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Oliver

The loud bustle of people surrounded me, rendering me invisible from any too attentive stares. And while I would never say I was completely comfortable in crowds, I did like the camouflage they provided. It was something my parents had hated when I was young. It was like keeping track of a mouse–they probably should’ve gotten one of those child leashes–so I was used to getting lost in crowded spaces.

At twenty-three, I was still only five feet four. I’m sure my parents would still be losing me if they were still around.

Luckily, the convention was at least set up in rows of booths, so if I left my own, it’d be easy enough to find my way back. Rather than being worried about getting lost, I’d been struggling more with convincing other convention-goers that I was, in fact, an adult male. It was the third, and last, day of the antique convention, and I genuinely couldn’t count the number of times I’d been asked, “Did your parents leave you by yourself?” and “Don’t you need to be eighteen to be a vendor?” Which–yes–but that was five years ago.

I knew most of the questions came from genuine concern for a child’s safety, so it was hard to be too upset, but it was frustrating after a while. Sometimes, though, if they felt guilty about thinking I was ten years younger, they’d pity-purchase from me as a form of unspoken apology. I couldn’t be mad about that—a good chunk of my annual profits came from the handful of conventions and fairs I attended each year.

The one I was at now was only around three hours from home, in Portland. It was one of the largest, and I always made good money from it, and I had fun purchasing some items of my own from other dealers–I couldn’t miss it. I sighed as I thought about Lane alone the other night for New Year’s Eve. We always celebrated together, but with me being out of town, he wouldn’t have left his apartment to have some fun. In my defense, I had offered for him to come with me. We could’ve celebrated in my hotel room or even gone out–although neither of us liked clubs that much.

Lane was my person. My best friend. We were probably a little too codependent on each other, though. My friends–more like acquaintances–were all people connected to work. On the other hand, Lane didn’t have anyone but me. We spent most of our free time together, which had been that way for a couple of years. Lane had moved to the area for university when he was eighteen. I, however, grew up there.

After an unfortunate series of events at the high school I went to, word got back to my parents that I was transgender. I had an innate fear that my parents wouldn’t accept me, but at the time, I thought it was an unfounded worry. I loved them, and I thought they loved me too. Unconditionally—how a parent should love their own flesh and blood. When I got home from school that day, I was anxious but thought it’d all be okay after talking with them. We were a conservative family, but I didn’t believe that their political or religious beliefs mattered more to them than their own child. I was wrong.

Very wrong.

Getting off the bus, I was met with a suitcase full of my things on the front porch of my childhood home. They wouldn’t even let me inside to talk.

I had been just a few weeks short of sixteen–a freshman in high school. That apparently didn’t matter to them. In a matter of minutes, I had gone from their cherished child to garbage that needed to be put out on the curb.

I suppose that would make my grandmother’s sedan the garbage truck. One call–one most likely unintelligible call because of my blubbering–and she was there.

Grammy drove me back to her house on the other side of town, playing a quiet set of Elvis songs through the car radio. By the time we pulled into her driveway, my tears had dried up; thinking back on it, I was probably in shock. She brought me in, sat me down in her oversized comfy recliner, and shoved a mug of hot cocoa in my trembling hands.

Once I had calmed down enough to explain to her what had happened, she was furious at her son, my dad. Grammy may have never fully understood what being trans meant, but she tried. She was devastated that the son she so painstakingly raised to be a good, Christian boy would throw his child out on the street without even a word, without even a goodbye.

Over the years, she eventually got a lot better at using my correct pronouns and my new name, but when she first took me in, she couldn’t understand why I wanted to dress up as a boy and cut my hair short. Even so, she never hated me, never threw me out, never disowned me, never berated me, or bullied me. She loved me. She may have been a little out of practice at raising a teenager, but she did it.

She and my parents were never able to reconcile. Grammy couldn’t forgive her son and daughter-in-law for what they had done, and my parents couldn’t forgive her for taking me in and loving me.

The rest of my high school years were rough–I was the abandoned, queer freak–but I managed to graduate. My graduation party may have only been comprised of the two other kids in our Gay-Straight Alliance club at school and Grammy’s senior center friends, but I loved it. Without Grammy, I would’ve either been homeless or passed around through foster care until I aged out–neither was a good option.

When I was twenty, Grammy had a bad fall down the stairs in our house. She ended up with a broken hip and wrist. She had surgery at the hospital and was placed in an inpatient rehabilitation facility. She was only supposed to be gone for a month.

She never came back home.

Her health continued to decline at the rehab, rather than improve. She didn’t get the physical therapy she was supposed to, which led to her losing her mobility completely. After thirty days in, she was moved over to the long-term nursing side of the facility. She declined even further over there; she eventually developed a pressure wound on her lower back that became so severe you could see her spine through the hole. She had been in such excruciating pain.

I often stayed awake at night thinking about what I could have done differently to save her, to bring her back home. But the reality was that I was an already traumatized twenty-year-old who had gone from being taken care of by his grandmother to now having to make serious healthcare and legal decisions on her behalf.

Within eight months of being in the facility, Grammy passed away, and I was left alone in the world. I was legally an adult, but I was in no way ready to be entirely on my own with no support.

I’m unsure what would have happened if I hadn’t inherited her antique store. It provided me with a steady source of income and a roof over my head. The small space on the second floor that had been used as an office and storage room was easily transformed into a makeshift studio apartment. The sale of her home helped get me back on my feet, and I was able to move forward by running the store.

Three years later, I was doing pretty well for myself. I still occasionally struggled with her loss, but inheriting her shop felt like inheriting a part of her.

I’d met Lane by coincidence when he stumbled into the shop one day. We just clicked. I knew he could feel it too, because soon we were exchanging phone numbers and spending time together. My store was on the main street by campus, so he’d stop by before and after his classes to chat. Sometimes he’d bring me coffee or lunch. Sometimes he’d bring me the latest campus gossip. Sometimes he’d sit behind the counter and study. It always made me smile as I saw my high school self in him, working on school assignments while Grammy helped customers or fluttered about the store cleaning.

Lane was like a burst of chaotic sunshine—loud in energy, soft in heart. He filled the quiet spaces of my life without trying. I hadn’t realized how empty the store had been until his laugh echoed between the shelves, or how dull the jewelry displays looked until he rearranged them just for fun, making up backstories for each piece.

He made the place feel alive again.

Lane was the kind of person who made every little thing feel like an adventure when I was with him.

He’d walk into the store and toss his bag down behind the counter like he owned the place, pull me into long rants about whatever show he was watching or book he was reading, or shove his phone in my face to show me pictures of his beloved cat. He didn’t just exist beside me—he made me engage, made me have fun again.

Anytime I went out of town, I couldn’t help but miss him.

“Hey, Oliver! How’ve you been?” A voice jolted me out of my thoughts. When I raised my head, I found Tim, one of the other regular vendors. We’d met a few years back when I was new to the business. There was a small group of us regulars in the Pacific Northwest.

“Hi, Tim. I’ve been good. It’s been a few months, hasn’t it? How are you?” I responded, a smile on my face.

“I’m good, I’m good. Hm… It’s been since… September–No, October!” Tim snapped his fingers.

“The Halloween event in Medford, right?” Tim nodded enthusiastically. “Do you want to sit?” I motioned to the fold-up chair by my side. He took my invitation and joined me behind my booth’s table.

“Got anything good with ya?”

“More or less. What about you? Seen anything good around?”

Tim shook his head. “Eh, I saw some bearer bonds over near Millie’s booth, but nothing I’ve got to have. I’ve made a good deal of money, though, so it’s not a total wash. I was just making some final rounds before packing up and calling it a night. Are you staying in the area or heading back home?”

“I’ll start the drive back before lunch tomorrow. Who all is here? I know I passed by Angela earlier, but I’ve mostly just sat here. Maybe we could get breakfast as a group tomorrow?”

“Let’s see… There’s me, you, Millie, Morton, Reggie, and Angela. I heard that Kiesha couldn’t come–something about her kids, but I forget what. My memory’s all over the place these days,” Tim chuckled, stroking his scraggly grey beard. “Sorry you’re stuck with a bunch of oldies like us, boy. To be fair, antiquing isn’t usually the scene for young people. I hope you hang out with friends your own age at home! You’re only young once, you know!” Tim clapped me on my shoulder and stood from the chair.

“I know,” I laughed, rolling my eyes. “So, breakfast?”

“If you’re good with the hotel’s continental, then yes.” I nodded. “Alright, well, I’ll spread the word! Let’s see… eight a.m. should work. Well, I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow, son. Have a good one,” he crowed, sauntering off into the crowd.

* * *

Breakfast was over before I even knew it. It’d been nice to catch up with the group. Sure, most of their “catching-up” was about new grandchildren, their friends dying, or any other life event I’d not yet experienced, but it always reminded me of simpler times when Grammy was still alive.

My drive home from the convention wasn’t too far—just a little under three hours—but it was long enough to put on some music and contemplate every single decision I’d made thus far in life. Mostly kidding; I was pretty content in the quiet little life I’d made for myself. I wasn’t a fan of drama, adventure, or really anything that could disrupt the peacefulness or dredge up unwanted anxieties from the depths of my brain. I had a best friend, a business that served as my full-time job and hobby, and a home.

Lane would immediately point out that a romantic relationship was missing from my list, but I really wasn’t upset by the lack of one, not like he was, anyway. I loved Lane, I did, but he was honestly a little too focused on dating sometimes.

I wasn’t against dating or hooking up, it just wasn’t something I often thought about. I was perfectly capable of being happy by myself.

I guess I was also a bit concerned about the sexual part of a relationship. I wasn’t sure how comfortable I’d be with someone sticking anything in me down there. What if it caused dysphoria? What if it hurt? They weren’t questions I particularly wanted to answer anytime soon. I mean, even I hadn’t stuck anything in there. Rubbing the outside or humping pillows were perfectly acceptable forms of masturbation; I saw no reason for me to go out of my comfort zone just to hurt myself or make myself want to hurt myself potentially. Sometimes I wanted to try, but then I’d get all in my head, and it just wasn’t worth it.

I was able to have top surgery done the year after Grammy died, so at least there was that. I could probably write several essays on how much relief I felt waking up after the procedure to a flat chest. It felt like I’d been shot in the chest or trampled by elephants for a few days, but it had been entirely worth it. Thankfully, I had been able to close the shop and have Lane act as my nurse during the first stage of recovery. And yes, he did purchase and wear a sexy nurse costume for the occasion, because of course he did.

I was envious of how freely he expressed himself outwardly. Not that I’d want to wear a sexy nurse costume, but I’d die to have the confidence to.

Confidence was certainly not a trait I’d claim ever to have. Even after years of being on Testosterone and having top surgery done, there was still a good forty percent chance I’d be misgendered when meeting someone new. My height was not a normal height for adult men, at least in the court of public opinion. My face was still relatively soft, and my eyelashes were so dark and long that it looked like I had permanent mascara on. I had no facial hair and hardly any body hair. I didn’t have big muscles or a bulge.

Some days, it was like my skin didn’t quite fit. I would look in the bathroom mirror and catch glimpses of the man I knew myself to be, but it was like he was hidden behind layers of skin and bone that didn’t belong to him. There was always this low anxiety, buzzing like a bee trapped underneath my ribs—would they see me the way I saw myself? Or would they stare too long, trying to piece together the puzzle of what was wrong with me? Before my surgery, I would painstakingly bind my chest, trying desperately to make it disappear, just for a few precious hours of feeling just a bit more right in my reflection.

There was a distinct loneliness to it, too. Not because I didn’t have people who cared about me, but because there was always this invisible line between my experience and theirs. Most people wouldn’t understand what it was like to grieve a voice you never got the chance to have, or what it felt like always to have been the topic of whispered discussions. Every interaction felt like a test I hadn’t studied for, and every time I was misgendered, it felt like a cut that I had to pretend didn’t hurt.

Everyone always preached that you needed to love your body; treat it like a temple. But it was fucking hard to love it when it’d been a battleground for so long. Transitioning brought me closer to feeling like my true self in ways I’d never thought possible, but sometimes it also felt like trudging up the side of a mountain in a rainstorm. Sometimes it felt like I was mourning the life I should have had; the body that I should have been born into. Some mornings I woke up hopeful, and some mornings I woke up exhausted, wondering if it would ever get easier.

I tried my best to ignore my insecurities, to push them aside and focus on being grateful that I had access to gender-confirming surgeries and hormone replacement therapy. Sometimes I felt guilty for being upset. So many others would never have the chance to transition. My mind felt like a tug-of-war.

Having Lane around helped. Not only was he incredibly supportive of me, but he was a man who was feminine and proud of it. Next to him, especially when he had makeup on and was wearing a dress or skirt, I looked manly–or at least like a boy.

Smiling, I followed my GPS’s directions to an off-ramp of the highway I’d been driving on for miles.

All things considered, I loved my life.

It was messy, painful, and at times hopeless. But it was also beautiful, sometimes fun, and always all mine. Alongside the hardships, there had been a steady buildup of small, incredible victories: the first time someone called me by male pronouns, the first time I bought clothing out of the menswear section without feeling judged, the first time a gay man flirted with me.

Those moments were what I lived for.