Is That Me? Ch. 03 - Me, Myself & Riley

I didn't end up finding the courage to leave Alexa's bedroom as I had hoped. But it turns out that bravery can be substituted for hunger if you wait long enough. And now with breakfast scents traveling down the hall, I might just have the motivation I need to risk someone seeing me in my...feminine condition. Our stealth mission is simple enough:

1. Infiltrate and extract as much food from the kitchen.
2. Retreat to Alexa's bedroom and explore mysteries of the fairer sex.
3. Figure out what the hell is going on and how to get back to my own body.

The hallway is plastered with Polaroids, most featuring Alexa in places I can't even remember visiting. In one frame, she's sitting poolside in sunglasses, barely filling a bikini with little more cleavage than I had last night. And this one here, where she's looking back while on a hike, with auburn waves finally long enough to put up in a ponytail. I could almost follow her transformation through the collage, watching her change into a confident woman who's always smiling. It's just that...whenever I try to stitch the timeline back to my memories, back to the man I went to bed as last night...it all seems to wash out and bring on that same thumping headache.

I feel like I should be freaked out more, but I can't say that waking up as a woman is so bad. And at least I'm gathering some clues, too! There must be years between these photos. Now I just need to figure out how I got in her body and maybe, how to get back to my own.

A few wrong turns later, I finally find my way toward the apartment's combination kitchen and living room. Peeking around the corner, I spot a woman standing tall behind the countertop. An overgrown pixie cut...pale-skin, a full-sleeve of tattoos on her left arm -- Of course!

"Riley!" I squeak, "I knew it was you!"

Riley gazes over her shoulder and smiles, shouting over the skillet's sizzle, "There she is!"

Abort! Abort! I'm not ready for this. I gotta turn back -- back to Alexa's room and barricade the door. I'll eat the houseplants if I have to!

"Did ya sleep okay?" she asks, "Lex --Hey, where'd ya run off too?"

Of course, it's her...The mystery woman is Riley, my ex-girlfriend's ex-best friend, and somehow the friend I ended up with custody of after our breakup. And despite being at least two years younger than me, she's never too busy to be someone's self-appointed, "queer mom." I guess when you're six-and-half-feet tall, everyone looks like they need a parent.

All that to say, I'm totally sunk here! How am I supposed to hide all these changes? The long hair, the tits -- Wait...did Riley call me a ‘she'?

"R-Riley, umm -- ahem," I say, croaking each word from behind the corner, "W-why, erm...why are you still here...in my house?"

"Oh, sorry, yeah," she shouts, "I forgot to tell you they are uhh...shampooing the restaurant's carpet -- That's it!"

Okay, so she seems to think it's normal for me to look and sound like Alexa, and it is nice to see a familiar face. She might even know why I woke up like this, too! But...if there's anything I remember about this woman, it's her being a total gossip. If she blabs about this, the whole neighborhood will know me as the full-time pervert who runs around town dressed as a girl. And then, of course, my parents would find out, and then this really would be a nightmare!

"Alexa," she whines, "Pancakes!" 

Sigh, I do remember her being a good cook, and I'm so hungry that Alexa's stomach just might call on the energy reserves in her chest. And we certainly can't have that...

After a quick trip to back to Alexa's bed, I make my way into the living-room, now enrobed in her floral-print comforter like a woman who's taken vow of modesty. And while it's no Versailles glide, a slow and steady tip-toe toward the kitchen seems to keep the jiggle physics to a minimum. I still haven't figured out why everything I do feels so clumsy, but the pace makes for one less distraction while I slink up to a countertop overflowing with breakfast goodies.

Riley turns from her skillet and pauses, giving my outfit a once-over before settling for a quick smile and eye roll, waving her palm over an open barstool. She asks, "Bad hair day, huh?"

"Some -- ahem -- something, like that," I reply, still too early for good human talk.

Climbing on the stool my modesty blanket is a challenge, but at least the labored panting isn't coming from me, but instead, on the other side of counter from a chubby corgi squatted between Riley's legs. Just breathing seems to knock the wind out of this poor dog. Funny, the way he's scarfing down those burnt pieces of batter, the not-so-little furball almost looks like her puppy, Biscuit. Or at least what he would look like with an extra 10 pounds on him.

Riley takes a step toward the counter, and naturally, he follows, eager for anything to fall from the tall stack of little cakes. She sighs a moment before perking her expression up once again. "Today's breakfast-special is an American classic," the chef continues with an air of sophistication, "Silver-dollar pancakes infused with a strawberry...com...com, compotay? -- Fancy jelly...made just the way you like'em, Lex."

Riley's gourmet French is at least better than my attempts at English. Each word seems to tumble out of my robe at a different pitch, "Pancakes do--does...sound...fancy?" 

She hands over a plate and laughs nervously, "You must've went to bed pretty late, huh?"

"Y-Yes...that," I say, "Does my voice sound err, strange? High pitched?"

Riley pauses for a moment before blurting out, "Orange juice!" Cranking up the strangeness of the morning, she makes fast toward the fridge, "I forgot your fresh-squeezed orange juice, and that's why you sound different!" I don't usually turn down Riley's food, but I think this is beginning to sound suspicious. 

Suddenly, an air-conditioned breeze crosses over my shoulders, putting on hold the question of which girl-potion Riley's might be sneaking in my O.J.

Biscuit, her four legged co-conspirator and autonomous vacuum, has found himself caught in folds of my comforter. He's yanking at the draped fabric, slipping it past my goosebumped shoulders, revealing my tank-top and pair of tits to the room. I relay a thought toward my hands, Cover yourself! Please cover yourself! But the message seems to only get caught in my embarrassment, seizing every fine motor control Alexa's body once possessed.

...And yet, she doesn't drop the glass of orange juice to the floor; She doesn't freak out and ask what happened to her obviously male, definitely a dude, college friend. Riley remains unfazed when the A/C continues grazing across my perky tits, pointing past the fabric as a reminder of what's on tap.

Instead, clapping tented fingers with the earnest pride of a schoolteacher. "You're wearing clothes!" she cheers, unaware of any changes in my chest or otherwise. Riley continues with smile spanning from ear to ear, "Oh! And I bet you can even use these too," she says, sliding a knife and fork into each of my hands before reaching for a set of her own.

That's definitely not a normal thing to say, and I should probably question if this is the real Riley I know, but the warm and sweet scents of strawberries are enough to bring out an angry gurgle from my stomach, vetoing any further questions until the pancakes are taste-tested for clues.

"Oh my god," I squeal, "These are...amazing. I can't remember the last time I had food this good...Or ever, actually."

It only takes a few more bites before a gender swap feel like a minor detail in an otherwise typical afternoon with the same gossip-loving woman I'd hangout with between classes. But it seems that I'm not the only one who's changed since last night. Sadly, the Minnesotan transplant everyone teased for her doncha-know's and you-betcha's has shed most of her melodic accent. She now speaks with a confidence to match her towering height, only occasionally slipping into her old-self.

Riley goes on to tell me about her coworkers at a fancy restaurant I've never heard of, using words I've never heard come out of her's or anyone else's mouth. Apparently, she's been fawning over a hostess at work she's described as a "bratty futch tease." Riley wants to ask this lady out but isn't sure a "pillow princess like that could appreciate a Viking dyke." I have no idea what she's talking about, but it's the first time I've seen her this happy, and if could put a word on it, unapologetically gayer.

Strangely, my still-suspicious roommate expects my fork and knife dexterity to rival a claw game. She casually makes a few cuts into my stack of pancakes, again and again, claiming her help is just taste-testing the batch. I'm not exactly elegant, but I think I'm getting the hang of Alexa's hands. In fact, I actually wanted half a bottle of maple syrup on my pancakes and even some Alexa's auburn waves too. Women probably prefer condiments in their hair, too, maybe for some late-night snacking...

...Or not. 

God, now I'm the one acting suspicious! And am I even sitting like a woman? Do they lean forward and press their chest under the counter, or should I be resting them above like two grapefruits put on special?

"Riley," I ask, "Did I ever get implants?" Finally chill and acting somewhat like her old self, she replies with a quick trill, "Pphhtbp -- On you? You're already bigger than my little mosquito bites." My lanky roommate continues lamenting her lack of chest while I casually sneak a hand toward my own, concealed under the counter, searching for some hint of a scar. "It's not fair," she whines, "I've been stuck at B-cups since college, and you're already competing with that lady on the T.V. who smashes watermelons." 

The woman doesn't ring a bell, but just the thought is enough for my twins to clench. "Ouch!" I squeal, clearing my throat to try it again with some grit, "Ahh-ouuch...I mean -- ahem -- Does this sound like me?" That's terrible! There's something so cringe when I hear Alexa's voice come out, but oddly, Riley almost looks proud, cheering me on with a mouthful of pancake, "I think you're getting the hang of it!" Even stranger, she adds, "But not so deep though. Heady voice, remember?"

Weird...

Asking about Alexa's past doesn't reveal much other than the fact that Riley is still a terrible liar. I've tried asking her softball questions too -- simple things, like how long we've lived together. But she just replies vaguely, always on the verge of tears, glancing down to Biscuit for some emotional guidance. Thankfully, things remain normalish and the dog doesn't answer either, limiting his input to more whining for food.

"Are you feeling okay?" I ask, now skillfully wielding my fork toward my shrinking stack of pancakes, "You seem like you got worse sleep than me."

She smiles at the panting pup, sighing to herself before slipping him another burnt reject from her plate. "I...err, you could say I've been up...all night." She tries to sound cheerful, but it's not going well, "I'm gonna take care of my bestie until she's feeling right as rain."

"Riley...I don't even remember how we got here--"

"--Cause it was late when you texted me yesterday!"

"But...I had class last night," I ponder, "Actually, have you seen my phone?" 

She sniffles a bit, determined to look and feel happy, "I think I left your purse in my car...after your long visit at the uhm...dentist!"

Okay, this is just getting worse. Whether she tells the world or not, Riley needs to know -- I'm not the woman she thinks I am. I'm not Alexa -- I'm just in her body!

But before I could even begin to speak up and make another high-pitched squeak, my forkful of syrup-soaked cake misses its target, drenching my cheek in a sticky and humbling reminder that multi-tasking is still out of reach. As the silverware clatters against the plate, I look up to Riley to apologize, but she's straining to keep a cheery expression.

"You...umm...must've had a long night," she frets, turning to search for some paper towel before a single sniffle slips out, and then many more.

Oh no...Is she crying?

Riley sheepishly steps around the counter to wipe my sticky cheek before tending to her own stream of tears. "Everything'll be okay," she sniffs, "'Cause some days are harder than others. And sometimes you might forget how to do things...like eating." She seems to be trying out different kinds of laughter but hasn't yet found one that doesn't sounds like sniffles and held-back tears. "I've got it! You can watch me do it! See? Right in the hole -- mmm." She continues with her mouthful, "And then chewing happens -- nom nom. And at the end, you swallow the food."

This will probably make things worse, but woman's practically falling apart, and it's only noon! "Is something wrong, Riley?", I ask, "Or is there something wrong with me?" She shakes her head before moving in for a wet and tearful hug. "Everything'll be okay, Lex!" she sobs, "You're probably still jet-lagged or something, that's all."

Clearly, whoever put her up to this secret didn't anticipate the woman having so much trouble keeping her story straight. I suppose Alexa's auburn waves make for a good sponge, though. And judging from Riley's embrace, she hasn't had another shoulder to cry on since whatever this is began. But if she can't give me an honest answer, I'll have to at least try and act like the woman she remembers. 

"You're my best pal, Lex!" she cries, craning down and gripping me tighter, "And your gonna be okay -- okay?"

"I'll be okay," I reply to her backside, "As long as I have your help, I'll be fine."

"Yes! I'll teach you everything," she says, smiling in earnest.

"I could use a hand figuring out a few things -- like finding some new clothes," I say, "Maybe something like I used to wear in college."

The teary woman rises off me and nods, "Let's clean up here first, okay?"

Riley moves toward the sink as I carefully hand her each piece of cutlery, and we're gabbing again like good pals. She must think that Alexa is back, her secret is finally safe, and that everything is just great. But tits or not, I haven't given up on the truth so quickly. "Hey bestie," I say, "I forgot something about our friendship. Grrr -- It's so frustrating that I can't remember!"

"Ask away," she chimes, dousing the pan under as the still-hot oil crackles in protest.

Somewhere, deep in a place that only Alexa could know, the sweetest and most innocent tone fills my voice. And even stranger, it carries a body language I seem to perform without thought, as if Alexa's asking a simple question.

"Riley, sis, when did I start going by Lex?"

She replies quickly, "A bit after ya came out as trans."

At first, Riley doesn't seem to hear herself, but the revelation is creeping through her body. First, in the stroke of her dishrag slowing to a crawl, then moving across her still quivering lips until finally settling in gaze fixed in panicked position. 

She's realized that I've heard something I shouldn't have...

The pictures of Alexa in the hall earlier...A tomboyish woman who looks a little less sad in each photo, and the college friend who just so happens to know us both. Alexa isn't just some girl who looks like me.

She is me.