Page 4 of Where the Snakes Sleep

When I came out to him, I’d been terrified. Not of telling him I was trans—I already knew that part of myself. I was terrified of losing him.

Six years together had started with two awkward sophomores who shared chemistry class and made out in his beat-up Ford pickup after football games. Paul had been my first everything. First boyfriend. First person I trusted enough to tell about the problems at home. First person who made me believe I could have a future that wasn’t just surviving one miserable day after another.

I’d expected him to leave, but he hadn’t.

He’d held me while I cried, kissed my forehead, and told me I was still me.

“You’re still my Ryan,” he’d whispered. “That’s all that matters.”

I don’t know if he lied to me, or if he lied to himself.

Or if he’d assumed the female Ryan wouldn’t take long to resurface.

The first cracks didn’t show up until I started talking seriously about surgery.

I never even had much of a chest. Being built like a scarecrow had at least done me that one favor. Most days, I was comfortable enough just wearing something oversized with nothing underneath. If I had to wear something more form-fitting, depending on the company and circumstance, the most I’d ever needed was a tight sports bra.

Still, I’d wanted to have consultations, just to know my options, and I told him so.

But Paul had gone strangely quiet.

Not angry.

Not at first.

Just… withdrawn.

When I asked him what was wrong, he’d admitted he couldn’t stand the thought of me changing my body like that. “It’s permanent, Ry.”

As if I hadn’t noticed.

As if permanent wasn’t exactly the point.

In the end, I’d decided against it anyway.

Not because of him.

Because every hospital smell reminded me of my mom’s last surgery before the cancer took her. Because anesthesia scared the hell out of me. Because the idea of voluntarily letting someone cut into me made my skin crawl.

The same went for anything downstairs.

I’d never really wanted bottom surgery. Testosterone had eased enough of my dysphoria that I was content with what I had going on down there.

That should’ve been the end of it, but it seemed like every day, Paul found something new to criticize. He didn’t like that my voice had deepened. He hated the dark hair spreading up my stomach, and the scruff on my jaw that forced me to shave every few days. He didn’t like how my clit had grown into a little cock from the hormones. Once, he’d even called it disgusting.

It was death by a thousand tiny cuts.

Together they’d hollowed something out inside me.

The worst part was that I still caught glimpses of the old Paul.

The one who brought me soup when I had the flu and slept on the couch because he was afraid of getting me sick again.

The one who used to send me playlists of bands he knew I would hate just so we could trade snarky commentary over texts all afternoon.

The one who drove across town at two in the morning because I’d called him crying after a nightmare.

The one who used to rub circles into my back until I fell asleep, never asking for anything in return.