The text came at 8:57 pm, three minutes early.
Brett was already curled on the white sofa in the Cocoon, legs tucked under him, wearing the pale pink cashmere lounge set Julian had picked out, his long honey blonde extensions in a loose braid over one shoulder, his big blue eyes fixed on his phone. His nails, freshly done in a sheer ballet pink, tapped against the screen.
Lance: Change of plans. Dad needs me here another month. Meridian deal is messy. I'm sorry.
Brett read it twice. His full lips parted. His chest, tender now with real, soft swelling under his shirt from five weeks of the higher hormone dose, did a strange tight squeeze that had nothing to do with the corset he wasn't wearing tonight.
Another month. Thirty more days in this glass house alone.
He stared at the words until they blurred. He was twenty-one, five foot eight, down to one hundred and fifty-two pounds, his waist twenty-six inches even without steel, his skin golden from tanning, his face smooth from electrolysis, and he had been counting down the days until Lance walked through that door and saw Brielle in person for the first time.
His thumbs hovered. Then he typed, his heart hammering.
That sucks. I miss you.
Lance: I miss you too. Send me a pic? I need to see how you're doing.
Brett's breath caught. He looked up at his reflection in the dark window over the lake. The girl there had his mother's eyes and his own soft mouth and hair that fell past her breasts now. She looked beautiful. She looked ready to be seen.
And then he remembered Singapore, week one, night one. No more pictures till I'm back.
A slow, mischievous smile spread across his berry-tinted lips. Something hot and playful sparked in his belly, something that felt very much like power.
He typed back, his pink nails clicking.
Sorry. You said no pictures until I see you in person. I'm sticking to that. ;-) x
He added the wink and the kiss emoji before he could chicken out and hit send.
The three dots appeared instantly. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.
Lance: You're kidding me.
Brett: Nope. Your rule, not mine. Be a good boy and wait.
He pressed the phone to his chest and laughed out loud, a bright, girlish peal that echoed in the empty living room. For the first time since this started, he wasn't the one waiting for Lance's approval. He was making Lance wait for him.
Lance: Fine. You're trouble, Brielle.
Brett's full lips curved wider at the name. He typed back: You have no idea.
He set the phone down, his heart racing for a completely different reason than loneliness.
Week five started the next morning without a corset.
Mara met him in the home studio, which had been transformed overnight. The mirrors were uncovered, a ballet barre installed along one wall, the floor sprung and smooth.
"No steel today," Mara said, handing him a folded pile of pale pink. "You need to learn to hold yourself, not be held."
Brett unfolded it with shaking hands. A leotard, soft matte fabric with a sweetheart neckline. A pair of convertible ballet tights, the same sheer pink as his nails. And a short, fluffy practice tutu in layers of blush tulle.
He changed behind the screen, his hands trembling. No corset meant he felt naked, exposed. The leotard hugged his newly lean torso, showing the small, tender swell of his breasts that the hormones had gifted him. The tights slid up his hairless, golden legs like a second skin, smoother even than stockings. He pulled the tutu on over his hips and it floated around his thighs.
He stepped out.
Mara's eyes softened. "Oh, Brielle."
Brett walked to the mirror and stopped breathing.
The girl in the glass was long and lean and elegant. At one hundred and fifty-two pounds, his shoulders were still there, but his waist dipped in, his hips had a gentle flare from fat redistribution, his legs in pink tights looked endless. The leotard showed his collarbones, sharp and feminine, and the gold B necklace resting in the hollow of his throat. His long blonde hair was pulled into a high ponytail, his big blue eyes wide, his full lips parted in shock.
He looked like a dancer. He looked like a woman.
"Barre," Mara said gently. "First position."
Brett placed his hand on the barre, turned his feet out, and bent his knees in a plié. Without the corset forcing his posture, he had to find the strength in his core, in his back, in his own muscles. He wobbled.
"Again," Mara said. "Fluid. No jerks. Women move like water, Brielle. Not like soldiers."
For an hour she made him do slow tendus, sliding his foot along the floor in the pink tights, feeling every muscle in his lengthened leg engage. She made him do port de bras, arms floating up and around like he was moving through water. She made him do slow, controlled stretches at the barre, his hamstrings screaming, his spine lengthening.
Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran down his temple. His breath came in soft pants. Without the steel, he felt every inch of his body working together, fluid and feminine and strong in a completely new way.
"Good," Mara whispered on day three when he held an arabesque for ten seconds, one leg behind him, arms graceful, tutu floating. "Feel that line? That's yours. No corset gave you that."
Brett held the pose and looked at himself in the mirror, chest heaving, cheeks flushed pink, eyes bright with tears from effort and hormones and pride.
He felt beautiful and powerful at the same time.
That night at 9 pm, Lance texted as always.
How was ballet?
Brett was still in his leotard, too tired to change, his hair damp with sweat, his legs aching in the best way. He snapped a photo of just his pink-nailed feet in first position on the ballet floor, the tutu edge visible, nothing that showed his face.
He sent it with a caption: Still no face pics. But my feet say hi. ;-)
Lance replied instantly: Cruel.
Brett laughed and curled up on his bed in his leotard and tights, his long hair spread around him, his body loose and warm and aching from dance, and felt a deep, delicious sense of control.
Lance had to stay in Singapore another month. Fine. Brett, no, Brielle, would spend that month becoming so fluid, so feminine, so completely herself that when Lance finally walked through that door, he wouldn't just see his best friend in a dress.
He would see a ballerina who had learned to hold herself up without any steel at all.…