ranked right up there with any self-checkout kiosk you’d find in a grocery store. Her opinion was always that any monkey could code Microsoft framework crap, but why bother?

That had always been her attitude toward my chosen software development language. I could code in other languages, but Micro-Squish’s C-Sharp and Dot-Nut allowed me to be more creative with the solutions I produced. Regardless of her opinion on all that, my question was a red herring anyway, and I knew the answer already, but it was interesting to get her take on the problem. It was just a diversion, and as expected, it worked, which meant the alcohol she’d consumed so far was beginning to do its job.

A-freaking-men!

I knew, from our previous meet-ups for dinner, that we’d both be feeling no pain as the evening wore on and she would end up spending the night. I had a second bedroom with a comfortable bed to offer when it came time to shut down for the night, and I made sure it was ready for her to crash-land in prior to her showing up. When she hosted me for dinner, I generally got a home-cooked meal, a chance to sleep off the alcohol on her couch, woke up generally achy, and was totally annoyed with her cat, who thought sitting on my face was the most comfortable place to schlep itself in her condo.

Since we could work from anywhere with an internet connection, we’d suffer the next morning together and try to outdo each other by downing cups of coffee from our respective Keurigs’. There would be some consideration given to not getting on the other’s last alcohol-abused nerve from the night before. That was the unwritten rule—at least until we’d each gotten a few mugs of the black and bitter liquid down, checked our work emails, and figured out some food to soak up the alcohol that remained in our stomachs.

I was pretty sure we’d be eating leftover rice and Naan in the morning, though she might scarf cereal straight from a box depending on how hung over she was. She had a thing for Lucky Charms, and I’d bought a fresh box just for her the last time I was at the store. It would be missing all the marshmallows before she left and then end up in the trash because I didn’t eat that stuff without the damn marshmallows.

We were still talking about work, complaining mostly, when she tossed a beach ball-sized dig my way totally off topic and out of the blue. I loved my sister, but she made it too easy for me to best her at times.

"You always had it much easier than I did when we were kids," she said while holding the top of her Black Cherry White Claw and swirling the few drops that were left in the can around absently.

"Bullshit!” I snapped. “Mom gave you so much more rope than she gave me. Allen McDonnell?"

I gave her a knowing look. It was the perfect spike over the short net she’d set up for me. I smiled at her, knowing she’d appreciate the effort it took to pull his name from her long list of past suitors. Jennifer made a face as if hearing that name hurt somehow; I knew I'd won the point before she even answered.

"What kind of parent lets their teenage daughter's boyfriend live with them and sleep with them for a couple months?" she asked rhetorically.

"My point exactly," I may have won the point, but I was feeling buzzed from one too many beers and absently asked, "Who was our stepdad then, Bryce?"

"No, Kevin, I think..."

I nodded; Jennifer had a better grasp on which of Mom’s husbands was in the picture at whatever point during our childhood. I gave up keeping track of the second guy, Dave; I think his name was. I barely remembered Kevin, and I told her so.

Our father had left our mother when we were very young and had returned to Japan to run a chemical company involved in the manufacture of computer chips—or some variation of that story we were told. He was quite well off, and that meant Mom got her pound of flesh from him in the divorce. They’d met on a flight she’d been working as a flight attendant, and they were married shortly afterwards. Jennifer was born a year later; a year after that I joined the party, and three months later, our father was gone.

Regardless, growing up, we lived very comfortable lives, sans our biological father of course, and never wanted for anything material—within reason.

Mom married and divorced pretty much in time with the seasons, but through it all, we continued to live very comfortable lives. We rarely saw her or even spoke about her after we both escaped her crazy lifestyle to attend college. She lived in San Diego still, which afforded us a pretty good distance buffer. I can’t remember the last time I saw or even heard from our father.

"He was the pervy one that was always staring at me, balding, but had that mullet thing going on. Kudos to mom for figuring out he was a loser and kicking his ass to the curb."

I watched her drain the contents of her can of White Claw, and I breathed a silent sigh of relief. I could now stop worrying about her swirling the can, spilling its contents on my carpet or couch, and staining either or both. I didn’t know how she could drink that crap, but I got up and went to the fridge to get her another.

"Yeah, I remember that guy now—a total douche. You’re right, one of the few times mom actually stood up for herself." I thought about it a second more and added, "And us in a roundabout way."

Jennifer nodded and said a little softer, "You still had it easier than I did in so many ways, Wayne."

Did she really want to compare a list of all the injustices I thought were levied on me as we were growing up? She was a year older than I was and had virtually unlimited freedoms that never seemed to dribble down to me. I thought it was supposed to be easier for the second child! I should let it go, but I shook my head at her.

"Mom wasn’t ever too focused on me," I complained.

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

"I don’t know..."

I did, but I wasn’t going to say anything that would bring attention to my childhood struggles with my own 'self-awareness’. I was so afraid it would have been obvious to my mom or whatever guy was pretending to be our caring stepfather at the time that I wasn’t exactly your typical ‘boy’. I purposely kept a low profile in pretty much every aspect of my life then and do the same even now, to some extent. Additionally, if I’d been as free as Jen growing up, it probably wouldn’t have done me much good anyway, though I’d like to have seriously explored a different path than the one I felt shepherded down.

"What, are you saying you’re gay?" she asked.

I was half expecting that retort and yet still chuckled uncomfortably, trying not to swallow my tongue in the process or make it look like she had even got close to whatever target she’d aimed at. I was sure she suspected I’d struggled with something growing up and had seen all the 'make a man out of you’ crap my mom and whatever stepdad at the time tried to make stick. I hated karate, could barely catch a ball if thrown to me, and hated everything about the gym locker room while in high school. All that had nothing to do with being ‘gay’.

She wasn’t the first to have thought or asked me that.

That last year of living at home positively sucked after she left for college. I had to deal with mom and whatever man was in her life alone, knowing I was transgendered but not knowing how to fix myself or have anyone I could talk with about it. I couldn’t wait to get out of the house and took the first college offer given to me, which ended up being the University of Missouri—that spoke to how desperate I was to be out and on my own, away from San Diego and my mother.

I hadn’t done anything to right my situation while in college, so I spent every waking moment trying to get through it so I could be out on my own. I figured I could deal with that realization later, but once I’d graduated, I realized ‘life’ had grabbed me by the throat, and it was ‘get a job’ to keep the wolves from tearing you down or becoming a degree-holding homeless person living in the streets. It never seemed like there was time to get off the hamster wheel and do something about changing my reality.

Society’s hate kept me in my place certainly, and other than dabbling in discovering myself—some might argue it was more than dabbling—I was too afraid to even consider the full-on transition path.

Jen wasn’t stupid and had to know something was going on, hence challenging me with that question, which was kind of interesting because I wondered why she was probing. Had the alcohol greased her gears tonight, and we were going to get really personal with one another?

"No. Are you?" I asked.

It was something I’d often wondered about with my sister, though I wasn’t ever sure how to bring that topic up or whether it ultimately mattered. I never talked with her about 'my’ feeling of being trapped in the wrong body, so there was never an opportunity to hit her up with my suspicions about her possibly being a lesbian. Over the past year there was no mistaking my sister appeared less and less ‘feminine’ and more ‘androgynous’. Her hair length got shorter and shorter, there was a lack of makeup, and even the clothes she wore made her look more like my twin brother than my older sister.

All throughout her life, she’d been chased by all types of men, some while she was a teen, which was unsettling on many levels, yet none of those guys then or more recently ever seemed to have staying power. The last guy she’d even introduced me to was probably eight months ago. Since then, I haven’t heard much about her seeing any guys on a regular basis.

I had been with her to a few bars over the years and watched her get a little clingy with women, but I wrote that off as her just being drunk or just being friendly with a close girl friend. I had wondered if maybe that kind of thing happened more often, and she played for both teams. It didn’t matter to me, but it was kind of an interesting coincidence given that I was certain I was trans and attracted to men.

While we argued or threw barbs at each other for sport—it was never to injure or hurt—bringing up whether I was in fact ‘gay’ tonight felt like new territory. Since I threw that question right back at her after answering honestly, I knew I’d have to tread lightly while trying to figure out where this conversation might end up. Since she’d never seen me with a woman or because I hadn’t shared details of any conventional ‘CIS’ relationships, it was a logical question to ask given that I was a twenty-eight-year-old single male.

I wasn’t about to start sharing my issues with her tonight, no matter where we went with this conversation. I wasn’t sure she’d understand or believe that what she saw in her brother wasn’t who I really was. I watched her closely as my question back at her hung out there for a long time.

Alcohol probably wasn’t the best medium for us to have this kind of conversation, but I reasoned she’d flung the first arrow, so what the hell? Let’s see where this takes us.

She took a couple long pulls on her newly opened White Claw before saying, "I wish I had your life... I know you wanted to be me."

Huh?! Had I just heard her right?!

"Give me a break, Jen," I replied exasperatedly to deflect her assumption, but I stopped breathing when she steadied her eyes on me.

"Really," she said with a questioning glare, "how many times did my clothes end up in your room by ‘accident’ growing up? Or that time I caught you in my skirt in ninth grade?"

Okay, so that was true, and maybe not exactly always an accident did I collect items of her clothing, but I was intent on using the same line I’d used on her from back in the day.

"You know none of those housekeepers gave a shit how our clothes were washed, folded, and distributed to our rooms. And what did I do for Halloween that year that you caught me? I dressed as a girl with some of the other neighborhood boys."

I knew how lame that reply was back in the day, and now it didn’t sound any better. I was grasping at well-worn excuses to deflect the fact the fact that she’d hit an actual target this time.

I had taken to borrowing her clothes as far back as I could remember. Hell, we used to play dress-up together until I was maybe five or six. That ended because she had friends and her clingy, weird brother doing girly things with her, and her friends embarrassed her. That hurt, but it was just part of dealing with those confusions I had at an early age. I could never figure out what the big deal was or why I felt more ‘right’ with myself while dressing and playing with her that way.

I was absolutely caught more times than I cared to admit with her clothes in my room, though that was true. When she went off to college, I horded some of the clothing she was getting rid of, and my desire to dress had me raiding mom’s closet, as well as her makeup and hair products, to satisfy my need to express who I was. It was never the same, though, but that desire to be a girl never faded, though I’d purged her clothing right before I graduated from high school knowing I was Missouri bound.

I saw Jennifer move her head slightly and look at me as if calculating her next barbed attack. I could feel the muscles in my shoulders tightening, waiting for the scathing delivery.

"So, if I went into your room right now, I wouldn’t find a single article of women’s clothing?"

I thought about telling her to go ahead, but what she’d find would just prove how deeply I was into pretending here on my home turf. I had a locking wardrobe with the majority of my stash, but my bathroom had plenty of makeup and skin care products that would out me.

"You wouldn’t find shit," I got out as confidently as I could. It wasn’t an invitation, but maybe a little bravado to throw her off the scent. I added before she could process the reply, "What about you? You look more like my brother than my sister."

That came out full-on snarky asshole in the delivery, and I felt stooping to that level was a bit cruel. I reasoned I was protecting my truth, but it didn’t make me feel any better or justify the attack.

I watched her head lower after a moment, and she shrugged.

Oh fuck! I felt instantly worse about being such an ass, and I went over to where she had planted herself on my couch after we’d eaten. I knelt in front of her, but she wouldn’t look at me.

"Whoa… What’s going on here, Jen?" I asked quietly, placing my hands on her knees.

I was very worried now; this was not my confident, bad-ass bitch sister, drunk or not. I got another shrug and watched a tear careen down her nose and drop into her lap.

Oh Fuck!

"Hey, hey… Talk to me. You’re freaking me out," I said as calmly as I could.

I’d rarely ever seen my sister cry as a child, let alone as an adult. Something was up; something was very wrong!

I watched her wipe her eyes with her fingers, shake her head, and groan softly, "I’m not right..."

‘Not right’? What the hell did that mean?!

"Are you sick or something?" I asked softly and as calmly as I could, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.

She puffed out a breath before whispering, "No, nothing like that."

She sounded a little annoyed, but I couldn’t tell where the annoyance was focused—at me, at being mildly drunk, at something in her life, or whether my asking whether she was gay had really struck a chord.

"Okay, well, that’s a relief. Shit, you scared me there for a second. I mean, I’m still a little freaked out, but at least you’re not going to tell me you have some inoperable brain tumor or something."

"Might as well be..."

"Not even funny, Jen; not funny at all. Look, this isn’t you, buzzed or not," I replied, the worry heavy in my tone not masked any longer.

She started to open her mouth and stopped. She shook her head as if she had to resolve some conflict and finally whispered, "I’m trans, Wayne..."

What?! I wasn’t sure I’d actually heard what she’d said and was having trouble catching my breath as that confession washed over me.

It was the absolute last thing I expected to come from her lips, and now she was looking at me as if an adverse reaction would be coming. It was taking way too long for me to push a coherent reply past my lips. All I could think was how I had questioned my gender as early as five years old, and now I was just learning she had the same feelings too!

How hadn’t I picked up on this?!

"Are you… I mean, are you sure?" I asked, still a bit bewildered.

Jennifer spent the next forty minutes, barely taking any breaths while doing so, detailing her past six months of discovery and realization that she was trans. Most of what she described was based on her interactions with a counselor specializing in gender therapy, and she shared many examples from our childhood that I hadn’t equated to my own struggles. There were a lot of repressed feelings she couldn’t reconcile growing up, she said, and some of the things she was saying now made so much more sense to me when I stopped to focus on those references she was making.

Seriously! How hadn’t I picked up on this?!

She had long thought she was just a lesbian or bi all these years, but that wasn’t the answer to her, ‘What’s wrong with me?’ question.

I could certainly relate, but obviously I hadn’t picked up any of that. I was so worried people would figure out my own ‘wrong body’ experience while growing up and I’d be a shame to my family. When she gave up that she had felt she knew she felt off around eleven, maybe twelve, I felt oddly relieved. I tried to think back to her showing any outward signs of conflict, but I couldn’t pin anything down. She used to skateboard, but plenty of girls did that. She golfed, bowled, and played softball—same answer.

I was reeling at this revelation.

Had the truly dysfunctional environment we grew up in contributed to this questioning we both had about our genders? Fuck no! I hadn’t been to counseling, and there was no ‘gender dysphoria’ diagnosis for me like there was for her, but I knew from my own research that I’d been born this way. We both had been born this way! Stupid! Think!

“I love you and will always love you, Jen. This changes nothing, alright? What are you going to do now?”

I was seeing Jen in a whole new light—a light I felt bathed my own existence as well. Do I share? Confirm that I’m not ‘gay’ and I’ve known I was in the wrong freak’n body since like forever?! No, this is all about her, and I need to support her!

She seemed relieved to hear what I’d said and told me she’d begun counseling because she was frustrated and needed to know she wasn’t crazy. The last couple years, she said, had been exhausting, with more times than she cared to admit feeling broken or like a straight-up freak. She told me of her self-hatred demons and how she’d become more and more depressed. And then she admitted to wanting to end it all twice.

I felt like I had been gut-punched hearing that.

"Why am I just hearing about this now?" I asked, trying to temper the hurt and shock in my voice.

"I was afraid I would disappoint you," she said before beginning to cry again.

I stood, pulled her from the couch, and hugged her tightly.

"That would never happen; I’m going to love you no matter who you are. Nothing will ever change that. I can promise you that.”

She hugged me back as the sobs rolled on and racked her body. I let her have all the time she needed and stood there, holding her silently, to reassure her of my unconditional support for whatever she needed to do to feel at peace and right in her world.

She finally gained some composure and pulled away, trying to wipe the wet spot where her tears had soaked into my t-shirt.

I took her hands before saying, "No more thoughts of checking out, right?" She nodded. I smiled and brushed her bangs to the side. "What can I do to help?"

"You’ve already done more than I could have hoped for. You haven’t freaked the fuck out or tried to invalidate me."

"Well, to be honest, I’m freaking out about you wanting to end your life," I said sternly. "But I’m in the know now, in the loop, and I want to help in whatever way you’ll let me." I felt the lump in my throat lodge firmly as tears welled in my eyes. “I'm so sorry I wasn’t there for you, Jen. That I didn’t sense..."

I couldn’t continue. I closed my eyes and felt her hugging me. I hugged her back, and it was my turn to cry out my pain. When my sobbing slowed, she slowly pushed me back to her arms length and watched me wipe my eyes feebly.

"We’re a drunken mess tonight," she said, looking at me closely.

I could only nod in agreement.

"I’m sorry for accusing you of being gay. I thought maybe if you were, it would have been easier to share my," she paused because I’d lowered my head. "Wayne? What is it? Are you okay?"

I shook my head and said, ‘No’ as if my brain was on autopilot.

"You are gay?" she asked, the caution in her voice palatable.

I repeated the automatic head nod, ‘No’.

She lifted my chin and asked, "What?"

There was concern in her eyes, an offer of being willing to understand in her voice, caring...

"I… I’m sure I’m sure trans too, Jen. I’ve known all my life; I just never wanted to admit that my life was so fucked up..." I turned my head to look anywhere but into her eyes.

She pulled my face back to lock eyes with mine, and in those eyes, I could see true understanding.

"There’s nothing fucked up about realizing who you really are, Wayne. I’ve always known there was an internal struggle within you; I just didn’t know it was the same one I was having. So, look, I’m here for you too, alright? We can figure all this out together.”

May 19th, 2022, 12:03 AM, Tacoma, WA
We shared more about our deepest secrets, we laughed a little, we were each surprised a few times when some of the other’s revelations were disclosed, and we shed a lot more tears. We had no idea how common it was for siblings to be trans, but we guessed it was probably pretty rare. Maybe it was a slightly higher percentage when dealing with actual twins, we thought.

What was also rare was that we’d both stopped drinking after admitting to each other that we were trans and were both beginning to sober up. Jennifer asked what I planned to do going forward, and I said I probably needed professional help like she’d gotten. She confirmed that would be a good starting place.

"If you need someone to verify you’ve been wearing my clothes since you were two years old, I’m your girl," she quipped.

"Don’t you mean, man?" I chirped back with a smile.

She conceded the point and said it was something she was still working to bring to the forefront of reality with people, not just something that only lived in her head, heart, and soul.

"What is your therapist recommending?" I asked.

"She’s given her assessment of my gender dysphoria to my primary care physician (PCP). That happened a couple months ago. I’ve had trouble lining up an endocrinologist. That’s a pain because the highly rated ones are tough to get appointments with—at least the ones that have experience with trans men," she said.

I asked if, once she got someone lined up, her intention was to begin HRT. She confirmed that was her plan and that her PCP could prescribe them, but she would feel better if an endocrinologist handled that aspect of her transition. That was frustrating to her, the wait and appearance of gate keeping. I mentioned that the medical community seemed to be the biggest gripe among the trans women I followed on social media. She said that seemed to match what she had also seen through her research.

Then she got a whimsical look on her face. I’d seen that look many times, and it usually meant trouble for me.

"So, you have a social media account as you or the real ‘you’?" she asked.

Augh! I was hoping to not have this conversation because, as soon as I admitted I was presenting myself online as the 'me’ I wanted to be, she would want to see my account. I really didn’t want her...

"Oh, you are! Okay," she said quickly, going to retrieve her laptop from her backpack. Once she had it opened, she looked at me and said, “Where are we going?"

I shook my head and said, ‘No’.

"Really? You're going to do me like that?" she asked.

I shrugged in reply. If I told her anything, it was going to get embarrassing fast, and I wasn’t ready to share the real me yet any more than I had already in the anonymity of my condo.

"What platform?" she asked, and she began naming the usual suspects. I must have flinched when she mentioned Instagram because she began typing. "Instagram it is... What’s your user name?"

I couldn’t do it.

"Come on, Jen... Haven’t we done enough ‘outing’ for one night?" I pleaded.

She took her hands off the keyboard after logging into her Instagram account and studied me.

"I doubt ‘Come on, Jen’ is your user name," she pretended to type that into the search and then stopped. "I’ll bet," she began typing and scrolling through the results. "Oh my God! You…"

"Wait..." I began, but she interrupted me.

"OMG! You’re beautiful!" she shouted right next to me.

I could only cringe.

She’d figured out my Instagram account way too easily by typing in her first name, then her middle name. The sixteenth account in the results when you did that showed someone who claimed to be a trans woman named Jennifer Mai with a last name of Wayne: Jennifer Mai Wayne. Unfortunately no relation to Batman’s Bruce Wayne, though now the person I wanted to be was screaming at her from the screen in her lap.

So much for thinking I was being clever.

Her Instagram account was PNWJenniferShimizu, and she’d had it for at least ten or more years. I had figured there would never be a need for her to look up Jennifer Shimizu or Jennifer Mai Shimizu. I thought I was being clever by using my first name as my last name, but obviously not! I watched her scroll around and began to have an impending sense of doom. I considered getting up and getting a beer, but I couldn’t move.

As she scrolled through my posts, smiling, she was actually offering up genuine compliments, and then stopped abruptly to look at me.

"You posted a picture of me from Kristine’s wedding but cropped yourself out of it."

"I’m not ‘out’, Jen," I complained.

"But, even though you say that the picture is me, everyone in the comments is saying the same thing."

"I know," I said, embarrassed.

"No, I mean, they’re saying we could be twins! Your posts as your true self—look like me!"

Now she sounded like she was complaining again and that I was somehow missing some important point she was making.

"Okay, yeah, we look a little alike...”

"A little; are you fucking blind?!" she barked.

"What is the deal, Jen?" I asked once I’d recovered from being startled by the force of her accusation about being blind.

I was exasperated by being dragged through this part of my expression of my inner self much earlier than I cared to be experiencing it with her or anyone else for that matter.

"You ‘could’ be me! And like I said earlier, ‘I wish I had your life’. We could swap lives! Don’t you see?!"

She stated that with more force than I was expecting, and I know every fiber of my being cringed in that moment.

May 19th, 2022, 1:09 AM, Tacoma, WA
I was the one to finally tap out. Jen looked like she could keep talking, especially when it came to planning—more like scheming—her suggestion that we actually 'swap’ lives. It was late, though, and I’d been up since 5:30 AM yesterday morning dealing with my offshore team, and this night of discovery had been more than overwhelming. I was wasted, emotionally spent, and just wanted to study the back of my eyelids.

The prospect of having to be up in a little less than four and a half hours was not a pleasant one. I double-checked that my alarm on my phone was set, and I placed my phone on its charger. The good thing was that I could check out after the meeting and maybe get a few more hours of sleep. Maybe Jen would be up before me and make us something to…

May 19th, 2022, 10:38 a.m., Tacoma, WA
I rolled over lazily and tried to focus on the time my bedside clock was projecting onto the ceiling above my bed. That can’t be right? I looked over towards my phone; it was missing. Had I left it in my on-suite bathroom or living room by accident? Fuck!

I bolted from bed and nearly fell over trying to get my feet into my compression boxer briefs. I opened the door to my room about off its hinges and noticed the door to where Jen should have been sleeping was open. It didn’t look like she’d even slept in the bed. What the fuck?!

I made my way to the living room a couple seconds later and saw her at the dining room table; she looked up at me all smiles.

“Morning...”

“Did you take my phone?” I croaked accusingly, still dealing with a bone-dry mouth.

“I did…”

“Jen! I had a meeting with my team this morning,” I yelled at her.

I was pissed, my head hurt, my heart was pounding so hard that my chest felt like it would explode, and I wasn’t exactly dressed the way I wanted to be seen by my sister.

“I took care of the meeting, so take down the Defcon level to something closer to 5 than 1.”

I shook my head in disbelief and barked, “What does that even mean?!”

“It means I handled the meeting for you. They called your phone, I answered, I said you were having internet issues so wouldn’t be joining them on Teams for the video, I listened, I asked a couple logical questions, and it was over in like eight, ten minutes,” she replied.

“You… You ran my meeting.” I was still trying to understand how that could be.

“Yeah, I... Ran... Your… Meeting… What’s the big deal? They just gave a status on their workload. A guy named Giresh said something about Duba being out sick today and that they would be uploading a new build later today. Chill out!”

Fuck me! This can’t be happening! I went to my desk and grabbed my laptop, opened it, and got into my email by the time I got to the dining room table. Jen had left the table while I was frantically trying to get into my email to head off any damage she may have caused by pretending to be me. I looked over at her pouring cream into a coffee cup and heard the Keruig spit out its last bits of pressurized water.

Damn it!

There were a dozen emails, two from the team in India. The first was from Giresh, saying the build was now available and ready for quality assurance (QA) testing. That one was six minutes old and made it about midnight in Mumbai. There was one from Duba who said she was taking a sick day. The rest were miscellaneous developer notices: two from our database administrator, an email from the QA lead, a few subscribed emails I got daily, and one from HR about getting my time sheets entered for my offshore resources. I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Coffee,” Jen said, holding a cup out for me to take.

I just stared at her, and she finally just put the mug in front of me.

“You realize this little stunt could have gone to shit quickly, right?”

She cocked her head after taking a tentative sip from her cup.

“Yeah, but it didn't, and just goes to show we could swap lives and no one would be any wiser.”

I shook my head.

“You don’t know shit about my job, what I do, or what I’m responsible for! We’re not swapping lives, Jen!”

I tried to move the Defcon meter as requested, but I wasn’t going to drop it because things ‘happened’ to work out!

She just smiled back at me and sipped her coffee nonchalantly. She knew how to get on my last nerve, but I wasn’t going to play this game and stared right back at her, denying the urge to suck down some of the coffee in the cup now sitting next to my laptop.

“Drink some coffee, and at least hear me out,” she said calmly.

No! I’m not listening to this crap! I saw her nod towards the coffee and finally gave in, picking it up and taking a small sip. She knew how I liked it, and that made me even more annoyed.

“We can swap lives, but not employers. You don’t know shit about Java, and there’s no way I want to learn Dot-Nut or whatever Microsquish’s whizz bang pretend to be object-oriented bullshit language is,” she paused to see if I was going to protest her slam of Microsoft, and when I didn't, she continued. "But for the rest of it, we certainly could. I know you’ve heard from those you follow on Instagram or wherever that it is a pain in the ass to get legal with transitioning. Dead name, Social Security, passport, and everything else we’d need to get legal in the eyes of the government. We could skip those hassles completely.”

I shook my head, ‘No’.

“Okay, I’m going to need more than rocks rattling around in your noodle,” she said.

“I’m not ready to transition, Jen.”

“Those shaved legs of yours, the lack of body hair, and your Instagram account say otherwise. What’s your biggest concern?”

“Did you not hear me? I’m not read...,” and I didn’t get to finish.

“That’s bullshit, and you know it!” she snapped. “Give me some other ‘concern’,” she complained.

Okay, you want to play this game? Let’s play!

“How much do you have in your 401K?” I asked.

“I don’t know the exact number, but I have one and have been contributing ten percent since I started working,” she answered without much effort.

I was shocked because I had doubted she was participating, given her penchant for spending money. Also, that she was contributing ten percent of her salary—that was the real shock. I was impressed, but I was not going to say that out loud. I myself was contributing fifteen percent, but I had a year less in contributions because I was a year behind her in the job market after graduating from college.

“What do you owe on your condo?”

“I’m not sure, but Cynthia had asked if I had given any thought to selling it, and she said it was worth about one hundred and ten thousand more than what I paid for it. I’m doing the twice-a-month mortgage payment thing, so I don’t know exactly what I owe, probably in the mid-four hundred thousand range if I had to guess.”

Fuck! Yet another surprise!

Cynthia was the realtor who had helped her get into her twenty-third-floor condo unit in downtown Bellevue after college, courtesy of a twenty percent down payment provided by our mother as a graduation present. I had no idea it had increased in value that much in five years. And the double mortgage payment—did she figure that out on her own, or was she just copying what I was doing with my mortgage? I’m sure we’d talked about it at some point, and I said that’s what I was doing.

I asked about her car, her savings, and every other financial piece of her life that matched up to my own. She gave me guesses, but eventually said she would gather all that up and we could compare and make an equitable division of assets as part of the ‘life’ swap. Somewhere along the way, she spun her laptop around and showed me a spreadsheet with nearly everything I’d queried her on. She said she’d tried to sleep but couldn't, and she just started dumping thoughts to formulate a plan for how we could actually do it.

“Look, I get we have worked our asses off to get to where we both are in our respective lives. I’m not willing to swap existences and have less than what I’ve amassed, and what I’ve heard over the past eight minutes is the same goes for you,” she said.

I nodded in agreement.

“We can’t swap jobs. That means we quit at some point and pick up new ones based on the new lives we’re taking over, but geared to the skills we each have. If we needed to, we could somehow blend our existences and then go get new jobs at some point. I really think jobs are the least of our problems. Coming out of this equitably is our big sticking point. I can see me walking out of my life and handing you the keys, and you doing the same for me. Then we move forward, as we’ve always envisioned our lives should look like. Only this way will we cut out a lot of the bullshit, and it will be way easier.

She was looking at me for some kind of response, argument, or agreement. The thing is, I was probably more in agreement than she thought I was, but I was scared. This was a wisp of an idea barely nine hours old, and we absolutely needed to think about it a lot more. I wasn’t even sure I was ready to even admit I was trans to the world! Did she not understand the gravity of just coming out to a medical professional?! I’d have to do the same thing to move this along with any chance of success!

It took a few minutes, but I explained those fears and doubts to her, and she agreed to slow this runaway train down. She’d give me time to grapple with the idea and asked if a week was enough time.

“A week? You want me to flip the course of my life and assume yours in a week?!” I barked panicked.

I’m sure I sounded hysterical, but I didn’t care because this was insanity! My sister was truly insane!

“No, that’s not what I said,” she began calmly. “I said, think about it for a week, and we can reconvene at my place to compare our concerns with this idea. I think we should also be prepared to lay out the exact numbers for our assets and make other decisions regarding our households,” she said.

Eventually I agreed, but inside I was wondering if we both should just check ourselves into a mental hospital. Take the shortcut! This idea of swapping lives was crazy, right?! I wasn’t sure what to think, but in the back of my mind, there were the beginnings of some real excitement over the possibilities and I was having trouble reining in those thoughts.

May 25th, 2022, 6:22 PM, Bellevue, WA
Traffic sucked getting to Jen’s condo—no surprise there! While I was twenty-two minutes late and should be the one complaining, what was more surprising was that she wasn’t complaining about me being late. I wanted to check her forehead for a temperature or ask if she wasn’t feeling well, but decided to delay the chewing on each other we were sure to partake in as the evening droned on.

“Whatever you’re cooking smells really good,” I decided to lead off with as I entered her condo. I could actually smell it from down the hall after getting off the elevator, and I had hoped the smell was coming from her unit.

“Thanks; hopefully it tastes good,” she said.

“What are we having?”

“Spicy broccoli beef stir fry,” she said, retrieving a Stella and White Claw from her refrigerator, opening the beer, and handing it to me.

“Thanks…” I tilted the beer toward her. She seemed very relaxed, chill, and oddly calm. Her usual ‘edge’ wasn’t as noticeable or on display. “You good?” I asked.

“Yeah, are you?”

Okay, am I in the wrong condo? I looked at her closely; she just smiled back at me, and then it hit me square in the face!

“Your hair,” I said, and her smile got a little bigger. She’d cut it a little, and it was sort of styled like mine. I shook my head in disbelief.

“Is that all?” she asked with a smile.

I examined her closer. She wasn’t wearing makeup at all, which was not really a surprise. Her clothes…

“Wait, is that my t-shirt?” She had on a vintage t-shirt from a Def Leopard concert I attended in Reno a few years ago. “You stole my t-shirt? Really?!”

“Payback for you swiping my clothes from back in the day... So, we could be twins, right?” she asked excitedly.

I looked her over some more; she had on jeans that were not a woman’s cut and new black Nike running shoes with a blazing white swoosh were likely a men’s shoe. And if that wasn’t enough, she’d done something to nearly hide any evidence of her maybe B-cup breasts under my t-shirt.

How hadn’t I noticed this right away when she’d opened the door?

“Aren’t you putting the horse before the cart?”

“Not really,” she said, and then, just above a whisper, she added, “I feel like myself, like I’m supposed to feel.”

Shit… I was being a complete ass and knew my lack of validation was a problem.

“Okay, little brother... How about we eat? I’m starving,” I said, trying to give this new version of Jen a confident smile.

Jen’s mood bounced quickly, and she hugged me tight.

“Thank you, sis."

May 25th, 2022, 7:41 PM, Bellevue, WA
Dinner was amazing. Jen had done something with fish sauce and the rice that I couldn’t get enough of with the spicy broccoli beef she’d made. When we were finished, I helped with the dishes, and we returned to her small dining room table to discuss the idea of us for 'real' swapping lives. I had sent her my spreadsheet of assets early this morning, and during dinner, she told me she’d combined those numbers with hers.

I began looking at the comparison.

What caught my attention first was that in total, she had nearly ninety-four thousand dollars more in assets than I did, even with around five grand of credit card debt on her side of the ledger and a nine-thousand dollar car note. I considered calling her on the credit card stuff, but I didn’t want us to begin razzing each other like usual. Dinner had been quite pleasant, and I wanted that to continue as we talked this crazy idea of hers out.

I swapped screens to double check what I’d sent her and found she hadn’t played with the numbers—not that I expected she would. Shit! I had over thirteen thousand dollars in a savings account, no credit card debt, and a car note worth just over eighteen thousand dollars, and she still had ninety-four grand on me in total net worth!

“Well,” she asked after I looked like I had fully soaked it all in.

“I’m surprised…”

“I was also. After I pulled in your figures, I was sure the scale would have been tilted in the other direction, at least a little. I know you’re way more fiscally responsible than I am.”

I was; I knew that, and she’d just admitted that too, but I was having trouble with the scale being in her favor. I thought about how to tactfully make some points but hesitated.

“Look,” she began. “This might not be what either of us expected, but we should probably see where we can make some concessions.”

Okay, that was reasonable, if not a little surprising, to hear her say. I guess I’ll just begin with my first concern.

“Well, there’s a significant difference in our condo creature comforts that aren’t exactly accounted for by their estimated values.”

“Agreed, but location, location, location,” she said, smiling.

“Yeah, and two bedrooms, two and a half baths, and just over fourteen-fifty square feet with a view of Commencement Bay and Mt. Rainier should account for more than six hundred and eighty square feet, one bedroom, one bathroom, with a view of a nice office building and a glimpse of the freeway. Regardless of what Redfin or Zillow says the values of our condos are and what we owe,” I countered.

She nodded. “I get that taking over my condo would be an adjustment. We could look into swapping ownership—buying and selling to each other and costing us more than the difference we’re talking about—or take the condos out of the equation. We’d each own the unit the other lives in, paying the mortgages as we do today.”

“But we’d be the other person trying to do that. It seems a bit convoluted.”

She scrunched her lips, “We could put a pin in the value today. In the future, if one or the other of us sold their unit, which they would be paying into until that time, we would figure out the difference and even out today’s ninety-four grand difference from the proceeds.”

It was a decent suggestion and helped take the sting out of me being on the wrong side of the asset scale concerning our condos.

“How do we codify that agreement?”

“You don’t trust your little brother,” she asked, smiling.

“It has nothing to do with trust, Jen, but money has screwed up many family relationships, and I don’t want that for us.”

“It won’t be,” she said confidently. “We can draw up a legal contract, get it notarized, and sue each other if things go to hell.”

We chuckled, but I think we both realized that the deeper we got into this idea, the more chances there would be to really screw up our relationship if we weren’t careful. Was the risk really worth the reward? Should we just...

“Okay, I see the doubt. Actually, I can hear it in your eyes, and if you don’t think I’m scared or worried, you’re crazy,” she added, bringing me back to the here and now.

“This idea scares me on so many levels, I’m not sure where to start,” I replied, not even thinking about that response.

“Well, throw something out there; let’s deal with the doubts one at a time.”

“Fine, we need jobs,” I huffed, a little bitchy.

“You don’t think you could get a job as me, with a BS in Computer Science from USC and five years of coding experience?”

“Yes, the market is ripe for both of us, and I’m sure we could each pick up a gig without much effort, but that means being ‘out’ to our new employers,” I said, trying not to sound like I was whining. That would be a bigger hang-up for each of us I didn’t think she was weighing into the equation.

She looked at me confused. “But isn’t the idea here that we have lives we’re not living and this is just a shortcut to living those lives, skipping some of the pain points?”

I didn’t answer right away, but when I started, she held up her hand.

“I’m doing this, Wayne, with or without you. Will it be easier without you? I doubt that, but this is happening, and I’m not waiting twenty years to look back on this moment and fucking hate myself for not taking the leap. You, you can do what you want, but here’s my offer,” she paused to make sure she had my attention, which she certainly had due to the force of her statements, to the point she stopped speaking to glare at me.

“I’m willing to let one hundred grand float until such time you can make me whole with no interest. I’ll give you six grand from your savings to kick-start your assumption of my life; that’s the hundred grand float. If you want your damn truck, I’ll swap it for my Lexus as part of that. I’ll even pay for the transfer fees or whatever it costs.”

My mind was rolling through what she had said; she was staring at me with more intensity than I think she’d ever leveled at me in my life, and I nodded a weak ‘Yes’.

“I need to know you want this, Wayne, so I’ll need more than those goofy shruggy headshakes of yours.”

It took nearly a minute worth of silence, thought, and her staring me down before I finally answered.

“I want this, Jen.”

May 25th, 2022, 8:19 PM, Bellevue, WA
I had just said I was in for one hundred grand, in for a crushing pound of fear, worry, and anxiety to get this plan moving. I knew that wasn’t how the saying went about a penny and a pound, but in short, that’s what it felt like. I could see in Jen’s mind her thinking, ‘Mission control, we have a go for launch...' I wondered if she saw in me that I thought it was more like we’d be arranging the deck chairs on the Titanic.

The conversation looped back to each of us needing new jobs, and she assured me that any company we applied to would certainly test our knowledge of our claimed skills, so it should be a breeze to get past the interview process. When I turned in her resume to companies, I would have to modify some of her skill set to include whatever I needed to say to get a job developing under the Microsoft framework; she’d do the same to mine, adding Java.

I was struck by her comment, “You’re assuming companies that are scrambling for geeks like us are going to worry about each of us applying for a job clearly outside our resumes, historical experience, and skill sets." I hoped that wasn’t going to be the case. We’d swap our resumes tomorrow, adjust them, and then review the others to make sure they would hold water. The timing of turning in notice to our current employers would be something we would still have to work out.

I found it funny that tonight there was no slamming of Microsoft like she’d done last week and too many times to count in the past. I felt a little better about the job aspect of the swap, and since I’d done enough team interviews, I knew how that would play out. It shouldn’t be as much of a concern as I was making it out to be—other than that I would clearly be her and need to state up front that I was a trans woman.

Yeah, no pressure!

One thing she mentioned when we were considering offers for employment was to really understand the scope of the medical coverage being offered. Specifically, in regards to support for our transition needs. She had already begun looking for doctors in the Tacoma area that were in her current policy network, though she said she’d probably end up with a doctor located in Seattle.

It was an important reminder, and I told her I needed to figure that out also. I felt the concern slipping back when I realized Jen was already moving into taking over my life, and I was barely sticking my toe into the pond that was me assuming hers. I needed to adjust my thinking quickly after tonight.

The next topic to be decided was the division of our collective households. We agreed that we’d keep personal items, but for the most part, everything else would stay. She wanted a few of her pieces of art; I wanted my mountain bike, DSLR camera, DVD's, and collection of music on vinyl, including my turntable.

Those last couple requests had her complaining that Spotify or Prime Music were kind of a thing now and that I should get with the times. The razzing was just beginning to seep back into our exchanges—at least I knew she was still my sibling under all these plans we were making! When nothing else immediately came to mind, she just looked at me waiting for something else that needed to be negotiated.

“Your TV’s suck,” I complained. She had one in the tiny living room behind us and a small one in her room.

“Save your money and buy new ones,” she laughed at me, not offering to let me take both my 65-inch LG’s.

“I want my gaming systems and all the games,” I shot back.

She thought about it for a second. “Fine...”

Beyond the win for my gaming systems and the few other things she let me have, I got no quarter, no matter the complaint, comment, or question of its use in our respective condos. If it wasn’t deemed to be a personal item, then it was to be considered a household item and stayed—that was her contention.

Clothing was the next topic; she knew only a portion of my male clothes were going to fit her, and she’d been a little cruel, noting that not much of what she owned would likely fit me. I had thirty pounds on her, so I got it, but it did sting to be reminded of that. She softened a little bit after I made a face, saying there were likely things I would probably like or enjoy having from her wardrobe collection. I guessed there might be a little bit of a silver lining in there after all.

I knew that HRT would have some effects on my body; hopefully there would be some weight loss in the future and an opportunity to wear at least some of her clothes. She always was on point with her clothing choices and I hoped to emulate that in the future.

We weren’t exactly small in stature for Asian Americans, but the mix of our Japanese father and Caucasian lily white mother made for an interesting gene combination. We had the Asian queues one would expect, with slightly above-average height gotten from someone on our mother’s side of the gene pool. Jen and I were nearly the same height, but an inch taller than our mother. I have no idea how we compare to our dad these days, and truthfully it didn’t matter.

“I’ve got some lingerie I think you’re going to like,” she teased at one point.

I felt flushed when she said that and told her I had a pretty good collection of my own clothing I could start off with - thank you very much! Was it embarrassing to be teased like that? Certainly, but it would be a lie to say I wasn’t curious about the clothing she would be leaving behind that might eventually fit.

I already knew none of her shoes would fit; my plan was to sell as many pairs of those as I could online on either OfferUp or Poshmark or using some other used clothing app. She had a soft spot for expensive shoes, and it wasn’t uncommon to see her in a pair of Jimmy Choo’s. Selling those would give me a nice chunk I could add to my small collection of heels and boots. Jimmy’s might be in my future one day.

I did ask for my hiking boots, and she was happy to let me have them. She said she’d like hers, but the pink or purple trim and stitching didn’t scream ‘Wayne’, so she told me to do whatever I wanted with them. I considered the look of the ones I’d asked for and decided I could feminize them with different laces or, in the worst case, sell them.

I was about to say something about personal care items when Tina jumped up onto the table. I looked at Jen, shaking my head.

“That’s not a household item; she’s all yours.”

“Awe, are you sure?” she said, petting the tabby cat, cooing at her. “She loves you though.”

“Well, it’s a good thing she’ll be with you since you’re the new me, and I’ll be you.”

“I think she’ll miss you, Jen.”

It was the first time she'd referred to me as who I would be becoming. It felt oddly satisfying, given that I’d been Jennifer on Instagram for the past two years.

“Doubt it," I shot back after a moment. Jen lifted Tina off the table and held her, looking at me questioningly. “What?” I asked.

“I’m wondering why you haven’t asked any questions about my friends, or certainly the more interesting question—my ex’s.”

I froze. I had thought about those things but wasn’t sure how to approach her about those concerns.

“There are no crazy women in your life I need to worry about or need to get the locks changed on your place because you gave them a key,” she asked.

I chuckled and then felt oddly uncomfortable sharing that I hadn’t been with a woman since college. Even that wasn’t more than a kiss and handholding during one of the concerted efforts I’d made to ‘be a man’ and meet society's expectations of someone born male.

“You’re kidding, right?”

I shook my head and said, ‘No’. I had never had sex with a woman, I told her.

“Guess it would be tough to explain those shaved legs I saw a couple weeks ago.”

“Yeah, probably part of the problem,” I said after a moment.

“Part,” she asked with more interest than I had hoped.

“There have been a few, well, I...” I stopped speaking.

“Men?”

“Yes, but no one has a key to my place or has even been to my place,” I assured her.

“Really, how’d those meetings happen?”

I explained how I put myself out there on a dating app to see what it would be like to be me, and I met a few men. She asked how often I went out in public, and I told her that at first I went out rarely, but lately I've gone out to eat or grocery shop more often. She was impressed and said that she hadn’t ever presented as her true self before, though she had slept with several women. I felt oddly proud of myself, but a pang of sadness for her not having been ‘out’ as who she knew she was.

“What happened on your dates?” she asked.

I tried to argue that they weren’t dates, but conceded they ‘probably’ were. Then I told her nothing much happened, and it had been a few months since I’d heard from one of the guys. The other had ghosted me after we’d met. She corrected me, saying it wasn’t ‘after we’d met'; it was ‘after our date’.

“Yeah, yeah, semantics,” I complained.

“So, ‘nothing’ happened?”

“Come on,” I began flustered. “I just wanted to see what it would be like to be out there.”

“That’s actually quite dangerous; you know that,” she chided.

“I know, I know, but they were both bi and curious about being with a guy who was a bit more feminine.”

“And...,” she pressed.

“And… We met at a restaurant for dinner, had decent conversations, and I was home before ten—alone.”

“That’s the story for the ‘ghost’, what about the other guy?” she asked, smiling.

“Really,” I asked exasperatedly, "the same thing: dinner, conversation, and a kiss.”

“Oooh… Little tongue,” she began, but I interrupted her.

“Look, this isn’t helping,” I complained.

“First kiss?”

“No… But as me, yes,” I said, not sure why I was playing this game with her.

She looked concerned. “It’s dangerous enough out there for women, but for someone who’s trans, those dangers are magnified by the craziness of the right-wing shitheads out there. You really need to watch the situations you put yourself in. I’m serious…”

“I know. I had both their cell numbers and their real names. They didn’t give that information up without a bit of a fight, but I eventually got it. I verified they were who they said they were easily enough. Probably not typical dating protocol, but I felt I had some protections.”

“Did you have to give up who you were also?” she asked.

“I did…”

“Then they could have tried to figure out who you were too; you know that.”

I thought about that. “Yeah, I realize that.”

We talked that horse to a pulp, and I flipped the script, asking about crazy men, or women, for that matter, having access to her place. She assured me there weren’t any crazies in wait, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t get a ‘booty’ call on occasion from a few of the men she had hooked up with over the years. Nothing to worry about, she assured me, and if they called to just claim there was a 'red tide’.

I looked at her, confused. She laughed, “Just say you’re on your period, and you’ll call them when the ‘tide’ is right. That excuse works every time, I promise.”

I just nodded, embarrassed, but couldn’t help but chuckle that what she was telling me backed men off—it did make sense.

“Have you ever been fingerprinted?” she asked.

From 'red tide’ to fingerprints, I looked at her, concerned.

“No… And I’m hoping you’re going to tell me you haven’t been either.”

“Of course not, but something we might consider doing is getting concealed weapons permits.”

That really got my attention: “What for? I don’t want a gun.”

“You don’t have to get a gun to get a concealed weapons permit. The process would require us to get fingerprinted, and those would be run through a national database. Then we’d have an extra set of governmental validation of who we’re intending to be.”

“Augh… If we get caught doing that, don’t you think that could land us in jail?” I complained.

“I’m you; you’re me, and the fingerprints would prove that. This would be done in a police station after we fill out the forms, and it is just to make sure we’re not wanted criminals anyway. Supplying them with our new identities would then make those match our prints,” she coaxed. “Like that DNA stuff—it’s public record and probably the first-place cops look for a suspect in a crime where they have gathered DNA evidence. More people get busted because someone in their family has done that, and that links them to a crime.”

“I get all that, but the legality,” I shot back.

“There isn’t a strip and cavity search. You’ll look like me; I’ll look like you; I don’t see the problem.”

It took Jen twenty minutes of round and round and round again to finally convince me to ‘consider’ this idea. It certainly had its merits, but the risks seemed more than something we should be taking on. Where did she even come up with these ideas? Was there a handbook on how to swap lives for trans siblings?

I was about to say something more on the subject, but she held up her hand smiling evily, “Let’s go look at some of your new clothes.”

Finally, enough scheming and planning! I could feel my mood brighten and followed her to the bedroom.

June 8th, 2022, 11:52 a.m., Tacoma, WA
Over the past twenty-one days, our plan to swap lives went from a fragile snowflake to an avalanche of activity and decisions we had to agree on to set in motion. The bulk of those decisions happened over the last fourteen days and solidified our cobbled-together plan. As the plan took shape, it removed most of my doubts that this could work, and as they say, ‘This shit was about to get real’.

That last idea was no truer than at this exact moment. I shivered slightly, feeling like I could barely suck in a full breath standing before the new Wayne as Jennifer.

“You look nervous, Jen. Relax and try to enjoy the life you’re taking over. Make me proud, sis,” Wayne said, smiling. When I barely blinked or acknowledged what he’d said, he added, “I’m nervous too, but I’m beyond excited to start living my damn life—even if it’s as you,” he said, chuckling. “I’m officially Wayne Benjiro Shimizu, and I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life at that prospect, Jen, really."

I shook my head absently. “We’re really doing this then?”

I felt like I was awake in a dream. Did I want out of this? Did she, he, see herself as me? No, she just proclaimed that he didn’t. He was to be me starting today, and I am her. If I accepted it as the truth, it would allow the confusion to dissipate quicker – right?

I had dressed as my former self for the last time after waking up this morning. I stayed in that mode while tidying up the condo, waiting for the new me, the new Wayne, to arrive. And now he was standing in front of me. I was looking at my former self pretty much, but what I couldn’t see was that I was Jen.

I certainly felt like Jen in this cute summer dress and sandals, wearing my most expensive wig, and makeup expertly applied on as I’d done so many times in the past. The sandals I was wearing showed off painted nails matching fingernails I’d carefully painted, and if I’m being truthful, I looked nearly as Jennifer as Jennifer used to look.

Was she, I mean, Wayne, looking at his former self and thinking the same thing?

“Yup, we are... It’s not like we’re going to be wiped out of each other’s lives. Come on,” he said, patting my arm playfully.

“I know that...”

My nerves were nearly raw, and I could feel the anxiety weighing heavily on my shoulders. The excited butterflies bouncing around in my stomach only added to the anxiety, threatening to steal my breath even more. Augh!

“Okay, well, let’s get this part over with. This is a list of all my accounts and the credentials,” he handed me two sheets of paper. “Cell phone—minus those naked texts I sent last week to John..."

My eyes bulged and my mouth opened about to question what I’d just heard the new Wayne say.

“I’m kidding! Geesh, lighten up, sis! Purse, keys to everything... Think that’s it, right?” the new Wayne said.

His voice echoing in my ears wasn’t exactly mine, but people wouldn’t likely notice. Once his HRT kicked in a little more, there’d be no way by sight to tell Wayne wasn’t me before we hatched this crazy plan.

I nodded and walked to the kitchen, where I made the same kind of handoff from my former life to my... Augh! Too confusing! Stop!!! I watched him take the wallet I handed him, thumb through the contents, smile at the eighty dollars I’d left in it, and slip it into the back pocket of his jeans. He slid my phone into the same pocket and looked especially pleased about that, for some reason.

“I don’t think I’m going to miss carrying a purse around,” he said, trying to keep things light.

“Any questions?” I asked.

“Nope,” he said, stepping in close and kissing my cheek, then hugging me. “You’re going to be amazing as your true self. I can already see it in your eyes. I hope I’m as good at being Wayne as you were.”

I could feel the tears welling in my eyes, and I hugged him tighter. I released him and walked to the front door. I grabbed my carry-on suitcase with the last accessories I’d need for my new life and my backpack containing my laptop, gave Wayne a final smile, and was walking out to my car—a cute white Lexus sedan.

It looked to have been recently run through a car wash; that was a nice touch. I popped the trunk, stowed my bags, got behind the driver’s seat—accounting for my dress—placed my purse on the passenger seat, adjusted the mirrors and seat slightly, set those settings to memory button "1," smiled at Wayne, and pulled away from my former life as he gave me a little wave.

I didn’t make it out of the parking lot before I burst into tears, pulling into a guest parking spot out of sight of my old unit to try and compose myself.

I know it was stupid and that this was a very emotional day, but it was also one filled with joy and the promise of an amazing opportunity. I was finally going to live true to myself and to the life I had always envisioned. I hoped the fears, the questioning of who I was, and how I wanted to live my life would finally be put to rest. There was no turning back now...

June 8th, 2022, 12:41 AM, Bellevue, WA
The drive home was one of the oddest trips I’d ever made to Jen’s condo. The drone of the tires on the freeway made it easy to get lost in the thoughts of all those things I still needed to do. Reconciling the fears and anxiety I was feeling about being Jen, Jennifer Mai Shimizu, was my top looping thought track. I would need a job, medical insurance, and some serious counseling.

Could I really make this work?

After I’d parked in my assigned parking space under the building, I pushed the button to open the trunk and retrieved my carryon and backpack. I started walking toward the elevator and stopped in my tracks. I realized I had forgotten my purse on the passenger’s seat and had to go back to get it.

Was this something a real woman did - I thought, shaking my head - probably not, or at least not very often. Why hadn’t I thought to lock the car? That would have required keys, which were in my purse. I was not off to a very good start!

At the elevator, I nervously waited for it to arrive; it seemed to be taking forever, but I tried to reason that I was just anxious and wanted to be in the safety of my new condo. When the doors opened, I stepped aside to allow an older gentleman dressed in a coverall type uniform to exit. He had a tool belt in one hand and some kind of pipe in the other.

He smiled at me. I nodded and tried to smile. I’m sure it looked pitiful. Thankfully, he was gone and around the corner without giving me a second glance or exchanging a single word. I entered the elevator and realized I hadn’t taken a breath during that entire encounter. My heart was thumping as I pressed the button to get to the lobby.

Stupid! I could reason the anxiety away and why it had struck me so quickly—being Jen was going to be an adjustment. I can do this! It had to get easier from here on out – I hoped!

June 8th, 2022, 12:49 AM, Bellevue, WA
I entered my condo and couldn’t help but smile, feeling a little lump in my throat and warmth in my heart. Wayne had left flowers on the entryway table and balloons tied to one of its legs. There was a handmade sign taped to the mirror above the little table that said, ‘Welcome Home, Jennifer!’ There was a card leaning against the vase the flowers were in, but I knew if I read it now I would bust out crying, and as it was, I already felt on the verge of losing it. I’d read it later, when I was hopefully less stressed.

I put my purse on the entryway table, set my backpack down, and brought my carryon to the bedroom. I chuckled, seeing that the bed hadn’t been made and there was a full laundry hamper of dirty clothes. Not only would I have to deal with unpacking and organizing the condo, but I'd also need to do a bit of cleaning. Kind of annoying, since I’d left my old place pristine and ready for Wayne to begin figuring out setting up his household without needing to clean up before hand.

There was a ‘ding’ and I knew that was the sound of my new phone alerting me to a text message. I went to retrieve it, looking at the small mountain of boxes I’d moved into the tiny living room last weekend—Augh! They were exactly where I’d left them, and I hadn’t magically figured out where they needed to be unpacked and the items within stored.

I opened my purse to fish my phone out and found a note taped to a packaged tube. I wasn’t sure what it was until I read the note, ‘I case of red tide—Love Wayne’. I actually giggled and set the tampon on the entry table. There didn’t look to be any other surprises for me to discover, so I fished my phone out—an iPhone Pro Max.

I was not an Apple iOS enthusiast, but I would give Apple props for the fact they had a better camera and reception capabilities than my old Samsung I had as Wayne. He’d scrubbed the phone before giving it to me, as I did with my old phone. We left any lock features disabled, so it was easy enough to navigate to read the text message that had just arrived. Our contacts were intact; it was likely we’d get pinged by someone the other knew and would need to respond to them.

The message was from Wayne, and I brightened a little. ‘Your phone sux!’

My reply was, ‘I was just thinking the same about your POS phone! Go buy a new one, you Apple lemming!’

That got me a laughing face emoji back along with, ‘You good?’

I sent a heart emoji with, ‘Yes, and thank you for the flowers!’

‘Of course! Just wanted my older sister to feel at home. I love you; call me if you need anything.’

I think there was a bit of satisfaction in the fact that, becoming me, he got a decrease in age by a year and a couple months. He was never going to let that one go. I started to send ‘Age has its benefits!’ but changed that to ‘Bite me! And come over here and clean this place up! I left you with a sparkling clean condo! What gives?!’

It took a few minutes before he replied, ‘That’s a woman’s job; get used to it.' He added that laughing face emoji again, and before I could type a reply, I received ‘JK (just kidding), I ran out of time. Sorry. Make-up dinner at my place next week, with plenty of Black Cherry White Claws for you!’

I typed out, ‘You owe me at least that! I love you, little bro!’ and got back quickly, ‘Love you, Jen!’ My heart melted a little.

I looked around, and I figured these boxes aren’t going to unpack themselves...

June 8th, 2022, 8:10 PM, Bellevue, WA
I plopped down on the couch I’d spent many nights sleeping on in the past and admired the stack of broken-down boxes I could see in the hallway near the front door. I’d need to figure out how to get rid of those at some point, but I felt a real sense of accomplishment to have all the stuff I’d brought with me in its place, even if some of those things were in temporary quarters.

I looked at the small 42-iinch TV and the mountain of tangled cables hanging from a small box I’d set on the floor in front of it. I still needed to connect my gaming systems; I wasn’t looking forward to that and decided it would be a project for tomorrow.

The bathroom was clean; the place was vacuumed, and I’d even rearranged some of the kitchen drawers - putting utensils in places that seemed more logical. The laundry hamper was now empty, and I could hear a load rolling around in the dryer. When they were done, I could get another load transferred from the washer that was waiting its turn. Then it would be bedtime!

I was a little annoyed about the cleaning aspect of getting this new life. Though it was an opportunity to take stock of all that I now owned and would be surrounded by, and I’d started a list of things I thought I needed to make the place complete. I’d have to see if there was a Target close by and get some food items too from whatever grocery store close by. Maybe I’d just text Wayne later for suggestions on where to shop.

I put my bare feet up on the coffee table and noticed I had scuffed some of the polish off a couple of the nails. Almost instinctively, I modeled my hands to inspect my fingernails—same thing. Great, something else I’d need to deal with at some point before I went out again.

No way did I have the energy to go through Jen’s clothes tonight. I moved as much of her stuff aside in the closet and drawers to get what little I had in the way of women’s clothes put away. I made a mental note to keep a few boxes so I could pack things up I wanted to get rid of or drop at a thrift store—if there was such a thing to be found in the ‘upper crust’ expectations that were the prevailing mindset in the greater Bellevue area. I’d need to bolster my own wardrobe, so if there was a thrift store around I could probably pick up some decent pieces for cheap.

Before I began organizing my possessions from those ten, twelve, or however many now empty boxes, I had changed out of the summer dress from earlier to a pair of well-worn pink-branded, teal-colored sweats and a loose-fitting tie-dyed cotton t-shirt. The sweats were one of the first pieces of women’s clothing I had ever purchased. I’d ordered them online, along with some select pieces of lingerie and a small pair of breast forms, about two years ago.

I’d dumped the bra and breast forms I had been wearing with my dress, opting for comfort rather than presenting as full on Jen. I was sure the cheeky bikini-style panties I had changed into were from that Victoria’s Secret sweats order and chose to wear them over continuing to keep myself tucked and taped in compression boyshort panties—comfort winning over presenting again.

I was alone, so it didn’t matter how I looked, I reasoned. I didn’t need to impress anyone to be Jen. That’s who I am now, Jen... Augh! This whole in and out of who I was now needed to stop flip-flopping. I am now my true self! I AM Jen, Jennifer Mai, Jennifer Mai Shimizu—to anyone that I ran into from here on out. Phone, email, or in person, I would really need to do something about getting my head around that fact and quit these mind games.

Time… I just needed time.

There was no going back; I wasn’t Wayne anymore and going back was not an option! I knew I wasn’t going to make this transition from the point of erasing the person I was to becoming who I knew I was. I was assuming a real woman’s life. How do I get that to stick in the front of my conscience, make that awareness permanent, and accept all that as if I’d always been Jen from the beginning?

Assuming her life, I had history with her and in-depth knowledge of her life, but there were gaps too. Could I pull off being her even without knowing all her experiences? Why hadn’t I given that any thought before? Would that screw up where I ultimately wanted to end up? Wait, wait, wait... I’m where I’m supposed to end up. Good God! I’m going to get committed to a mental hospital if I keep this shit up!

I noticed the card Wayne had left me leaning against the flower vase by the front door and eagerly went to retrieve it. Did I want to do this now? Yeah… I opened it and read:

Jen…

Thank you for agreeing to give me your life and for taking on my old one. Your support and love for me over the years, and giving me this head start on finally living my truth—well, I don’t think you truly know how you saved my life. I’m excited for the possibilities we both have in the future, and I’ll be indebted to you forever.

I love you, sis.

W

I laid the card on my lap, too tired to cry and too emotionally drained to think. Thus far this swap was a blessing for both of us, and we were both going to start living our lives to the fullest from here on out. We’d promised that to each other, now to make it happen!

FIN

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Rachel M. Moore