Dilly insisted that, since Asher’s transition was not “complete,” he was still partly female and should retain that portion of his identity for political reasons. Asher argued that he could be a man—actually, he preferred boy (at thirty he still passed for twelve)—any way he wanted. Having studied Gender and Sexuality in undergrad didn’t grant her license to police him.

“I didn’t write it,” Asher said.

“But look,” Dilly said. “His name was Ashley. That’s you. Just in the weird-ass third person.”

“No,” said Asher. “That’s Rachel.”

Dilly’s mouth slackened. “Rachel Rachel?”

Dilly had been impressed, as everyone was, by how beautiful Rachel was, with her auburn curls and beaky mouth, her torso a slender curve, and especially by the fancy academic law positions she secured wherever she went—New Haven, Boston, Atlanta, where she’d received a cushy law review fellowship, and now Olympia. Dilly had mocked Asher for letting her go: “Why didn’t you pass her to me? I could handle a girl like that.”

Dilly bowed back into the text, receiving it with new knowledge. The pages were so nakedly written, so humiliating in their awkwardness, that Asher had thought at first he’d written them himself, or that Rachel had tapped into his thought stream. He paces the apartment like an animal. He’s sick of it all—me, especially. Sometimes I find him clenching like he’s trying to shit, like he’s willing himself gone.

She’d scooped out a teaspoon of his most secret emotions. He went woozy picturing Ivan reading those words, understanding Asher’s transition in the most intimate way possible. Learning Asher was thoughtful and lovable, that the two of them had potential for more than a hookup, a filling up of each other’s loneliest pockets.

Dilly lowered the pages. “Man,” she said. “Rachel doesn’t look too awesome here. Did she give you permission to share this?”