Another re-numbering has occurred, my hearts. This is the next chapter, I promise! It’s just now #33.

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 love hearing what you think.

Prologue (old) Prologue (new) 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 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 (old) Chapter 15 (new) Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapters 22&23 Chapter 26* Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31

*No chapters are missing. They just got renumbered! 🤓

Chapter 33 - Adam

I pull up to the rock climbing gym. This is where we’re having our date? Thank all that is holy, I have my gym bag in the trunk of my rental car. Of course, she knew I would. 

“Clever girl,” I say to no one as I get out of the car. She’s waiting for me just outside the entrance. Gray tights, a strappy sports bra, and a ponytail. Damn, she’s cute. 

“Ready?” is her only greeting.

Game on, little minx. “Yup.” My confidence belies the fact that I’m in dress shoes and a suit. “Give me eight minutes.”

I open the door for her and we head to the inevitable gear shop in the gym. I procure a pair of climbing shoes (mine are not in my gym bag, unfortunately) and head to the locker room. I’m in shorts, a t-shirt, and slides with my new shoes in hand (please, for the love of God, do not wear climbing shoes in the bathroom, friends). A glance at my watch says it’s been closer to 18 minutes, but Ivy doesn’t look too pissed. “Ready.”

Thirty minutes into a bouldering partner problem later, we’re in a natural rhythm of quietly supporting each other that feels like old times. “You got it.” “Yeah.” “Here you go.” “Grab my hand.” “I got you.” It took a couple tries, but we were working in complete tandem on the third round and we finished it. “Yeah! Foot five!” We tapped feet. I dropped to the mat first, and she came down right after me. 

I grabbed her waist to steady us both. “That was fun.” 

“Yeah. For sure.” She caught a few breaths. “Beer?”

“Definitely.” We changed quickly and headed to the conveniently located pub next door. 

After we settled in with beers (a Seafarer for her, an Expatriate for me), I say, “Thank you for the photos, Vee.” 

She blushes. “You’re welcome. I’m…” She hesitates.

“They were perfect. I’m so grateful.”

She smiles. “I’m glad you got them.” I think she must mean both that I received them and that I understood them. That’s my girl. Packing many meanings into very few words. 

“Do you like this?” she asks, indicating my beer.

“Very much,” I say looking at the tap more closely. I’ve never heard of Three Weavers. 

“Female-owned and brewed, a rarity in the business,” Ivy says. “Plus, the owners are awesome.” 

“Nice.” I smile at her. But again, we’re talking about nothing. “Ivy, I need to talk to you about something important.” I take a sip of my beer to settle my nerves. “I’m a pretty smart guy, but I was today years old when I realized everyone is entitled to their own opinion, and I can’t force change on others.”

With a wry grin, Ivy says, “You have my attention now.”

“I've been so sure about who I am and what I want, that I haven’t been considering your feelings. I kept telling you ‘this is the way things are’ instead of asking you how you would like things to be. I wasn’t respecting your choices. And that’s not fair to you.”

Ivy nods. She’s listening. 

“What I mean is, you deserve your space. You are your own person.” 

She raises a skeptical eyebrow at me. 

“I know you know that. What I’m saying is I know it. I’ve always known it, but I will show it now. I will support you no matter what you choose, even if it’s not what I would prefer. I need to let go of my expectations and trust that you will make the right decision for yourself.”

“Unlike before, when you up and left without considering my feelings,” she says. No holds barred here. I know that’s how it should be, but damn that packed a punch. 

“Ivy, I don't want this relationship to be one-sided. It’s clear I was behaving as though I did want it to be my way or the highway. I see that now. But I want us to be able to communicate openly and work together to move forward. I know that I can be too sure of myself sometimes, but I want you to know your feelings matter to me.”

“I appreciate that, Adam.” She narrows her eyes. “Right now, what I’m feeling is that it’s time to order another round.”

Fair enough. “Done and done,” I say as I call over the bartender. 

We keep talking but this feels different. Like we’re gaining ground, actually communicating. Turns out we were in New York at the same time, too. I was at Mount Sinai while she was in grad school. We could’ve bumped into each other at any point. Of course, it was nearly impossible to have an unexpected meeting with anyone for nearly two years at the height of the pandemic. I was frontline when the pandemic started—it was my first year of residency in emergency medicine (trial by fire, lemme tell you). She would definitely have recognized me if we’d run into each other then, still fairly early in my transition. 

If you think puberty is awkward, just try trans-masculine gender affirming medical therapies. I hated the way I looked (too much like Alejandra), the way I sounded (like a squeaky oboe), the way I felt (angry and frustrated and ready to pick a fight all the time). And yet, I was never happier. Each appointment had me feeling taller (not a thing) and more myself (definitely a thing). 

After a long evening taking our time with our beers and eventually some food—taking our time getting to know each other—we call it a night. And (do you hear the angels singing?) we walk hand-in-hand out of the pub.