No more secrets

You pick up the phone and type to Janelle: Yes to tomorrow. Pick me up at 2:25. Thank you.

Simple. Practical. You're not forgiving her—you're accepting a ride to a medical appointment. That's all it is.

Her reply comes in under a minute: I'll be there. Thank you, Riley.

You set the phone down and open the fridge. The groceries Gus delivered yesterday—eggs, spinach, a sad-looking tomato, cheese that's probably fine. You crack eggs into a bowl, whisk them with a fork, heat butter in a pan. The mechanical motions of cooking settle something in your chest.

One more thing.

You pull up Chloe's contact. The selfie from this afternoon sits in your camera roll—the warm light of Petal & Thread behind you, your face composed and professional in the navy wrap dress, ponytail neat, the shop your shop now. You attach it and type two words: Big changes.

Send.

You pour the eggs into the pan and watch them set, pushing them around with a spatula. The kitchen fills with the smell of butter and cooking eggs. You add spinach, let it wilt, grate cheese over the top. It's not gourmet but it's food and you made it yourself in your aunt's ridiculous smart kitchen while wearing a wrap dress and block heels you kicked off the moment you walked in the door.

You're plating the eggs when your phone rings. Not a buzz, not a vibration—a full ringtone, the default marimba tone you never bothered to change. The screen shows CHLOE ELLISON with a small video call icon.

You answer.

"RILEY?! WHAT. THE. HELL?!!!"

Chloe's face fills the screen—Barcelona evening light behind her, a sangria glass in one hand, her expression somewhere between delighted and absolutely losing her mind. Her long dark hair is loose over bare shoulders, a strappy top visible, and she's leaning so close to the camera you can see the individual lashes of her mascara.

"I literally just—Riley. RILEY. You look—oh my God, you look AMAZING. Is that MY dress? That's my navy wrap, isn't it? The one from the Reformation sample sale?"

You open your mouth but she's not done.

"Wait. Wait wait wait. 'Big changes'?! You can't just send me a selfie looking like a freaking magazine editorial and type TWO WORDS. What is happening?! Are you—did you—are you—"

She stops. Her eyes go wide. Her mouth forms a small O.

"Oh my God. Riley. Are you transitioning?"

The kitchen is very quiet. The eggs are getting cold on the plate. Your heart is doing something complicated in your chest.

Well. That happened faster than I expected.

Chloe's face shifts—still stunned, but softer now, her eyes searching the screen for your reaction.

"I'm not—I'm not being weird, I swear. I just—you look so happy? You look like you belong there. In that dress. In that shop. You look like YOU. And I've known you my whole life and I've never seen you look like that."

She takes a breath. Sets down the sangria.

"Talk to me. Please. I'm your cousin and I love you and I've been in Barcelona drinking too much cava and you just sent me the most beautiful photo I've ever seen of you and I need to know what's going on."