Jordan/Yuan-Wei: Back... Home?

Man, am I not sure what to fucking make of the week in New York culminating in Max's wedding after flying up from Krystle's.  Like, I know you can read a lot of worry about how all the Inn stuff affects everything in her posts, but the experience of it, for me at least, was how much a lot of that didn't fucking matter.  Krystle wants to include what to all outside appearances are the parents of a babydaddy who quite notably isn't there?  Friend she really never hung out with that much is important enough to be one of the bridesmaids?  Absolutely random teenage white girl shows up?  Well, Krystle's family and Gabriel's family all start from the premise that these people are important to her and make room.  If there's gossip, it's well hidden.  It wound up being a really loving, accepting atmosphere, and they respected the entirety of what got Krystle and Gabriel there even if they didn't know it.

Back home...  Not quite.

It wasn't a race thing, I don't think, unless highly-assimilated third-generation Chinese Americans are unusually eager not to stand out, which I don't think is really a thing, although, granted, the past week or so has been a pretty shitty time for folks on a tourism visa like me to stand out.

And I get it beyond all that.  Max has gone through the Inn experience, and sometimes it means he gets me and sometimes it means he absolutely cannot understand how I could willingly give Benny my life or stay as Yuan-Wei.  I suspect things getting serious with Dominic kind of rattles him more; it's one thing to make use of your clitoris while you're stuck with it, but something else to put yourself on the wife & mom track Krystle is on. 

(And, yeah, just going with "Krystle" from now on.  She signed papers saying she wanted her name to be Krystle Potts, and who am I to argue?)

Still, I dunno, they could have not sidelined me.  Mom says it would have been easier if Dominic had come so we didn't have to insist, no, I wasn't an ex-girlfriend to Pei Pei and her family. 

On the plus side, I had a lot of time to hang out with Annette, who, as you may have heard, is doing really well, especially considering how volatile the publishing industry is.  She's managing editor of a small imprint, just moved into a bigger apartment, and wants to know all about Dominic because she is very single right now.  She had more restaurants she wanted to show me than I figured I had times free to eat. 

First up was her wanting to know how authentic a Chinese restaurant was (not bad, but honestly fancier than I tend to go for; I like holes in the wall).  She'd found a couple other really nice places, too. 

Thursday's big surprise was that we weren't alone - there were three young women joining us:  Emilia, Katey, and Monica, formerly known as Aidan, Kutter, and Rusty.  Apparently, Annette had seen some anxiety start to build in Katey a couple weeks after she came into her office to say she was staying on, all of her, which makes some sense, because one and a half Inn cycles passing is about when you realize, holy fucking shit, you have made a huge decision that is going to change everything forever that you can't take back.

I didn't have a whole lot of upbeat advice, being a couple of days into my family treating me like a not especially close friend even though they know who I am, but I think I was pretty honestly able to say that they'd push through it, that while the Inn doesn't seem to do much to the part of your brain that makes you good at math or the like, it does appear to reshape the parts that control physical attraction and gender identity, and once you realize your brains are part of your bodies and your bodies aren't things you are in but things you are, you can decide what to do with them.

They're good kids, all three of them, and, yeah, that kind of includes Emilia; she may have 40-odd years of experience but she's got the body language of a freshman that would set off some of my old fraternity brothers' predatory instincts, not quite comfortable in her own skin and always fiddling with her clothes, afraid they're making her look too inviting.  She knows that she's pretty and has a great body but mostly sees it as a target as opposed to a tool she can use.  Good dude, though, and she had questions about what adopting various local teams said about you. 

It's funny how obviously her girls are teenagers once you know their stories, though.  Monica is ready to bust with pride at every bit of responsibility she's shouldered and her jaw drops when you tell her something she feels she should have pieced together herself; Katey has a sort of innocent look that makes the occasional wise-ass comment stand out and has a bit of an attitude about the areas where she knows more than her dad, but she's a good kid at heart. 

Annette apologized for springing them on me when they left, saying Monica especially was curious to meet other folks who had stayed at the Inn while Katey and Emilia were trying pretty hard to act like they were just normal girls. 

Okay, you're all probably thinking, enough fucking sidetracks, what about the wedding?

It was pretty good, actually, once I got over where I wanted to be.  Threat of rain had us moving inside, and sitting on folding chairs rather than pews or benches was kind of odd, but fine.  Mom and Dad found chances to wave and say hi whenever they could, and for as much as part of me resented Pei Pei for taking my brother and family from me, she's pretty and smart (some sort of research scientist), and didn't seem like she had anything against me when we talked to each other.  Which I probably should have expected, instead of just letting my worries about what her being part of the family meant to me.  My kid brother may often be a dumbass in the way kid brothers are, but he's not stupid and our parents would have put their foot down if Pei Pei didn't measure up to their expectations!  We'll probably never be buddies, but she's okay. 

The reception was nice, too, even if I was on the outskirts compared to the test of my family, but that also meant no awkward small talk with Benny, filling out a tux like i never did and living my best life as someone's personal trainer.  Folks did notice the empty seat next to me, but as I told Dominic when I got home, I could have gotten laid a lot of I wanted to, because I fucking rocked my qipao and I'm already a good-looking chick from Hong Kong whose perfect English and job in the movie industry makes me pretty damn fascinating to any single guys in their twenties and thirties (and older in a couple cases), especially with a story about my boyfriend being worried about ICE, which was weighing on a lot of Chinese-American minds that had not forgotten being treated like shit during the pandemic.  Lots of ways to get people's attention.

At some point Kareena came by and asked if we could grab lunch the next day, and I said of course before a second cousin saw us together and remembered that I had been at her wedding to Benny/"Jordan" as well, thinking it was weird that I had been in Kareena's bridal party but now was attending a wedding on this side of the family, and I just sort of shrugged and said I was on the continent and hate to miss a good party before getting dragged onto the dance floor.

Kareena, if you don't remember, was originally my roommate Ravi's girlfriend and arranged fiancée, but while I was Deirdre and Annette was Ravi and Benny was me, she and Benny formed a connection, which is what led me to roll the dice and wind up as Yuan-wei ten years ago.  She's gorgeous and smart and otherwise terrific, way out of my fat, angry old ass's league, and kind of finds the whole Inn scramble romantic and exciting.  I was pretty happy when she texted me a cool spot to meet at the next afternoon, and a bit relieved when she arrived alone, saying Benny was putting in some overtime.

Not that he wasn't going to be part of the conversation; after a bit of catching up and her quizzing me about Dominic, she took a deep breath and laid it out there.  "So...  Benny and I aren't getting any younger, and we've talking about starting a family for a while, but it's kind of weird for us, considering.  Both my parents and yours have been on us about it for a while, with mine shocked I don't have a couple kids already and yours more understanding but still wanting grandchildren.  What do you think about that?"

I sat and thought for a second, not sure I'd really ever considered this possibility, before answering.  "I guess I think it's up to you.  I'm the one that walked away from that life and that DNA so you two could be together, and--"  Something clicked.  "Oh, shit, I've been moaning so much about being pushed aside for the last few days that I never thought of how that might make things easier for you to just get on with your lives!"

She shook her head.  "It doesn't, actually.  Benny - well, Benny's been more self-conscious about being Chinese-American since the pandemic, and he's kind of worried he doesn't have it in him to raise someone else's kid.  He's talked about making the guy who's living his old life an offer to be a sperm donor, and though he's coming around to believing me when I tell him that that would make me feel like we were raising someone else's kid because I love who he is now, body and soul, it feels precarious, you know?"

I kind of did, but still felt confused.  "I get it, but I don't know if there's anything I can do.  Like, it's tough for me to be less threatening on the other side of the world, unless you're telling me you're going to block me on social media and ask my family not to mention me--"

"No!  The opposite!  I need you to be part of this!  I think we all need to remember that we were always going to be an unconventional family and it's okay.  I know things were always going to be weird between you and Benny, but he's going to need to be able to talk to you about what things were like for you growing up and what comes from having Jordan Chang's DNA and that you'll be supportive but have no claim."  She took a breath, embarrassed about the outburst.  "Look, neurology isn't my specialty, and we don't know how that Inn affects people, but lately I sometimes wonder if he's got more of what I think of as the old Jordan in him, especially as you don't seem nearly as insecure as you were as a guy, or maybe it's just the past ten years, but I think he kind of needs your approval."

I leaned my head back as she fidgeted a bit.  "Ugh.  How the fuck am I ever expected to be the mature voice of reason?"  Not the first time I've asked that.  "I mean, obviously I'll support whatever you do.  And for what it's worth, the wedding before this was someone who got knocked up by someone living her original life in a pretty harsh situation, and you'll never see anyone who loves her daughter more.  You'll be okay."

"I hope so."  We stood and hugged, and she said we really should talk more often, even without all the other stuff, and I agreed.

By the time I got on the plane the next day later - with security being really weird, what with all that was in the news over the weekend - and certainly by the time I arrived back in Hong Kong, I wasn't so sure.  Is it selfish to try to maintain these old connections, especially when I've got a pretty good life here, or is it necessary?  I kind of wonder if that week in New York was so stressful in part because I sometimes let my original life stay at the back of my mind for months at a fucking time.  Is this place home now because I can sort of be at ease here without handling multiple sets of expectations?

Also, my being away for two weeks for friends' weddings has apparently led to Dominic thinking things while alone in our bedroom, and, honestly, he had better not fucking propose any time soon because I do not have the mental bandwidth for what our wedding would look like while I'm trying to catch up at work!

-Jordo

Tom/Kiara: Down the Rabbit Hole

I've had a lot of time in the past day to do research... about the Inn, about Kiara, about being in a body that has recently given birth. In the past ~24 hours I've pumped my breasts four times, including right now as I type this, over the hissing strains of the machine. You see, the milk builds up and causes pain and pressure, until you can't ignore it, hence I have no choice but to submit myself to this. It's very strange to feel myself being milked and then see all this stuff coming out of me, but if I don't, then the body might stop producing, and I'd feel weirdly responsible for that even though I haven't even met this baby.

One thing at a time, though.

(If you don't want to hear about this, sorry, but I don't want to be living it either.)

Kind of a shame that as soon as the milk is out, all I can do is dump it, but if recent experience has taught me anything there's plenty more where it came from. (shudder)

Aside from relieving myself a couple of times, which goes about how you would expect (we're all adults with at least a 9th grade understanding of biology, right? No surprises really for this first-timer) that's what the bulk of my experience as Kiara has been. I wore my own ill-fitting clothes to the laundromat because I didn't know where hers had been. I sorted the clothes into "will reluctantly wear" and "would have to be forced to wear," since teenage girls, even ones who have semi-recently given birth, enjoy showing a lot more skin than I do. I then made a trip to Old Navy up in South Portland because her taste in underwear was not what I would call "beginner friendly." (I wore bikini bottoms under jean shorts for the day.) There, I encountered a very, erm, fun, selection of prints and styles.

I'm now wearing her cloth shorts with "my" Kiara!Underwear, and will don her tank top once I can unplug myself. 

In the last day or so, I've learned a lot -- beyond physical stuff. I've gotten access to Kiara's socials. There's a lot on Instagram from prior to and during her pregnancy. I see a happy young girl with lots of friends and an active life: school, activities, parties. The girl in those pictures looks a little different to how I'm used to seeing Kiara -- obviously she's less disheveled, more presentable, wearing makeup and accessories with her hair taken care of. She's also thinner, for obvious reasons, although I wouldn't say that her/my current figure is "fat," just... up a few sizes after giving birth. A little softer, you know? (Holding her clothes against my own reveals a startling size discrepancy that I can hardly fathom in the abstract.) 

Then further down her timeline, there's pregnancy stuff, and then baby stuff and virtually no friends. If I had to guess, her social life probably took a pretty big nosedive once she gave birth, because as I understand it, once you have a baby, that's kind of all you have going on.

I also saw the father, and he looks like a perfect Gen-Z d-bag and I hope I don't have to deal with him very much -- he disappears sometime during the pregnancy posts. No surprise there. There were a few glimpses of family in there too, but nothing that expands on what basic facts were in the note I received.

Regarding the Inn, I've read up a lot on its history, I know more about how it works and/or how it is believed to work. Thank you Art Milligan/Penny, wherever you are. I'm of two minds continuing to post. On the one hand, since I was clearly the target of some kind of nefarious scheme, it might not be safe for me to talk much here. On the other hand, they didn't exactly need me to have any kind of presence on the blog to target me, so what difference does it make? Maybe I'll keep things close to the vest, but it will probably be good to have an outlet where I can sign my own name.

For the time being, here are my objectives:

1. Finish my story. That's still important to me. It's clearly going to take a backseat, but I have a few opportunities still that I can't let slip through my fingers.
2. Learn what I can about the people who did this to me. They have to have figured, I'm not taking this lying down, as powerless as I am.
3. Find the real Kiara. I don't know how she actually feels about this situation, if she wants to go home and be reunited with her family but it behooves me to try to make that possible. Inversely, I've guessing it will be tough to convince the new Tom, whenever he shows up, to play ball, but I have to try.
4. Be the best Kiara I can be. I may hate this body and life but there's a tyke out there who needs a mama and apparently I'm it.
   

Logically, I should probably make haste back to North Carolina since Kiara's family will be expecting her, but she's already been gone so long, and I have a few days left here, I need to make the most of them.

-Tom/Kiara (going to try to get used to that.)

Tom: Male Journalist, 35, transformed into NC Girl by Cursed Inn

I'm sitting here in my gym shorts (drawstring as tight as it will go) cursing the fact that I got played, but in fairness to me, who could have possibly seen "Tricked into having your body stolen" as a possible outcome of all these events? (Other than people who have already been here, thank you very much.)

I knew that my story was goihg to ruffle some feathers, but it appears someone wabts to go to great lengths to get me out of the way. I may not be the smartest Asian guy you've ever met, but I know basic math. One plus one equals two. Inconvenient journalist plus creepy magic inn that transforms people equals not a coincidence.

I think the sensible thing to do would be to cry and shiver with fear but I'm more angry than anything. Maybe that anger is impotent -- what exactly am I supposed to do? -- but it's valid, and it feels better than sniffling helplessly about what's been done to me.

This after I felt I was on the verge of a breakthrough with my source last night. She brought some paperwork with her to dinner that was fixing to point me in the right direction, but wouldn't let me hang onto it. I figured another night of wining and dining would be all it took. I'm worried now she was in on the plot and just stalling.

I woke up to a lot more commotion outside than usual. I tried to ignore it but it wouldn't subside, so I decided to roll out of bed -- but the floor wasn't exactly where it was supposed to be, and the leg of my sweatpants had slipped under my foot, causing me to trip and and roll my ankle. At this point, I was very confused and the room was spinning, but I was starting to notice what was different, namely that my head was surrounded by what appeared to be a lot of frizzy hair.

I had fallen asleep shirtless (pajamas are sort of a waste to pack, don't you think?) and of course the view was... different. I cupped one of my new breasts to confirm -- yes, this is real, and really part of me, and really very sensitive. As my situation dawned on me (Thought one: "Holy crap, this is real!" Thought two: "If so, then what??") I batted some of the hair out of my eyes so I could hobble to the restroom, pulling my sweats up with one hand as I pushed through the door to see a middle-aged lady looking in the mirror with awe. Annoyingly, the bathrooms at this Inn, at least this room, are shared.

She looked me up and down and surmised, "You too, huh?" What gave it away? I wrapped an arm around my chest and hissed, a little un-neighborly, "Do you mind?" She calmly left through the other door and I locked it behind her.

I turned to the mirror and looked at the face of the girl looking back: doll-like button brown eyes, frizzy, rusty-reddish brown hair, pale skin, breasts that were certainly more than a handful for her little mitts, just barely in frame due to her lack of height. She glared back at me with angry intensity under her bushy eyebrows, her jaw jutting outward ruefully.

I started to let it all compute in my head. The Inn's magic is real, obviously. And it's more than likely I was set up -- it's too much of a coincidence that I would end up here of all places. I felt the weight of everything I was working toward crashing down, because if someone could do this, they must have the resources needed to do much more...

I stopped. A flash of a smile crossed my face. It's not like they killed me. Do they need me alive? Or are thry simply not willing to kill? Was this their big move, their only card to play? I scratched my smooth little chin. Maybe the game's not over. Maybe there's hope for old Tom -- or whatever I was called now -- yet.

I was a little flattered that whatever Im doing warrants such attention.

I unlocked the other door and left the restroom, hobbling back to the bed gingerly on my still-aching ankle, increasingly aware of the "el nada" that was in my oversized sweats, and the slight juggle of my unbound breasts.

I crouched down and reached under the bed and heaved the luggage out -- urk, it was heavy, or more likely, I had a lot less upper body strength than I thought I should. On top was a letter in a manila envelope.

Typed, in almost AI-like bland writing. I suspect this person did not write it herself.

It explained that I was now Kiara Simmons, of [interchangeable small town] North Carolina. It left no indication of who Kiara became or how to contact her, which lent credence to my theory that this was a setup. But it contained a few pieces of information that caused whatever relief I was feeling to dissolve back into anger.

One: Kiara is seventeen. They made me a minor, those bastards.

Two: Kiara has a seven-month-old daughter waiting for her back in N.C.

That tidbit caused me to reel backwards on the bed and pull a pillow over my face, which muffled my scream of anguish and also absorbed the tears that my body was producing without my permission. A 17-year-old babymama? Maybe they should have killed me. 

The last line of the note, once I could finally convince myself to finish it? Almost mockingly: "Don't forget to pump."

No wonder the suitcase was so big. It needed room for the apparatus: a breast pump.

It's been an hour now, and I'm starting to notice these things getting really sore. Time to give that manual a look.

Score one for the bad guys.

-Tom... or "Kiara"

Tom: Downtime

I was playing phone tag with my source yesterday and we couldn't make a meeting happen, so I made a command decision to put work aside for a day and try to enjoy myself in this setting. It's a nice little town, the right mix of rustic and touristy.

I ended up meeting a local girl through an app and she was keen to show me around. She was pretty and blonde, a self-described "chubby cutie" who talked about body positivity on her bio, which I thought was cool and possibly designed to weed out jerks... if they bother reading.

She suggested a lobster place, which I was all for. Ever the interviewer, I asked her about growing up here, etc etc. She talked about how much she loved the water and scenery. It was a cool night -- the weather somewhat dampening the beachy fun I was hoping for -- so we hit another bar and downed a few and played some darts. We found ourselves getting closer and closer, seemingly building up to something, so I shot my shot and asked if she wanted to come back to the Inn. She agreed since she has a light-sleeping roommate, and as soon as we were out the door we were kissing like a couple of teens.

We began to walk, arm in arm in the chilly air, but after a while she realized where we were going and kind of stepped back and said "Oh. There's a lot of superstition around that place, it really creeps people out." I said I could see why but it was really not so bad.

I couldn't change her mind and the mood kind of changed from that point -- she just said she'd message me hopefully before I leave, but her week was looking busy, etc etc, and I said hey, don't worry about it.

Now it's dreary out -- a reminder I'm here for business, not pleasure... but man, wouldn't it be nice to have both?

-Tom

Tom: Changed!!!

Oh no guys! I woke up this morning and I had turned into an absolutely gorgeous blonde with big tits! What will I do now that everyone wants me?

Too on-the-nose? My creative writing teacher always said I was well-suited for journalism, based on how much imagination I have. Harsh... not wrong, but harsh. No, I'm still me, dark hair, brown eyes, pudgier than I was five years ago, but hey, beauty's on the inside.

Thinking back to that prompt from yesterday, I got stuck on "how I got here" which can really be interpreted a number of different ways... what train did you take, how did you hear about the place, what's your business here... what about every decision you have made in your life?

When I was a kid, we were asked to do a presentation on our grandparents for class. That was the first time I heard about Manzanar, about the way my grandparents were treated during World War II. I thought it was fascinating, but I was still a little bit young to understand the dark implications. All I know is that when I told the story in Grampa's own words, it made a room full of (mostly white) people very uncomfortable. That was the beginning of my realizing that the truth and the written word can be powerful things, which ultimately led me from Denver, where I had grown up, to Northwestern for Journalism, to my adult career.

Twenty-some years later, Ojisan and Obachan are no longer with us, but their stories stuck with me, and I understand it a lot better now than I did when I was thirteen. No, I did not become the Japanese Bob Woodward (which, given Bob's work lately, maybe that's a good thing) ... for a long time I was toiling away in trade mags, like most J-School grads, covering the tech beat, until I decided it was time to level up or get out of the grind once and for all. At my lowest, I was doing a lot of "Why you need the iPhone 11 Pro Max" pieces that were basically unofficial marketing. Sometime during the pandemic I decided I wanted to be a real boy journalist again and started seeking bigger assignments.

Which is how I got here. I've turned from someone who was just sort of adrift to something of a workaholic. It's cost me at least one promising relationship (with, yes, a pretty white girl... your boy has a type) but I don't regret it. I finally feel like I've got purpose.

The person I interviewed yesterday was a personal acquaintance of a high-ranking tech exec, someone who is supposed to have some dirt on them and the whole company, which I'm hoping will be the stick to drop this whole game of kerplunk into place. But over dinner she was dodgy, dare I say paranoid, still not wanting to spill her guts. Okay, I can play the game. I know better than to pressure a source. I wanted to make her feel at ease, like she was with a friend. I agreed not to talk about it for the rest of the night. Instead we went to a bar and went dancing. (This job has perks sometimes.)

The source and I parted ways a little after midnight as I walked her back to her hotel. When I got to the Inn, I spent a little bit more time chuckling over some of the stuff that's been posted on this blog. Okay, if you want to do your little fiction game, I won't spoil the fun, there's something so charming about co-opting a half-assed customer service program like this into something insane and elaborate like that. It's fun to watch people come together to make it feel real. I'm only posting here because it helps me blow off steam.

That said... I looked around my room and I did see a suitcase under the bed that does not belong to me. This is where I draw the line. Fun is fun but...

-Tom N. (seriously)

Tom: Chasing Sources

Damn my millennial soul. I see a weathered old piece of paper indicating that there is a blog for guests of this creaky old inn, and my first thought is that I have to participate. Complete with prompts about who I am and what brings me here. It's like one of those old chain emails my friends used to pass around in middle school.

The name's Tom Nishimura, and I have come to this delightfully rustic slice of beachfront -- er, beach-adjacent... er, beach-seriously it's not that far of a walk property on business. I'm a journalist, and I've come up from D.C. to meet with a source. What could someone squatting in some one-horse hamlet in Maine have to say about national politics? Well... I'm trying to decide how much I can get away with telling you. There's a few people out there who probably want this story killed.

And before you ask, no, it's not going to be the story that finally takes down Trump. I try to stay far away from that mess (inasmuch as anybody can these days.) In fact, I don't even normally write about politics. My usual beat is tech. The best I can offer is slightly upsetting some CEOs and shareholders, but that doesn't mean the truth isn't important.

Put it this way: How much do you know about your smartphone: what's inside it and where it came from? Would it surprise you to know that there's some really shady stuff going on in the supply chain for rare Earth minerals? (With a slug like that, who could resist? Luckily, I had an editor who feels that way.)

What was fixing to be a rather tedious story has admittedly become a little bit more interesting due to the difficulty I've had tracking down sources. Luckily, I'm pretty resourceful on that front, and I think I've found someone who will be willing to talk. 

Well, on that tease, I'm going to prep for my interview and then find some way to relax. Who knows, maybe I'll read some of the (eyes pop) nineteen years??! of backlogged posts on this blog.

Why in the hell is this summer getaway's blog so active year-round? And why do all the correspondents have two names? Journalistic curiosity: piqued.

-Tom N.

Ande: Staying put for the summer

I'm pretty sure that there have been moving trucks parked somewhere on my street constantly for the past two weeks.  The profs and TAs make jokes about September 1st being Moving Day because every lease in the Boston area runs from September to August to accommodate the schools, but between all the graduations and folks going from closing dorms to sublets for summer programs, there are a whole lot of folks packing and unpacking right now.

I'm not among them, though - the rent's got to be paid through the summer, and the parents of the guy who left during Christmas break aren't going to be paying his part any more, so I don't have the luxury of working a part-time job with the idea of making spending money this year.  Or necessarily going home, because you don't necessarily make Boston rent money working the same job back there. 

Anyway, to make it a relevant-to-this-blog thing, it kind of got me thinking about how maybe I've left home for good and only realized it afterward in the same way I stopped being a girl for good a few years back but wouldn't really know until a year or so later.  I left home back in the fall thinking I was just going to school, and home would still be home, but it's entirely possible that I've had my last extended period in my own room, and that the house where I grew up was now a place I would just visit as opposed to a place where I lived, barring an extended period of not being able to find a job post-graduation.  It feels like a decision i should have made deliberately.

Mom and Dad think it's good that I didn't, that it would have been another moment that would have made them cry.  Andie thinks I'm being silly, but she's moved back home for the summer and may actually wind up commuting next fall.  Griff and Lindy nodded for a second, not having thought of it that way.

On the other hand, it's kind of nice.  I feel like I've slowly spent the past year and a half making this life mine, after coming east to attend the school Andie chose, and if it's not my original plan, I'm mostly still doing what I want, without looking over my shoulder to see if Andie or my folks approve.  I'm not doing anything weird or dangerous, but it's been months since I wondered if I was doing something out of character, and even if I love my parents and brother-turned-sister, sometimes just having them around makes me ask the question.

That said - it was hot as shit yesterday, and I still don't really have a handle on when a guy can go shirtless in the middle of the city.  Hildy looked way more comfortable in her halter and booty shorts than I did in my t-shirt and cargo shorts!

-Ande