My House of Pain: Sometimes They Come Back

But even as one chapter ended, another began. Aubrey started showing up to the smaller brunches. Aubrey, who I'd known in the 'before times,' pre-transition. We recognized each other in a random LinkedIn chat. Trying to figure out how the fuck we knew each other, because I didn't know an Aubrey, and she didn't know a Wendy.

The first time I really saw her—not just noticed her presence, but _saw_ her—she sat down on my couch, purse clutched to her chest, sunlight catching in her redly dyed hair like fucking fire. Something about the way she moved made me weak. We locked eyes, and, there was this silent explosion between us. Recognition so deep it felt like someone had reached into my ribcage and squeezed.

"Holy shit," she whispered, voice cracking like thin ice. "It's really you."

We spent 2 hours that day, talking until our throats were raw and the ice in our drinks had melted to nothing. Her laugh was different now—fuller, freer—but the way she tilted her head when confused was achingly familiar. My past and present collided in her eyes, green as moss after rain.

As that friendship rekindled, another one withered. Jonesy—passionate, outspoken Jonesy—had been organizing events, speaking at panels, trying to create visibility for our community. But I was too wrapped up in my own shit to notice how my brunches had evolved into movie nights, drawing attention away from her efforts. Another friendship I'd managed to fuck up without even realizing it.

I saw her at Pride downtown, her voice hoarse from chanting, face flushed with purpose. The disappointment in her eyes when she spotted me cut deeper than any knife could. She turned away, shoulders rigid, the space between us growing into a goddamn canyon I didn't know how to cross. The guilt tasted metallic, like blood from biting my cheek too hard.

But there was Aubrey.

She showed up at my door one day with her kids. Just looking to visit and hang out. because I dunno, her kids wanted to meet me or something. We sat in my living room playing Cubirds and laughing and joking for 3 hours that day. And for another moment, I felt normal again.

"We're both new," she whispered against my collarbone, breath hot and damp. "But we're still us underneath it all, aren't we?"

Months passed in this exquisite torture. Cammy and Shay watched us orbit each other, neither brave enough to close the distance. They'd roll their eyes at our obliviousness. "Do you think Aubrey likes me?" I'd ask Cammy for the hundredth time, and she'd bite back a scream of frustration.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Wendy," Cammy would hiss through clenched teeth, her knuckles turning white around her coffee mug. "She looks at you like you hung the goddamn moon. How many times do I have to say it before it penetrates your thick skull?"

But there was baggage—heavy, soul-crushing baggage that kept us both teetering on the edge. Aubrey's marriage was technically over, but the separation was fresh, raw—a wound still oozing that she picked at daily. Her ex kept showing up unannounced, flooding her phone with texts about "fixing things," each message another chain binding her to the past. Mary and I were still just trying to figure out where we were, and why we couldnt reconcile things between us.

"I know Wendy likes me," Aubrey would confess to Cammy in hushed tones when I wasn't around. "She just has to be patient. This shit with Ellie is a fucking nightmare, and I can't drag her into it until it's done." Her voice would crack, heavy with wanting and restraint that made Cammy want to shake us both until our teeth rattled.

Meanwhile, I was a pathetic mess behind closed doors. After our weekly brunches, I'd chat with Cammy or Shay or one of the others, dissecting every touch, every lingering glance from Aubrey like some lovesick teenager.

"She brushed her hand against mine when passing the salt," I'd whisper reverently into the phone, and I would get a stifled a groan so deep it sounded like it was being torn from her gut.

"For fuck's sake, just kiss her already!" Cammy screamed one night, so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear. "We're all dying watching this shit-show! It's like watching paint dry, except the paint keeps giving the wall bedroom eyes!"

People in the group would see us together and wonder aloud, "Do Aubrey and Wendy know they're a couple? Do they not see that they're in a relationship?" And always the response: "YES! We know! They just aren't ready to admit their feelings."

It became a running joke at gatherings—the elephant in the fucking room that everyone acknowledged except us. During movie nights, we'd naturally pair up, finishing each other's sentences and constantly repeating movie quotes at the same time, sharing knowing glances that made everyone else exchange exasperated looks. Jack once choked on her wine when I absentmindedly tucked a strand of hair behind Aubrey's ear, my fingertips lingering against her cheek like I was touching something precious.

"Cant they just get a room already," was hushed under soft language, loud enough for half the table to hear. The laughter that erupted was tinged with the collective frustration of watching a car crash in slow motion.

The group had a goddamn secret text thread dedicated solely to documenting our obliviousness—"The Aubrey-Wendy Watch," they called it. They'd share photos captured mid-glance, our eyes locked on each other while the rest of the world blurred into background noise. "Day 87: Still clueless," the captions would read. "Taking bets on who breaks first."

Kathleen had dubbed our painful back-and-forth the "Trans Lesbian Olympics" during one particularly heated brunch. She'd been watching Aubrey brush crumbs from my sweater, her fingers lingering just a beat too long against the fabric while I froze like a deer in headlights, my cheeks burning hot enough to set off smoke alarms.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Kathleen had announced to the table, wine glass raised in mock ceremony, "welcome to another riveting competition in the Trans Lesbian Olympics. Today's event: synchronized pining. Judges are looking for technical difficulty, artistic interpretation, and maximum emotional constipation."

The term stuck like gum to a hot sidewalk. Every time Aubrey and I engaged in our elaborate dance of almost-but-not-quite, someone would mutter "Olympics" under their breath, triggering stifled laughter and knowing glances around the table.

"Wendy takes the lead with that longing stare," Maya would commentate in a hushed sportscaster voice. "But wait! Aubrey counters with an unnecessary shoulder touch! The judges are going wild!"

"At least Cammy and Shay only took six months," one of the girls groaned one night, scrolling through the latest addition to the Aubrey-Wendy documentation. "These two are going for a goddamn world record."

"I swear to god," Cammy declared one night, three martinis deep and filter abandoned, "watching you two not-fuck is worse than any breakup I've ever had. It's emotional edging and we're all caught in it."

The truth exploded during a trip to the Bay Area, where I was visiting my parents with Violet (who had become my chosen family child), Ylse, and Mary. Cammy, fed up with our mutual pining, sent a group text to Shay, me, and Aubrey: "I'm being Wendy's wing woman. She is bat shit crazy about you which I am sure you're aware of. Due to her autism she is afraid to relay this information and or pick up on the queues."

My stomach dropped to my feet, blood rushing in my ears so loud I could barely hear. Exposed. Raw. Terrified. The phone trembled in my hands like a fucking leaf in a hurricane. I felt naked, skinned alive—my most vulnerable feelings splattered across our group chat like blood at a crime scene.

Aubrey's response cut through the noise: "Don't be anxious Wendy, please."

Simple words that shattered me completely.

Then my phone buzzed again—a separate chat, just Aubrey and me. "It's not a big deal, Wendy. Really." The words blurred through my panic. My brain, the traitorous bastard, immediately translated this as rejection—clear and crushing. Of course she was letting me down easy. Of course this was her polite way of saying she didn't feel the same.

"I understand," I texted back, fingers numb, throat so tight I could barely swallow. "We can forget Cammy ever said anything."

I shut off my phone and then I passed clean out on the floor.

"That's NOT what I meant."

"Wendy, please respond."

"I meant it's not a big deal because I ALREADY KNEW."

"I've known for months, just like you've known about me."

The following weeks were excruciating. We were already living together by now. She had her own room separate in the house. And despite her clarification, my brain kept circling back to that initial rejection I'd manufactured. Every time we talked, I'd find some hidden meaning in her words, some proof that she was just being kind, just sparing my feelings.

"Jesus Christ," she finally let out at her desk. "Do I need to tattoo 'I want Wendy' on my fucking forehead?"" She would scowl. But something had shifted. The truth was out there now, acknowledged if not acted upon. And neither of us could take it back.

Until DC. Until I mentioned the annual requirement from my job—one fucking week in Tysons Corner for corporate meetings, strategy sessions, and the mind-numbing bullshit that comes with working for a company that needs to see your face in person exactly once a year to remember you exist. So we traveled up there together. Still friends.

"I'll be in Virginia next month," I said casually over coffee, as if my heart wasn't trying to punch its way out of my ribcage. "Tysons Corner area. Thought maybe I'd explore DC a bit while I'm there. Hang with my sister."

The words hung in the air between us, heavy with possibility.

Aubrey's eyes lit up like she'd found something precious she'd thought was lost forever. "I've always wanted to see the cherry blossoms, so yeah. I’ll go with you." she said, voice careful, measured, like she was walking across thin ice.

So up to Washington DC we went. And that's how it was.

That's when Cammy fucking snapped.