Under My Skin

by A. E. Dooland

  Being with Bree wasn't about making peace with my bullies, either. Bree was about the fun I had with her. She made me happy, and even though she was so screwed up and prone to terrible decisions, she still tried to the best of her ability to be good and do good. There was so much to admire in that. When I kissed her, when I held her, I was doing those things for the same reasons other couples did, and for reasons that were never present when I let Henry touch me.

  Bree and I clicked together like pieces in a jigsaw. I was big and she was small. I was quiet and she was loud. Her body had curves and mine had edges, I looked out for her and she took care of me. It was right, and I had never felt that with Henry. Never. I enjoyed his company, I really liked him as a person, I even loved him. But he and I were the same piece of the puzzle, we had the same gaps. We didn’t complement each other.

  He wasn't right about this one, and I'd deferred to his wisdom about things so often in the past that actually hearing myself think ‘Henry’s wrong’ was jarring.

  And it was jarring, too, hearing him dismiss the things I'd done to him so easily. “Henry,” I said, “that's fucked up. You're happy about the things I've done?”

  He made a face. “Poor wording,” he conceded. “But I understand why you're doing them.”

  I shook my head slowly. “I don't think you do,” I said. “I'm not using Bree to come to terms with high school, and I'm not dressed like this because I'm 'reclaiming' my past. It's more than that.”

  He didn't look convinced, but he tried to be kind in the way he explained himself to me. “Min,” he said gently. “It's been one, maybe two months—only the duration of this incredibly stressful project—that you've even known Bree or had any interest in changing yourself.”

  The implication, of course, being that none of it was genuine, just a result of me being fucked up over work. “Henry, it doesn't matter how long it's been. I'm not using Bree, and I know how I feel about myself.”

  He made a face. “It does matter how long it's been. For the first one to three months of a relationship, your body is flooded with chemicals that give you a natural high, and so I can understand that—”

  I interrupted him. “—Henry, I'm not using Bree.”

  He calmly continued. “—And I've watched you for the last four years consume hefty amounts of red wine, pain killers and whatever synthetic chemicals are in energy drinks. I know you self-medicate, Min, and I understand it's—”

  No. I threw my hands up. “Henry, stop!” I told him. “Stop. We're talking about a person, here. A real person with real feelings, and I am not using her. She's not a drug to me. I'm not sleeping with a bottle of red wine, I'm sleeping with another person. I've cheated on you. Doesn't that mean something to you?”

  I watched his throat bob. He put his hands on my shoulders again. “Min, I love you,” he said, “and I know you. I've watched you cycle in and out of enough bad patches to know that things will get better for you and you'll be happy again. Of course it means something to me that you're sleeping with someone else, but it makes sense, so I forgive you for it. And I'd much rather you do something like this now than later when we have children to take care of.”

  I shrugged off his hands. That was the most hurtful thing: he wasn't listening to me, he wasn’t trusting my judgement. I knew his reaction was coloured by years of taking care of me when I was really struggling, and he was only doing what he thought was right, but still. Still. It hurt that he didn’t believe me when I said, ‘I’m sure’.

  There was no use arguing with him about this. I just needed to cut to the chase.

  I took a breath. “Henry, there is no ‘happy again’. I haven’t been actually happy for years.” I said it as kindly as I could, because he had to hear it. “And there's not going to be any children.”

  The look on his face… he hadn’t been expecting me to say that, and it hurt him. “Maybe if you tried anti-depressants again you might feel differently about having—”

  “No.” I watched him. “I know enough about myself to know I'm not supposed to carry children, and I—”

  “—well, there's always adoption,” he interjected, desperation audible. “It's quite popular these days, and what with our work, it would mean that—”

  “—Henry.” He stopped talking and we stood there watching each other for a moment. “I need you to hear this: the past few weeks, I've realised that my body issues aren't because I was bullied in high school. They're because I'm transgender, and I don't really know what that means about where I'll end up yet, but—”

  “Then don't you want to wait until you do know what it means before you do anything rash?” he asked me. “Before you throw the baby out with the bathwater?”

  “I know enough to know the changes I'm making are right,” I told him, “and Bree's been supporting me and—”

  “And I understand why it would have been so hard to come to me about this,” he said, his hands up as he tried to placate me. “These topics are very difficult for people to raise with loved ones, and so it all makes sense that you'd need to find someone else to confide in and—”

  I stopped him. “Can you stop minimising this?” I asked him. “Can you just stop? I cheated on you, and I've been hiding this very big personal issue from you, and you've somehow reduced this to a matter of me going through a 'bad patch'.”

  “I recognise that, Min,” he told me. “But why people do things matters. I don't believe for a second that you don't care about me, so I know you didn't do any of this because you don't care about my feelings. You did all this because you were in a very bad place with compromised judgement, and so I don't blame you for—”

  “—can you stop that?” I cut him off. “Stop making excuses for me! Blame me, for fuck's sake! I deserve it! I've done something awful to you, my judgement wasn’t compromised when I did it, and I did it anyway!”

  “And I forgive you for it, Min!” he said, his voice wavering. “I forgive you, because you're the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with, and in every relationship there are ups and downs!”

  I couldn't bear it. “I'm not, Henry,” I told him. “I'm not the woman you want to spend the rest of your life with. I'm not even a woman!”

  He was beginning to fray around the edges. I could see him clench and unclench his hands, straighten his suit jacket. “You said you didn't know if you were—”

  “I know that much!” I told him. “And I'm trying to tell you something here, I'm trying to tell you that I've been cheating on you and I have feelings for her, and I'm trying to tell you something deeply personal about me and who and I am and you're not listening. You're not listening to me! It's like you just want to just carry on as normal and pretend everything's fine and nothing's wrong and—”

  Something in him broke. “—You want to know the truth, Min?” he asked, and his voice snapped like a cut guitar string. “You want to know what's really going on in here?” He tapped his head. “It's like this: if I take what you're saying at face value, it means,” his voice caught, “it means that this woman I'm in love with, this woman I've spend the last few years of my life supporting, loving and imagining my future with, the woman I want to marry and raise a family together with and grow old with doesn't exist. And you're just standing here demanding I accept that without thinking about the last few years we've had together, and accepting that—”

  “—you have to accept that, Henry,” I told him. “You have to, because it's—”

  “Think about what you're asking me to accept, Min!” he said, raising his voice. “Think about the reality you're demanding I face! Could you face it? Could you?”

  I gaped at him. I'd never heard him shout at someone before; he'd shouted at cooking, the PlayStation, he'd shouted when he was angry with Sean, but he'd never shouted at me.

  It didn’t last long. He cupped my cheeks in his hands, careful to avoid my stitches. “Min,” he pleaded with me, “Min, it's been four years. Four years. Do you really want to throw that away
after a single month? It feels self-destructive, it feels like you're doing all these terrible things to try and push me away because you want to fulfil the prophecy you've always been afraid of: that you don't deserve anyone. I don't want you to push me away just because you want to punish yourself—”

  “—I'm not punishing myself, and I know it's only been a month, but—”

  “It has only been a month,” he said. “Can you really know in a month? Is that really enough time to undo four years of knowing someone? Three years of a relationship with them? Is one month really enough?”

  Unexpectedly, my eyes were swimming. “Yes,” I said simply.

  His were to, and each of his breaths was ragged. “I don't believe it,” he said shortly. “I don't believe it. I don't want to let you throw everything away, everything you've worked so hard for, everything we've done together—”

  “Please, Henry,” I said quietly, “Please...”

  He shook his head tightly. “No,” he said. “No, I can't believe it.”

  My throat was so tight. “You have to,” it was barely more than a breath. “Henry, it's over.”

  He released my face, taking a step away from me, and... god, I watched him crack. I watched my pillar of strength, the man who'd supported me and loved me and been there for me shake and crumble in front of my eyes. I watched all of it, knowing it was my fault.

  His face crumpled, and tears spilt down his cheeks, and from deep within this chest he made this strangled noise and when he looked at me he wasn't hiding it anymore. It was all there, in every line on his face: despair.

  I took a few steps towards him with the intention of offering him comfort, but he stepped away from me. “No,” he hissed, his voice loaded with emotion. “No, please don't.”

  I didn't. I stood away from him as he struggled to breathe, stepping this way and that, clutching at his hair... eventually he collapsed on the couch with his head in his hands and cried. Deep, open sobs, his throat raw and his chest heaving and, god, I'd never heard a man cry like that before.

  The worst part was, the man was Henry. My funny, light-hearted, patient Henry. He'd held me when I'd cried. It was his soothing voice that talked me down from panic attacks and comforted me when I was struggling. We'd talked houses, children, growing old together and for the past three years, when he looked at me I could see those dreams in his eyes.

  He was the first person to love me unconditionally. The first person who wrapped his arms around me and made me feel safe and grounded and loved. There was security in him, he'd always been like a lighthouse to me while I tried to figure out where to sail.

  And I was letting go of that. I was cutting the rope and pushing out to sea. I was letting go of him and setting off on a voyage without his guiding light.

  As much as it hurt, as much as he hurt, it was right.

  “Can you give me a minute?” he asked, not looking at me.

  I opened my mouth, but I didn't know what to say. I just closed it again and left. The only place to go sit was out on the balcony, so I went and slid the door open, closing it behind me and walking out to the railing.

  The beautiful day had turned into a beautiful evening, and as the sunlight faded all the city started to glow against the sky. The opera house was lit in multi-colours again; cycling through greens and blues and reds as I watched it. Peak-hour traffic was beginning to slow on the bridge, and below the hotel, out on the street, couples walked hand-in-hand towards restaurants. Families arrived fresh from the airport to check in the hotel. Out on the balcony of an adjoining building I could see a woman sipping a glass of white and turning the page of her book. There was a dog barking somewhere.

  Henry and I had broken up, and everywhere, life went on.

  I turned one of the chairs out to face the view because I didn't have that much time left to appreciate it. From memory, I recalled hearing that employees were generally given a week to clear their belongings after their contracts finished; I was assuming it was the same if I was terminated. Either way, I should really start packing.

  That's when it really hit home for me. 'Packing' meant leaving, leaving the place I'd called home. It meant leaving the company I'd absolutely sacrificed myself to for the past five years, and venturing out into an unknown job market and with nowhere to live yet. I'd always assumed that if I left Frost I'd move in with Henry—and he'd said several times I was welcome to do that—but I'd left him, too.

  I was leaving everything, everything I believed and thought I knew about myself behind. The person who was going to walk out of this apartment didn't even resemble the person who walked into it, and that was terrifying. Despite the fact it was terrifying, and despite the fact I had no idea what I was going to do next with myself, I was doing the right thing. And because of that, I knew that somehow I'd be okay.

  I'd been sitting out in the fading twilight, trying to picture what my life was going to look like now when I heard the balcony door slide open and closed.

  There was a scrape of a metal chair leg against the concrete, and Henry appeared beside me. He flopped down into one of the chairs, facing out towards Sydney. He didn't look at me.

  I didn't say anything to him, either. His eyes were bloodshot from crying, and there was a tightness in his jaw and a pull in his lips that suggested he was still on the cusp of starting all over again. It was hard to look at. He'd done nothing but care for me, support me and love me, and this was how it ended up for him. It just wasn't fair.

  I'd been looking at his hand on the armrest because it was just a short distance from mine, and he noticed. He turned it over and opened his palm to me, and I put my hand in his. It was warm and familiar, and when I laced our fingers together, he squeezed them so, so tightly.

  Closing his eyes for a moment, fresh tears ran over his cheeks. I wanted to dry them.

  “I love you,” I said quietly. “I know it's hard to believe.”

  His eyes were still closed and when he nodded, it was this tiny, almost imperceptible movement. “Just not enough,” he murmured. There wasn't anything I could say to that. After a few seconds he opened his eyes. They were glazed. “I keep going over what happened in the last two months and wondering what I could have done differently,” he began. “That night you left the restaurant early with Sarah and Rob, should I have stayed over? Maybe you'd have told me about what was troubling you. I knew it had something to do with Rob's 'bloke in a skirt' comment, I just assumed it was because of high school.” He drew another deep breath and then released it. “Or maybe I should have been more upset when you kissed that other woman, or when I realised there was something going on between you and Bree... I keep trying to figure out what I could have done differently.”

  I stroked his hand with my thumb. “Probably nothing.”

  He shook his head. “But you're leaving me,” he said aloud, finally looking towards me. “Min, what did I do wrong?”

  My heart broke for him. “Henry, you know you didn't do anything wrong.”

  He turned his head back towards the view, exhaling. “Intellectually, I know that,” he said. “Intellectually, I can tell myself that relationships don't always work out despite the best efforts of the people involved in them. But I don't believe it. I have this voice in my head reminding me how well we get along, how perfect we seemed for each other and how much we have in common...” He trailed off.

  I smiled bleakly. “Too much, in fact,” I said, looking down at my flat chest and men's jeans.

  He looked across at me again, and for the first time this evening, he spent a while considering how I looked now.

  “Is it a mistake to ask what you think?” I wondered aloud.

  His face softened and shook his head. “You want to know the first thing I noticed?” he asked, and I nodded. “It really struck me how relaxed you seem. You're normally really on edge, but...” He looked at me. I was reclined in the chair with one leg on the bottom of the railing. “Now, you just look comfortable.”

  I smiled slig
htly. “I am, like this.”

  He drew a deep breath and exhaled at length before he spoke again. “I should have known when you showed me that painting you did,” he decided, shaking his head. “No so much that you did it in the first place, but because of how much it bothered you. I should have known.”

  “I should have known. But I didn't. I still kind of don't.”

  “Are you taking male pronouns now anyway?” he asked. “Even if you're not certain yet?”

  The pronoun question... “It's up to you,” I said honestly. “I don't mind.”

  He spent another period of time considering that. “I think I will use them,” he said eventually. “And I don't want you to be upset about what I'm going to say, but,” he struggled, “you are Min Lee. I understand that, and I know some things will be the same. But you're not the Min Lee I thought I knew, the Min Lee I wanted the white picket fence and children with, and, well, she's gone, isn't she?”

  I nodded, remembering holding scissors to her last night in the mirror.

  “She's gone. I feel like I've just been told she's passed away. And, Min, I need to lay her to rest. I need to grieve for her. I need to grieve for how much I loved her and the dreams I had for the two of us. She was my world, and she's gone. That's easier for me to do if you're a him.”

  He had his hand on his chest, and I had thought it was because he was hurting, but after a few seconds he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a little black velvet box with a white satin ribbon.

  It was a Frost gift box.

  I knew it from the posters; I'd designed them. He held it out to me and I looked up at him, alarmed. He shook his head at my expression; eyes downcast. “I'm not proposing,” he said. “Take it.” I did, letting go of his hand to receive it.

  I'd seen so many soft-lensed ads of this moment. The young couple would be sharing a tender moment, and just as the music would drop off, the man would step away from her, and slowly lower himself onto one knee. She'd know immediately what was going to happen, and her lips would part. Smiling up at her, he'd hold out a box just like this. Hesitating, she'd take it, and her hand would make the same motion mine was making now to undo that pristine white ribbon. As soon as she'd seen what was inside, crying, she'd pull her new fiancé off his knee and throw her arms around his neck. Through her laughter and her tears and her disbelief, she'd whisper, 'yes'.