Arriving at Dr Vasquez’s

You close your eyes and lean your head against the cool glass. The radio murmurs something acoustic—a woman's voice singing about rivers and leaving—and you let it wash over you without listening to the words.

The nightmare. It's right there, pressing against the inside of your skull. The crowd. The chanting. Her face.

You almost say it. The words are right there, forming in the back of your throat: I had a nightmare about you last night. You were in a crowd and you were saying those words and I couldn't make it stop. But you swallow them back. Because how does that sound? How does that land on someone who's already drowning in guilt?

It sounds like blame. It sounds like I'm holding her responsible for my subconscious. It sounds like a weapon.

So you say nothing. You sip the ginger tea. You feel the warmth of it settle in your stomach, loosening the knot that's been there since you woke up.

Janelle drives. She doesn't try to fill the silence with chatter or ask you what you're thinking. She just drives, one hand relaxed on the wheel now, the other resting on her thigh. Occasionally she glances at you in the passenger seat—a quick check, nothing lingering—and then back to the road.

The landscape shifts as you get closer to Millbrook. Farmland gives way to small clusters of houses, then a main street with a hardware store, a pizza place, a church with a white steeple. Millbrook is bigger than Larkspur Hollow but not by much—a town that exists primarily to serve the surrounding farms and the community college on its eastern edge.

You're rehearsing what to say to Dr. Vasquez. I'm transgender. I realized it last week. I've been having nightmares about being exposed. I'm terrified of telling my parents. I have a friend who said something that hurt me and I don't know if the friendship can survive it. The sentences feel clinical when you construct them in your head, like you're filling out intake paperwork instead of talking to another human being.

What if she asks about my body? What if she asks about... down there?

Your stomach clenches. You take another sip of tea.

Janelle pulls onto Maple Avenue—a quiet residential street lined with mature oaks. The buildings are a mix of old Victorians converted to offices and smaller professional buildings. She slows as the numbers climb.

"It's the yellow one," she says quietly. "The one with the porch. I looked it up."

She's right. A pale yellow Victorian with a wraparound porch sits at 412 Maple Avenue. A small wooden sign by the front steps reads DR. ELENA VASQUEZ, PSY.D. in neat serif lettering. There's a parking spot open directly in front.

Janelle pulls in and shuts off the engine. For a moment you both just sit there, the radio clicking off into silence.

"There's a coffee place two blocks that way," she says, pointing. "The Brass Kettle. I'll be there. Take as long as you need."

She doesn't ask what the appointment is for. She doesn't offer to come in. She just unbuckles her seatbelt and reaches for the book she's tucked between the seats—something with a worn paperback spine.

"Thank you," you say. "For driving me."

"Of course." She meets your eyes for the first time since you got in the car. Hers are red-rimmed but steady. "You're going to be okay in there, Riley."

Your name. She used your name. Not Chloe, not Miss Chloe, not some careful avoidance. Riley.

You grab your crossbody bag, check for your wallet—the $40 is there—and open the car door. The afternoon air hits you, cooler than you expected. The yellow Victorian looms ahead, its porch steps worn smooth by decades of feet.

This is it. This is the first real conversation about who you are with someone whose job it is to help you figure that out.

You walk up the path. The front door has a brass knocker shaped like a fern frond. You knock twice, then notice the small electronic buzzer beside it. You press that instead.