The truth was, Asher might not win Ivan. They only saw each other monthly at book club, after all. But Ivan asked him so often about his transition, seemed so sweetly invested, that he must’ve been interested. And Asher had already tried everything else. He hadn’t won Ivan by staring at him during meetings, or by texting him at two in the morning, or by studying critiques of the books they read so he’d have the sharpest comments. He hadn’t won Ivan by wanting him, all the time, even back a year ago when Rachel lay next to him in bed. He hadn’t won him by Googling him in secret and raising topics that might appeal—hockey, because Ivan had played as a kid; Dungeons and Dragons, ditto; Wisconsin, because he’d lived there; beer and cheese, because of Wisconsin; felony riots, because he’d been charged with one, years ago, at the Republican National Convention in Saint Paul and his mug shot was still posted, way down the results. He was so hot in that mug shot, with his crew cut, and his shoulders sagging, holding the placard like it weighed days. So if none of that had worked, then what? Then this piece of writing that was more intimate than anything he’d ever written himself.

“Soon those beautiful breasts will be gone,” Dilly continued. “Such a fucking waste. They’ll be ghost breasts jiggling through the sky. At least he’s not on T yet. At least he doesn’t have a pedophile’s mustache. Blah blah blah. Yeah, we know. You boring transkids are always yammering about logistics.”

Asher hated the sound of breasts. The hissing close of the word, the yeasty opening, still sickened him, even now that he had none to claim.

“Asher loves Ivan. It’s obvious. Though first he wanted to be him.”

Asher had been shocked when he read that line. That Rachel had known Asher deeply enough to understand he’d wanted to be Ivan first, wanted the cold course of Siberian blood cooling his organs, deleting the pads of fat over his hips and belly, melting the soft patches where his chest used to be, shaving down his cheeks until the hard edges of his skull pushed at his skin like Ivan’s. Asher stopped the thought—he shouldn’t exoticize, he was disgusting. He slammed his hip with his open palm to jar himself back to logic.

“And how, may I ask, is this exactly feminist?” Dilly asked. “It’s all about dudes.”

Asher raised his chin. “Except for the author.”

“I thought you were still denying your female side.”