Besides the rants about Asher’s crush, the entry contained surprisingly sweet projections about Asher’s transition: the pain of his forthcoming surgery, the childhood nicknames he’d abandon, the awkwardness of running into people who’d mistake him for a cousin of his former self. This is so dubious, this transition bullshit, like what the fuck is she doing? I’m not even breathing right now. I’m, like, sick. Because how can I promise to love some boy I’ve never met? But then I look at him and I’m, like, some parts will stay, right? I can focus my love on the parts that will stay. Like his mouse nose, that silly hair. I love her so much it’s stupid.

Months later, propelled by Dilly’s growing disinterest in the club, Asher had typed and printed the four-page diary entry, preparing the booklet as his grand gesture. When Ivan read it, he’d understand that Asher’s crush was serious. He’d see how much Rachel had loved him, how lovable he was. How, even in her anger, she’d hated to lose him.

As Asher scurried around wiping grease off the stove, his phone rang with its festive buzzing birds. Ivan’s face appeared on the screen. Asher tossed the device, having forgotten he’d programmed in Ivan’s photograph, which had clearly not been taken consensually: depicting Ivan chomping an egg burrito that Asher had folded for him at a book club meeting back in August. Asher had already appreciated, by then, the way Ivan moved like liquid, curled on the floor leaning against Asher’s rock-hard couch, not flinching when a cockroach paused to nibble a tablet of poison.

“Let him eat,” Asher had said. “He’ll share it with his family and they’ll all die.”

Ivan had rolled his eyes like he was Asher’s brother or like they’d been boys together. Asher had longed to flirt back. Instead he’d squeezed Rachel’s hand.

Asher found his phone in the corner of the room and hit ignore. He needed Ivan to finish reading, to let the text absorb. He paced to his rickety coffee table and back. The phone rang again. Ivan, again. If only Asher’s past self could see him hitting ignore on the call he’d yearned for months to receive. He would burn off his nerves by walking to Emory Village for coffee.

Outside, the January afternoon was summery and calm, the sky a white blanket of sun. Cedar waxwings picked at glossy berries hanging over the stoop. As Asher stepped onto the gravel walkway, Dilly burst from a shrub. She screamed, puffs of ginger hair jangling, her face wrenched in eager horror.

“Oh god.” Asher was embarrassed to find his hand on his heart. He touched his chest often since the surgery, reminding himself that he finally had what he’d long needed.

“Ha!” she cried.