Thanks for tuning in as I post chapters of my new novel When Ivy Met Adam: A second chance, forced proximity, sexy, queer love-triangle romance. Your feedback is everything. Please post comments here or email me. I’m so excited to hear what you think.

Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapters 8&9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12

Chapter 13

It’s a thirty-minute commute to the hardcore gym I found, but it’s well worth the time it takes to get here and the twenty bucks it costs to work out. (Don’t tell the owner, but I’d pay him three times that for the privilege to work out in this place.) In a gym like this, graffiti walls, loud rock, and lots of sweat are the order of the day. No smoothie bar, no spa here. I fucking love it.

And today, I fucking need it.

Ivy’s reaction is perfectly understandable. I shocked her. I get it. In my defense, a lot of what transpired yesterday was out of my control. How could I have known she’d be here, twenty-five hundred miles from where we re-connected? There’s no way she could have known the guy she met on Bumble (much less the ex who ghosted her nearly a decade ago) would be here in her vacation spot. Fate is a funny fucker when it wants to be.

“Hey doc,” the owner-slash-trainer of this old school gym greets me. Open on Christmas and greeting guests. God bless this man.

“Nelson, hey.” We shake hands. Secretly, this is my favorite part of being a dude. Manly handshakes. That and peeing standing up.

“What’s on today?” he asks. Curious, but also willing to help if I need it.

“Chest and tris,” I say.

“Get after it. Holler if you need anything,” he says. He knows I’m flying solo for a month and has offered to spot me as necessary. Cool gym owner shit.

“Thanks, man. Imma start on the bench. Swing by in a minute? I want to go hard.”

“Fuck, yeah,” he says.

I set up a warm-up weight and power out three fast sets just to get moving. Get out of my head and into my body. Prepare my muscles for the shit that’s about to go down.

I have always been a fit and active person—Ivy and I were a fit and active couple for four years. We biked everywhere during the school year. I swam for the university and Ivy played intramural sports like it was her job. We hiked on the weekends. Our spring breaks were spent surfing and playing beach volleyball while our friends made poorer choices. We skied with my folks at Thanksgiving and her folks over Christmas. Oh, and we fucked. All that exercise made us ravenous for each other’s bodies. Her long ponytail in my hand as I kissed her jaw. Smooth, soft skin over taught muscles. Her perfect ass filling my hands as I— Wait. What was I saying?

Oh, right. I have always been a fit and active person—but since my transition, lifting weights is my therapy. My hobby. My passion. Today is chest and triceps. Kind of my favorite day. I count myself infinitely blessed that my doctors and I didn’t see the need for top surgery. Ivy always said she was tiny tittied, but I was never even an A-cup. So, a serious workout regimen and weekly t-shots are all I need. Thank God. Well, actually, thank my doctors and counselors at Mount Sinai. Their advice was to start testosterone therapy a year before deciding about surgery. So, a year of shots and weightlifting saved me an entire trip under the knife. That said, I would have done it. I wish every man in the world who needs it could have masculinizing chest contouring surgery at an affordable price—or hell, let’s make it free.

Nelson comes over as I start loading on weight. He’s an older guy but still ridiculously fit. I’m taller than he is, so it’s pretty useless to compare, but he’s built the way I strive to be. Huge chest, everything else proportional to that. He used to be a professional bodybuilder. He works out with The Rock. I’m kind of in awe of him. “How’s doctoring the fancy folks?” he asks as I finish loading up the bar.

“Tough job, but somebody’s gotta do it,” I joke.

He laughs. He gets behind the bench to spot me. My goal is to go as heavy as I can while maintaining good form. This is the weight I tapped out the last time I worked my chest. The anxiety coursing through my veins makes it easy as pie today. Anxiety and its pal adrenaline, plus a full day of rest. I did nothing but worry yesterday, so I am ready to kill it today.

“I ran into my ex on the job,” I say as I get up after eight easy reps.

“No fucking way.” He laughs. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into yours. What happened?”

I tell him the short version of the story while adding another plate to each side.

“Well, if you wanted to win her back, I’d say saving her life is a really good way to go about that,” he says, still laughing.

We both pay close attention as I power through eight reps at the new weight. It’s getting harder, but I think I can add more.

I get up from the bench and grab another set of plates. “Oh, I want her back. I’ve been pining for this woman for years. Wanna hear the craziest part? We met on a dating app. Not like, all those years ago. Like two weeks ago.”

“Hopena,” Nelson says.

“What’s that? Hope what?” I grin stupidly.

“My tutu used to say hopena when something was fate, destined, meant to be,” he says.

I nod slowly. “Hopena. Maybe. But fate isn’t a real thing, is it?” I hope he takes my question as rhetorical. I’m ready for my third heavy set.

“Going for eight,” he says. Yes, focus on the set. He counts me down. The seventh press is difficult. The eighth takes all I have. “Good work,” he says as he helps me rack the bar.

“Thanks, man. Feels good.” I shake out my chest, then he and I make quick work of putting the plates away.

“Keep me posted about how it goes with your—” Nelson hesitates. “Well, let’s not call her an ex anymore. Yeah, no?”

I smile at this. “No, let’s not call her an ex anymore. Ivy. Her name is Ivy.”

“Maile. You should take her a lei made out of this vine, maile. She’ll for sure take you back after that.” He walks off laughing.

“My-lee. Got it,” I say to myself as I head over to the incline press with dumbbells.

 *

The gym doesn't have locker rooms, so I head back to my quarters at the resort to get clean and have a homemade smoothie for Christmas dinner.

After my shower, I call Ivy. She doesn’t answer. Oof. I send her a text message: “Please can we talk? Walk on the beach?” What, because that went so well last time, jackass? I berate myself.

She texts me back. “Station Six at 11 a.m.” Hm. Suspicious (in the best way). I thought she was flying back to Los Angeles tonight. This can only be good news. Another hit of hope floods my veins.

“Yes’m. I’ll bring coffee.”

She doesn’t reply. But that’s okay. I’ll give her time.

 *

Early the next morning, I stop by a flower shop to use Nelson's excellent advice.

Good news:They have an open-ended maile lei. The shopkeeper explains to me, “For many centuries, leis made from the fragrant leaves of maile have been used to communicate love, respect, enduring devotion.”

“Enduring devotion sounds about right,” I say to the ancient florist. She’s beautiful in her wisdom and her wrinkles and her muumuu with her graying hair up in a bun.

“It is customary for the recipient to join the open ends to symbolize the love that weaves you two together,” she says. I must just scream mainlander to this woman—she’s explaining everything to me. But I love it.

“Mahalo for the lei and for the advice,” I say as I pay for the gorgeous shiny string of leaves.

“When she is finished with her maile, teach your friend to return it to the earth,” she says. “Many people like to hang it from a tree.”

“Oh, I’ve seen them. Now I know what I was looking at. That is a lovely sentiment. I’ll be sure to tell her.”

“When you tell her you love her, tell her how much you need her in your life going forward. Do not focus only on the past.”

My jaw drops. “More excellent advice,” I say after a long pause. “Mahalo nui.”

“Aloha. Bye bye.” She shoos me out of the store. Guess she gave me all the advice she had. Huh.

 *

The air is warm and humid. The sky is cloudless, an intense blue that almost hurts to look at. I’m wearing a tight white T-shirt and dark blue jeans. The sun warms my face and my arms. Coffees in hand, I’m wearing Ivy’s maile around my neck, mentally rehearsing taking it off my shoulders to settle it on to hers.

Walking down the street, taking in the winter sun, I remember the first time we met, and how I'd wanted to be perfect for her. But I was a mess. I was so in love with her, but I was a mess.

I'd been bullied for so long, and it had taken a toll on me. Ashamed of who I was, I had so much unlearning to do. I had to learn to love myself before I could love her. My adolescence was a parade of depression, anxiety, panic attacks. By the time I got to South Bend, nobody even needed to open their mouth and I would already feel it—because of all of the shame that came when I was getting teased, called names, and made fun of all day every day while growing up. I say I was a mess, but we all know I was only a mess on the inside. Keeping everything in its rightful place has been my obsession for as long as I can remember. It was vital to me that my orderly world did not reflect the turmoil I felt. I’m sure my neat freak ways are nearly half of what got me bullied in the first place.

There she is. I see her gorgeous halo of blonde waves first. Then she turns to me and I see her shy smile. At least she’s not scowling at me.

“Cream and sugar,” I say, handing her the coffee.

“Just the way I like it. Thank you.”

“Hold mine, too, for a second?” I hand her my coffee. I take the lei from around my neck and settle it on to her bare shoulders. “This is also for you. It’s maile. A Hawaiian vine. Like ivy.”

“Oh, thank you. Gosh, it smells good, doesn’t it?” She hands me back my coffee and buries her nose in the leaves. It makes me want to hug her. Or maybe I just always want to hug her, to hold her.

“It has many rules. I’ll tell you all of them later.”

“Oh, gosh. That sounds ominous. But okay.” She eyes me warily.

Apropos of nothing beyond the thoughts beating on the inside of my brain, screaming to get out, I say, “Ivy, you have to understand, Alejandra was never me. I have always, always been Adam.”

“I know,” she says.

“Wait, let me finish.” If I don’t say all this at once, I’ll chicken out. “It’s taken me a long time and a lot of life to get to a place where I can tell you my story, to accept it and to see that I am worthy of your love. But now, I was walking here to meet you, feeling the sun on my skin, and I feel confident. I feel like I am finally me, and that I am worthy of love. I feel like I could finally let myself love you, and that I deserved to be loved in return.”

“I know,” she says again. Again? Wait. She knows? Oh, man. That’s good, right?