Fred’s hand jerked back from the booklet as her fingers brushed his, the paper crinkling between them. He stared at the woman standing in his grandfather’s living room, at the torn t-shirt stretched over full breasts, the denim split along the curve of her hips. Her skin was flushed, glowing. Her green eyes—Tom’s eyes—held a placid, dreamy warmth.
“Tom?” The name felt wrong in his mouth. A boy’s name for this.
“Still here,” she said. Her voice was a warm, husky thing. It didn’t sound like someone pretending. It sounded settled. “Are you okay?”
He blinked. “Am *I* okay?”
She smiled, a slow, easy curve of lips that were fuller than Tom’s had been. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“You’re—” He gestured helplessly at her body, at the silver ring glinting on her right hand. The finger was slender now, feminine. The ring fit perfectly. “You’re a woman.”
“I noticed.” She looked down at herself, her hands smoothing over the swell of her hips. The motion was absent, appreciative. “It feels… right. Is that weird?”
“Yes!” The word burst out of him. He took a step back, his heel hitting the leg of the armchair. “Tom, you should be freaking out. I’m freaking out.”
She tilted her head. The movement sent a wave of sandy hair—longer now, brushing her shoulders—across her cheek. “I know. I think I should be, too. But I’m not.”
She took a step toward him. The torn jeans restricted her stride, forcing a slight, rolling shift of her hips. Fred’s eyes tracked the movement before he could stop them.
“I’m still your friend,” she said, her voice dropping to something near a whisper. “As always.”
“You don’t sound like my friend.”
“How do I sound?”
“Like a stranger.”
She reached for his hand. Her fingers were cool, her grip firm. She placed his palm flat against the soft cotton of her t-shirt, over the swell of her left breast. Fred tried to pull back, but she held him there. Under his hand, her heart beat a steady, strong rhythm. The warmth of her skin seeped through the fabric.
“Still me in here,” she murmured. “Promise.”
He could feel the weight of her, the soft give of flesh under his trembling fingers. His own pulse hammered in his throat.
“This is impossible,” he breathed.
“It’s happening.” She released his hand, but he didn’t move it. He left it there, cupping her breast through the thin cotton. His thumb brushed something hard beneath. A nipple. He snatched his hand back as if burned.
She watched him, that same calm curiosity in her eyes. “When we were kids,” she said, her gaze drifting to the dusty window. “Playing in your granddad’s yard. You’d climb the oak, and I’d pretend to be the damsel you rescued from the dragon.”
“You hated that game.”
“I never hated it.” She looked back at him. “I was always curious. About what it felt like. To be the girl.”
The admission hung in the air between them, quiet and immense.
Fred’s eyes dropped to the booklet still clutched in his other hand. *The Secret to a Perfect Wife*. The silver ring on her finger seemed to pulse, a dull gleam in the afternoon light.
“The booklet,” he said, his voice rough. “It says ‘the lesson begins.’”
“Then I guess we should read it.” She moved closer again, the scent of her—clean sweat and something subtly sweet—filling the space. She didn’t reach for the booklet. She just stood there, waiting, her body a question he didn’t know how to answer.