Additional content warnings for this chapter
PTSD, detransition; mentions of conversion therapy, suicide, targeted harassment.
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Summer awoke late the next morning. It was the start of her weekend; many of her clients worked during the week, so she chose to work Saturdays and Sundays instead of Mondays and Tuesdays. When she had nowhere else to be, like this morning, that meant a nice lie-in. But it was getting towards noon and her text message tone was chirping—someone was trying to talk to her. Hopefully not her boss.
She scooped her phone off the bedside charger and rested it against her pillow. It wasn’t her boss. It was Denise, her client from the day before.
Denise:
I need to cancel our appointment next week.
Summer:
that’s okay
when do you want to reschedule?
The typing indicator popped up and stayed up for a long, long time. Summer stared at it with increasing concern.
Denise:
I’m not going to reschedule. I’m going to stop. My marriage is too important to me. Kevin is too important to me. I can’t do this without him.
Summer rolled onto her elbows and started thumb-typing her reply furiously.
Summer:
no
denise, nobody’s worth this
if you push it down, it’s just going to pop up again
Denise:
I have to try
I’m sorry, Summer
You’ve been so helpful
If anyone could have made it work, it’s you
Summer:
keep in touch, ok?
i’m going to worry about you
Denise:
I’m sorry, we agreed that it’d be easier if I stayed away from temptation
Give Molly and Joan my love
Summer:
denise, wait
Denise:
goodbye
Summer:
please
Denise has blocked you from sending messages
“No,” Summer whimpered, dropping the phone onto the pillow. She curled up into a ball and began to cry.
Denise had just lost something she wouldn’t ever be able to get back. At a minimum, months or years of her life. Possibly the whole thing, one way or another. And Summer would probably never know what became of her.
Summer had sat down once with a few years of records and calculated the “washout rate”, as it were, for her clients. It was much lower than Dorley’s—a comforting thought most of the time. But in moments like this, those years of successes fell away, and she found herself back in the hospital bed, sitting next to Tabby, staring at the bandages on her hand and realizing the magnitude of her failure.
Maeve, forced into conversion therapy by her parents. Hannah, denied surgery and gave up on life. Z, doxxed and harassed until zi went into hiding. And now Denise, who detransitioned for a man. All lost because she wasn’t good enough to help them move forward. Just like George—
Summer felt blindly for her phone, hit the top row in her Favorites list, toggled to speaker as it rang.
The line clicked. “Summer?”
“Tabs,” Summer sobbed.
Tabby’s voice softened. “Babe, what’s wrong? Is it him?”
“Y-yes,” Summer squeezed out between big, gulping breaths.
“Remember, Summer: You were trying to help him.”
“I-I was t-trying to help him,” she stuttered out.
“You couldn’t have known that he was out of intake criteria.”
“I c-couldn’t have known that, that he was out of intake criteria,” she repeated.
“You did the best that anyone could.”
“I-I did the best that anyone could.”
“When push came to shove, you made the right choice.”
“When push came to shove, I-I made the right choice.” Her breathing was becoming more even.
”You protected your Sisters.”
“I protected my Sisters.”
”You were so brave for your Sisters.”
“I was so brave for my Sisters.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes.
“Your Sisters are proud of you.”
“My Sisters are proud of me.”
The events that led to George’s washout had left Summer a mess of triggers and traumas so intractable that Tabby had to take a month’s leave just to make her functional again. She had taught Summer to focus on these seven positive thoughts instead of the many negative ones she was getting lost in. Usually Summer could just run through them in her own head, but on her worst days, she still needed to hear them from Tabby.
They repeated them a couple more times until the panic attack had fully subsided; then Tabby gently asked Summer if she could talk about what brought this on.
Slowly, haltingly, she explained, and Tabby provided what comfort she could. After a while, Tabby said, “There’s nothing you can do for her?”
Summer nodded, realized that wouldn’t carry over the phone, and murmured “Yeah.”
“Then all you can do is make sure your other girls make it,” Tabby said. “And I’m sure they will—you’re the best at what you do, Summer.”
“Th-thanks,” Summer said, trying to believe her.
On Tabby’s end, someone said something that didn’t come through clearly. “I have to go now,” Tabby said. “Meeting with Elle’s people to finalize the pickups; can’t miss it. But I’ll call you tonight, okay?”
“Okay,” Summer said.
“Love you,” Tabby said, and she hung up.
Summer dropped the phone on the pillow and rolled over to stare at the ceiling for a moment.
“All you can do,” she repeated to herself slowly, “is make sure your other girls make it.”
She wiped away the tears and reached for her phone.
* * *
Cruel Summer:
hey sweetie
how are you feeling this morning?
sweetly bitter:
Kind of strange, actually.
I’m lying in bed right now and everything’s the same as it was yesterday.
Except the world just seems quieter somehow.
Not, like, actual sound. Just...calmer. More relaxing. Less annoying.
You know?
Cruel Summer:
yeah
welcome to estrogen, girl
sweetly bitter:
It’s real?
I’m not imagining it? It’s not a placebo effect?
Cruel Summer:
it’s real
you know how everyone says hrt has “mental effects” without any specifics?
this is part of what they’re talking about
sweetly bitter:
It’s amazing.
Do cis people just feel like this all the time?
Cruel Summer:
it’s different for them b/c they’re used to it
you will be too, someday
the quiet will become your new normal
but this is totally normal for a girl getting estrogen for the first time
sweetly bitter:
You know, I think there’s a little part of me that didn’t quite believe it until now?
I’m really a girl. Like, down to the chemicals my neurons want from my blood.
Holy shit, Summer!!!
Cruel Summer:
thrilled for you, hun
i told you i could see it
sweetly bitter:
I want to see it too!
Let’s do the clothes thing next week.
I’ve been kicking myself for turning you down ever since I left your flat.
Cruel Summer:
fuck yeah
can’t wait
you’re gonna be so fucking pretty, persephone
you’ll see
Raindrops drummed on the windows of Summer’s flat a week later, but the damp chill outside only made the warmth inside cozier, the tapping on the glass complimenting the soft sounds of Taylor Swift’s Folklore on the wireless speaker in her kitchen.
After giving Persephone another week’s worth of estradiol, the two women sat on Summer’s couch together, crosslegged, drinking hot chocolate and chatting while Summer deftly painted Persephone’s nails with green acrylic polish. Persephone had been hesitant until Summer promised it would come right off in a few hours with a bit of acetone, but soon they settled in and started chatting about their families.
Which mostly meant chatting about Persephone’s family, because Summer’s NPH hadn’t really given her one. It said that her father had never been in the picture and her mother had given her up to the foster system before primary school. She’d then bounced between homes every year or two until she’d aged out. It was a story that had the virtue of not being terribly far from the truth, but it didn’t give her much to contribute to the conversation.
That was fine, though, because Persephone loved talking about her parents and Summer loved listening to her.
“Dad was basically a househusband,” Persephone was telling her. “I know he got hassled by other guys about it sometimes, but he just loved it. Cooking, cleaning, playing with me, helping with homework, running errands—all of it. He was an incredible baker; there’s this recipe book that’s been in my family for centuries, full of desserts perfected by generations of Chase women, and he’d memorized it cover to cover. He could make something different every day of the year.”
“And your mum?” Summer asked, switching from Persephone’s left hand to her right.
“Mum was a clinical psychologist. Actually—get this—a lot of his practice was with trans people! He started at one of the NHS GICs and then he went into private practice. And only after doing that for years did he figure out he wasn’t cis!”
“That’s eggs for you,” Summer said with a giggle. But then she frowned, her hand pausing in the middle of dipping the brush into the polish. Something about that rang a bell. “Um, Persephone...weird question, but was your mum named Dylan?”
Persephone raised an eyebrow. “Yes, actually. It was part of our surname first, and then he took it as his first name when he transitioned. Why? Have you heard of him?”
“I actually met him once—he helped with my Gender Recognition Certificate!” Unfortunately, it was only then that Summer remembered that, even though she’d really only met him once, she was supposed to have seen him regularly for two years. “I-I mean, not just once—” And only then did Summer realize that she could not possibly fake having had a long-running professional relationship with this guy to his daughter. “That is, um—“
Persephone laughed. “Let me guess: He bent the truth in your paperwork to get you through the process faster?”
Summer nodded sheepishly.
“I’m not surprised. Remember I said that he worked at a GIC? He basically got sacked for just trusting his patients instead of making them prove to him that they were trans. And that was before he experienced the system as a patient. He only got more fed up with it after that.”
“Yeah,” Summer said, resuming her painting, “that was sort of my impression of him. Warm, supportive, protective; upset by the system and focused on helping me through it.” She’d been relieved to realize mid-appointment that Dr Chase was bending the rules for her not because she was a Dorley girl, but because she was a trans girl; she hadn’t wanted to believe that someone who seemed so kind could be bought like Mrs Prentice.
(And then he’d passed away a few months later, and the Gender Recognition Panel had asked for additional documentation that he was no longer around to provide, and finding a replacement had taken so long that she’d graduated in four years instead of three. But Summer wasn’t going to complain about that inconvenience to the man’s daughter.)
Persephone smiled. “Yes, that’s exactly what he was like. He would make me feel perfectly safe and then come down on whatever had harmed me like the wrath of God.” Summer let go of her hand and she held it out carefully, trying not to touch anything with the wet polish. “Quite a coincidence that you should have crossed paths with him, though.”
“Less than you’d think,” Summer said, capping the polish and setting it aside. “The trans community is a bit of a small world. Just like I’ve worked with a lot of the trans girls in Edinburgh, your mum would have worked with a lot of the trans people ‘round London. Now then,” she continued, picking up a jar of primer, “we should start on your makeup. Next time, we’ll talk through everything I’m doing and what it’s for, but tonight, I want you to just relax and let me take care of you. Alright, Penny?”
“Sure.” Persephone only lightly blushed.
“Good girl,” Summer said. Then she carefully set aside Persephone’s glasses and went to work.
With gentle fingers, deft brushwork, and careful strokes, Summer painted Persephone’s face. She evened out her skin tone, brought out her eyes, drew attention to her lips, sculpted her cheeks, rounded the corners of her jaw. As she did, Summer laid down a gentle patter of lightly-edited stories about her time with Tabby and Autumn to keep Persephone from needing to move her face. And if she spent more time than was strictly necessary gazing into Persephone’s eyes, she could tell herself that she was simply making sure that the eyeshadow had been layered in the correct pattern, the liner was smooth and flawless, the mascara hadn’t clumped. She wasn’t just doing it just to enjoy the pretty green eyes of a girl who clearly adored her.
And when at last she had finished her work, one part of her wanted to spend the whole evening looking at the beautiful woman she’d known was hidden in Persephone’s features all along, and another wanted to wipe her work clean so she’d have an excuse to do it all again. Instead, she did the thing she ought to do: She gave Persephone back her glasses and told her what to do next.
“I’ve laid out your outfit in the bedroom,” Summer told her. “Call me in if you need any help. Particularly getting the dress on—you don’t want to mess up your makeup.”
Persephone nodded and headed to the doorway Summer pointed out to her.
“And sweetheart? You’re gorgeous. You’ll see soon enough.”
Persephone probably blushed, though it was hidden behind her makeup, and continued onward with a little spring in her step.
* * *
It had been a decade since she’d last worn a dress.
As a child, Persephone’s parents had given her free rein to choose her own clothes, and she’d always chosen to have a couple of dresses in her closet. Not too many, because her classmates and neighbors got weird when she wore them, but enough so that if she had a day at home, or one of her parents was taking her out for errands, or the three of them were going to a pride event, she could wear something cute and flowing and different from the usual shirt and trousers. Sometimes, in her childish androgyny, a stranger would tell her parents that she was pretty or call her their daughter, and she would wonder why she felt a little thrill at their words.
So the casual green dress and the black leggings laid out on Summer’s bed were like old friends to Persephone. The knickers and bralette, though? Those were new.
She stepped towards the bed to take a closer look. Both were black, with enough lace to make a girl feel pretty but not enough to look like an invitation.
And, some part of her refused to stop pointing out, they had been chosen for her by Summer. The gentle touches and soft music associated with her hormone jabs were already enough to make Persephone’s cheeks heat, but wearing the underwear Summer had picked out for her? That was a totally different level of intimacy.
Which is obviously unintended, Persephone, she reminded herself. Don’t make it weird!
Casting about for a distraction, she looked around the room. It was decorated in soft pastels. There was a vanity and a standing mirror—both covered, because Summer wanted Persephone to see the result first this time—and a door to a closet. Heavy curtains were drawn over a window; beside it, hats and belts and jackets hung on pegs. A bench sat at the foot of the bed; it had a hinged top that suggested storage. The bed itself was large and almost hip-height, and Persephone noticed a strange flash of silver near the headboard. Curious, she stepped toward it and tugged...
It was a chain. A chain leading to a padded leather cuff.
Persephone’s cheeks filled with heat and she stumbled backwards, running into a dresser and knocking a few knickknacks astray.
There was a knock on the door. “Everything alright?” Summer’s voice called.
“Y-yes! Good! Fine!” Persephone replied.
“Okay,” Summer said. “Let me know if you need anything.”
Now desperate for anything that might distract her, Persephone picked up the underwear and tried very hard not to think about which needs Summer might be able to fulfill.
* * *
“I-I’m ready,” Summer heard Persephone call through the bedroom door.
“Okay,” Summer said, and a few steps later, she opened it.
Summer took in a lot in the first second or so. Persephone had put on most of the outfit, but the dress was still on the bed, along with her boy clothes and her glasses. Summer had been right about her build: even with the leggings obscuring the muscles, Persephone’s thighs were clearly powerfully built, while her upper body was more slender and limber; she had a few long, thin, pale scars on her arms and torso that Summer supposed were from fencing accidents. But she filed away further thoughts about Persephone’s body for later, because from her expression and the way she was holding her hands over herself, Summer could tell that she was not very comfortable being seen like this. Instead, Summer looked her in the eyes and smiled. “Looks good so far. Just the dress now?”
Persephone nodded shyly.
“Why don’t you turn around, then?” Summer asked, picking up the dress and undoing the zipper.
“Okay.” Persephone turned, and with a sigh of relief, dropped her hands to her sides. Then Summer—with only a very brief glance at an arse that was, frankly, amazing for someone just starting on hormones—helped her carefully lower the dress on to her shoulders, avoiding the makeup on her face. Summer slid her hands down Persephone’s sides, tugging out creases, straightening seams, doing her best to ignore both Persephone’s little shivers and the voice in the back of her head telling her to knock it the fuck off.
“Alright, sweetie,” Summer said, “turn around.”
Persephone giggled a little as the dress swished around her. “I missed that,” she said, squinting down at the dress’s skirt. “How do I look?”
Like you could snap my neck with your thighs and I’d love every minute of it. “Good,” Summer said. “Really good. But it could use one more thing…” She spun on her heel, walked over to her belts, and selected a black one with silver studs. “Here,” she said, “this’ll define your waist a bit more.” She wrapped it around Persephone’s waist and buckled it.
Persephone started feeling around on the mattress for her glasses, but Summer picked them up for her. “Here, I’ve got you.” She gently set them on Persephone’s nose. Just as she’d hoped, the glasses didn’t hide Persephone’s eyes or her eye makeup; instead, they framed them perfectly. The girl had good taste in eyewear.
Persephone smiled at Summer as she came into focus, then looked down at her outfit again, examining it more closely. Summer led her over to stand before the mirror, which she’d covered in a sheet.
Persephone looked nervous. She’s going to make it, Summer promised herself. No matter what.
“Ready?” Summer asked.
“A-as I’ll ever be,” Persephone said.
Summer reached out and tugged the sheet to the floor.
* * *
She was there.
She was there!
The girl in the mirror was so overwhelming that Persephone struggled to register the details. Her green dress was simple and casual, but flattering; her belt hinted at the cocky swagger she loved to see in other women; her nails, painted in the same shade as the dress, made the outfit look put-together and intentional; her hair, pulled up in the high ponytail she usually wore around Summer, contrasted beautifully with the green; and the makeup—the makeup sanded down everything she hated about her face and made everything that seemed alright even better.
She wasn’t just there. She was pretty!
“Summer! I—“
But when the girl in the mirror spoke in Persephone’s too-low voice, the spell was broken. Suddenly the things she had overlooked came rushing back: the too-broad shoulders, the too-narrow hips, the imperfections in how the makeup simulated shadows to fix her jaw and hide her brow.
Persephone whimpered and looked down at the floor.
“You saw her?” Summer asked.
“Not anymore,” Persephone said glumly.
“But you did see her,” Summer said, stepping between her and the mirror, crouching down a little. “Right?”
“Right,” Persephone said, meeting her eyes.
“Good,” Summer said. “Because that’s who I see when I look at you. She’s always there; she’s not even that difficult to bring out. And it’s only going to get easier to find her. Until one day, you’ll just roll out of bed, put on your glasses, and see her in the mirror without any effort.” Summer took her hand; her bright blue eyes seemed more intense than ever. “And if you let me, I’m going to help you through as much of it as possible. We’ll do it together, because you’re worth it. Alright?”
“A-alright,” Persephone said.
She looked up at the mirror again. This time, she saw it all at once: the pretty parts, the ugly parts. The girl-in-progress. The body she could deal with, for now. With help. With hope.
“Alright,” she said again, more firmly. “Alright.” She looked Summer in the eye. “Together.”