You know what the funniest thing was? The first thing that tipped me off that something was wrong wasn’t the long, brunette colored hair splayed across the bed or the shifting, jiggling weight that was on my chest, but it was the fact that my CPAP machine wasn’t fitting properly. Sleep apnea has been a long-time enemy of mine, the source of many sleepless nights, so of course that meant having a tube strapped to my face and a machine pumping air into my nose. When I was woken up by air blowing into my eyes, I figured the mask clips had just snagged on something and went to adjust it. Eyes dried out and closed, I fiddled around, only to find that everything was intact, yet somehow it was as if my head had just shrank.
That was the point where the hair and breasts caught my attention. After all, it was kind of hard to ignore the unusual amounts of squishing on my chest and the tickling feeling on my neck as I turned over to grab my glasses off the nightstand.
Ripping off the mask, I shifted around, again feeling the disorientating new sensations on my chest and head as I went to stand up. I had to quickly catch myself from slipping when my pajama pants fell down and fabric pooled up around the bottom of my feet. It was only them catching on the wider width of my hips and no longer flat as a board butt that kept myself from becoming completely pantless.
“What the…what the hell!?”
I can’t say I ever had a particularly deep voice, to the point that sometimes I would be misgendered on the phone if the connection was a little messy, but it was still masculine. What was coming out of my throat now, though, was distinctly the voice of a woman.
As I worked to adjust my pants, pulling up and tightening them up at the waist in such a way that was unfortunately flattering to the figure I now possessed, I could hear the beginnings of a similar ruckus coming from Kaitlyn’s side of our conjoined bathroom. By the time I was confident I could move without tripping on my pant's legs there was knocking coming from the bathroom door.
“Caleb, are you up?! It’s Kaitlyn!”
If it wasn’t for my own experiences, I would have rather doubted that was the case, the panicked voice coming from behind the door being deeper and masculine.
“Uh, yeah, I’m up.”
Now, for anyone who had been curious about Kaitlyn and I after our little fireworks date, things had been a bit on the awkward side between us. Cordial, of course, as one must be when there was always a risk of embarrassing escapades in a shared bathroom, but awkward. We’d chat a little at breakfast or when passing each other around the Inn, but otherwise the last few days had been one of various solo adventures around town or at the beach.
So, you can imagine the…interesting experience it was to have our next major interaction starting with an older, slightly paunchy man with graying buzzed hair coming into my room dressed in an ill-fitting woman’s t-shirt and a towel tied around the waist. There was a dramatic pause as we both looked each other over, clearly assessing the situation and trying to figure out something to say.
“You wouldn’t happen to have some clothing I could borrow, would you?” Kaitlyn said.
“There might be something in my suitcase," I replied.
Considering her more precarious state of attire, I made the walk over to my suitcase set at the foot of the bed. I was busy trying to ignore how much tighter my pants felt on my behind as I squatted down to open it when I noticed the corner of a lavender-colored suitcase peeking out from underneath the bed. In retrospect I suspect it had been the “curse” keeping me from noticing it before, but in the moment, it was simply yet another confusing addition to a frazzled morning.
“Did someone leave their luggage in here?” I said as I pulled it out and set it on the bed.
Opening it up, on top of pile the clothing that reminded me of the kind of stuff the co-eds on campus would be wearing in the summer, was a notebook with a single piece of paper taped on it. After relaying the basics of it to her, she headed off to her own room, shouting out that there was in fact a set of luggage and a similar note for her. Once we had both taken a moment to change into something better fitting we reconvened to swap information.
Long story short, Kaitlyn and I have become Clint and Rylee Thomson, respectively. They had come to the Inn for some father-daughter bonding time before Rylee headed off to college as a theater arts major. The rest of the notebook was her journal, which she wrote in every day as just one part of a rather extensive daily exercise routine that was detailed in the latest pages of the journal. Said schedule was followed by her practically pleading whoever became her would keep it up (alongside really, really hoping that they “at least had, like, taken an improv class or two, maybe, please?”).
And just…look, I don’t have anything against theater majors. I mean, someone has to act in all the shows and movies we all watch, right? But outside of the obligatory elementary school plays, I’ve never performed in anything. I could feel the social anxiety flaring up just thinking about having to put on any kind of performance for a grade, and god forbid if I have to try any kind of singing and dancing. A professor I had once said he was amazed at how people of my generation could just “feel the music” and let loose, and I guess that meant I must have had a boomer’s soul because the closest I could ever get to any form of dancing was the Cha-Cha slide and an other song that gave clear instructions on what to do.
The only saving grace here was that at least she wasn’t set to attend, like Julliard or something. Being at a normal four-year liberal arts school meant there was a chance I could avoid screwing up things for her by squeaking by in the major intro courses and filling out the rest of a schedule with gen-ed requirements. No one was really going to fault someone for stumbling a bit as a freshman, right? She’d totally be able to catch back up as a sophomore.
There was, however, a more immediate problem to worry about.
Clint and his wife were apparently having marital problems and were currently separated, and this “extended vacation” was on the verge of violating his custody agreement for the summer.
- Caleb/Rylee
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