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Edwin furrowed his brow.

“It is,” he said. His voice sounded faraway, even to his own ears. He frowned at the December photograph, and his stomach tightened from the memory. “It’s kind of . . . sad, too, maybe.”

Edwin continued to shift his gaze from one photograph to the other. He really had been uncomfortable back in December. Not only because of Andrew’s presence, either, though that had been part of it.

He’d still been uncomfortable with himself overall. All the years he had spent making himself small seemed to have made it more difficult for him, at least for a while, to believe that he could be anything but. Even when he’d begun living as Edwin, as himself, he’d still felt shy for such a long while, uncomfortable taking up space in whatever room he was in.

But working with Andrew had helped change that. Assisting Andrew with his business had helped his confidence blossom. Each session they’d had, each client Edwin had spoken with, each practically perfect photograph Edwin had taken, had shown him that he had it within himself to be the man he wanted to be.

Now, for the first time in his life, Edwin felt confident. Truly confident. Over the last couple of months, he’d become so much more comfortable with himself. Not one hundred percent comfortable, maybe. Not yet. But more comfortable than he had ever been before. Things weren’t perfect, but they were more perfect.

And that was sort of wonderful, wasn’t it?

Edwin studied the December photograph some more. Yes, things really were more perfect now. But they’d been more perfect back in December than they had been before that. Even back in the beginning of winter, Edwin had still come so far from where he’d been only a year prior. Or where he’d been for most of his life.

Edwin needed a little longer to internalize the realization. And then he found himself feeling yet another something he’d never felt before, either: love for the man he had once been.

“Or maybe it’s not sad, exactly,” Edwin amended. He scooted closer and held up the December plate. “I’m still more me in this negative than in any of the photographs my family had taken of me before I realized who I was. It might not be the happiest looking photograph, but it’s still the first photograph of me as . . . well, as myself. It’s the first photograph of me as Edwin.” He smiled wistfully at the image. “And I’m really . . . proud of him. He wasn’t really convinced that he could ever live his life fully as himself, or become the man he so desperately wanted to be, for a myriad of reasons, but he still had the courage to try. He still had the courage to bind his chest every morning and put on his new clothes and fiddle with the pitch and intonations in his voice whenever he was alone.”

He took a pause and thought back on the portraits his mother still had stored in one of her closets. He’d never looked very happy in those. In fact, he knew from memory that he looked more unhappy and more uncomfortable in them than even in the December negative he was holding now. Still, that boy—that man—in those photographs, Edwin couldn’t help but have a lot of sympathy and love for him, too.

He’d still been Edwin back then. Even if he hadn’t realized it yet.

“I’m even sort of proud of the me I was before I began living as Edwin,” he said. “He had a lot on his shoulders. I feel sorry for him, too, of course, but, Jesus, he made it through a lot of confusion and self-loathing.” He huffed a light laugh. “Sorry, Andrew. I know this all probably sounds sort of strange.” He shook his head. “Maybe I shouldn’t wax poetic like this.”

Edwin looked up from the negatives, expecting to see some sort of confused look on Andrew’s face, if not outright pity rather, but instead, Andrew was looking at him with the most wonderful warmth, his kind eyes soft and filled with a sort of compassion that made Edwin’s chest swell.

“It’s not strange,” Andrew said. “Not even a little.”

Edwin’s face warmed, and he crooked an eyebrow, an uncertain smile tugging on his lips.

“Really?” he asked.

Andrew cupped Edwin’s cheek and began caressing it with his thumb.

“I love the man you are now. And I know I’ll love the man you become, too. But the fellow I met back in November . . . Edwin, he’s the one I began falling for.”

Tears sprang to Edwin’s eyes, and he pressed a kiss to Andrew’s lips.

Not long after, Edwin began to cry. For the man he once was and the insecurities and unease that had burdened him then. For the man he was now and how much he had changed, inside and out. And for the man he’d eventually become, one whom he had yet to meet, but one whom he would love all the same.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Andrew

March 13, 1888

Andrew was standing in the doorway of the boarding house with a wooden folding ruler in his hand, three of its four twelve-inch increments extended. Even without yet having measured the snow that had collected on the stoop, he knew there had to have been more than thirty inches of it out there. Holding his breath, Andrew plunged the ruler into the pile. Before it even reached the bottom, snow brushed his fingertips. Dear God, how could it not be enough?! Furrowing his brow, he took the ruler back out and extended the fourth and final section. Again, Andrew plunged the ruler into the snow.

Forty-one inches.

“I-I can’t even believe it,” he said, staring at the little black marks on the ruler in awe.

“How much snow is there? Thirty-seven inches? Thirty-eight?” Edwin asked from behind him.

“Forty-one!” he said, pulling the ruler back out.

Edwin’s eyes blew wide. “Forty-one?!”