Our first instinct was defiance.

Well, OK, technically our first instinct was to send Brie to snag a couple slices of birthday cake that we had seen in the kitchen and bring them back to our office. Just because we were livid didn't mean we were going to pass up red velvet from Porto's.

But once we had finished eating, and licked the last of the delicious cream cheese off of our plastic forks: Defiance!

"You know what? Fuck 'em!" Tammy said brazenly. "I'm fucking going!" She punctuated her sentence by throwing her paper plate into the trash.

"You fucking should go!" I heartily concurred. "And you should go wearing the girliest fucking gown you can fucking find!"

"Shit, yeah!" Tammy agreed, moving on to a new epithet. "So should you!"

"Holy shit! That's genius!"

"Matching gowns! Like the one that princess wears."

"Which princess?"

"You know. What's-her-face?"

"Snow White? Cinderella? Ariel? Jasmine?"

"No! She's the, you know..." Tammy growled in it's-on-the-tip-of-my-tongue frustration. "The one that reads."

"Oh, you mean Belle." One thing about having daughters, you know your Disney princesses.

"Yes! Thank you! We both show up in a bright fucking yellow Belle gown!" And we were back to fuck. The best curse word of them all.

"Evelyn's head will fucking explode! Lawyer brains all over the fucking wall!"

"That will be a motherfucking statement!

For a few intoxicating minutes, we giddily entertained the idea. We liked it for the subversiveness, but it also appealed to our sense of personal history. Oddly, this would not have been our first flamboyant protest; that happened in our final week of high school at the Senior Awards Banquet, when we learned that all of the boys were required to wear ties. Tom and I hated ties on principle, believing them them to be the clothing of corporate oppression, slowly strangling us to death in the name of conformity.

(OK, sure, we were a little full of ourselves. So what?)

We decided to do something about it. And when Tom and I showed up to the banquet hall we were wearing headbands with flashing lights and T-shirts with the word KERPOW! printed against a jagged cartoon background. I accessorized with dark plastic goggles, bumblebee antennae and plaid pants, while Tom had iridescent sunglasses, a cape, and mismatching sneakers.

We looked ridiculous, but... we were also wearing ties. Tom's was an electric orange, mine a sparkling purple. And since we had followed their odious rules, they had no basis to complain, did they?

We walked in with an imperious air, practically daring the administration to do something about us. As a cause, it was rather trivial and as an act of civil disobedience it was decidedly low-risk. We knew that the worst-case scenario was that they would make us leave or at least turn off the annoying flashing lights on our headbands. But pretty much nothing happened. The teachers shook their heads at our antics. Vice Principal Hudac just sighed and said, "You two." I wasn't sure how he meant that. You two, the delightful iconoclasts or You two, the pains in my ass. Probably some combination of both.

The reactions of our classmates ranged from amusement to indifference. The strongest reaction we got came from Dungeon Master Eric, who conspicuously sat as far away from us from as possible, as if his association with our ludicrous ensembles would somehow ruin his hard-won reputation for irrelevance.

But we were not irrelevant. In fact our protest did create lasting change. True, they didn't eliminate the tie requirement, but thanks to us the dress code for all future Senior Awards Banquets became much more specific.

You're welcome Cambria-Clearfield High School South. You. Are. Welcome!

Of course, there were some drawbacks to our Comic-Con protest plan. For starters, Tammy realized that yellow was not a good color on her. "It makes me look jaundiced," she explained. Plus, I was six foot three and two hundred and ten pounds, and even though there was no shortage of drag queens in Los Angeles, it would still be unlikely to find a Belle gown in my size. And also, this was Comic-Con. Tons of people would be in gaudy costumes, which would surely muddle our message. It would be like protesting police violence by squirting ourselves in the face with pepper spray.

So, no. Not that.

And realistically, not anything else either. The sad truth — and deep down we both knew it — was that Tammy's resolve would inevitably waver and she would decide not to go Comic-Con after all.

Why?

The reason was simple. Tammy was scared. She wasn't worried about her physical safety — which, by the way was (and still is) a luxury for a trans person — but of being demonized by some intolerant asshole who for some inane reason felt threatened by the endless varieties of human sexual expression. In fact, up until the meeting in Brandon's office, it didn't occur to either one of us that Tammy might wind up being vilified. But now it was all she could think about. The mockery, the humiliation. Being held up as another shameful example of Hollywood perversion and the mainstreaming of deviance.

Personally, I believed that kind of reaction was highly unlikely and that DuckGoose was jumping at shadows, but fear is stubbornly resistant to logic. It's the same reason we are frightened by horror movies. We know they're fake, we know they're wildly implausible, and yet there's that part of our brains that cannot help but believe that, yes, a sweater-wearing, melted-faced, blade-fingered child molester really is going to murder us in our dreams.

Absurd!

Then again, maybe not. Because Tammy had already encountered this kind of prejudice. There were a few parents at her kids' school who had had a very bad reaction to her transition. To the point where they would not let their children have a playdate at Tammy's house. To be clear, this was nowhere near the majority view — the response was overwhelmingly welcoming — but still, it happened. And these were people who already knew Tom and had been comfortable leaving their kids with him. But now, they thought Tammy's presence would be traumatizing to their fragile, impressionable offspring.

It's so confusing! How do I explain this to my child?

Well. Having explained it to my own children, I can tell you that it's not that hard.

ME: Kids, you know Dad's writing partner, Tom, right? Well, he feels very strongly that he is really a woman named Tammy.

MY KIDS: OK.

Voila!

I admit, I am being a tad glib, but truly, that was basically the entirety of the conversation. I do know that Jana was a little weirded out when she saw Tammy for the first time — join the club, kid — but pretty quickly she got over it and moved onto other, more important stuff, like The Legend of Zelda video game on our PS3 and obsessing over when she'd finally get boobs.

And here's the other thing: Like it or not, some people are transgender. Some people are gay. Or bisexual. Or even pansexual. (Which, as far as I can tell, is the same thing as bisexual, but believe me, I'm not throwing myself into the middle of that argument.) When a parent pretends all of that doesn't exist they might avoid some uncomfortable conversations for a while, but they are not doing their kids any favors. If anything, they are ensuring that if their kids are any of those things, their journey will be a heck of a lot harder than it needs to be.

(Now, please give me a moment to dismount my high horse and then we'll continue...)

Also, on a less transgender-y note, there was the simple fear of losing our jobs. Which, by the way, wasn't necessarily going to happen, no matter what Tammy decided to do. But it was a possibility we could not ignore. It would have been one thing if we had a viable plan B, but working for DuckGoose was our plan B. (We also had a plan C, which mainly involved stealing other peoples' kidneys.) And if our career did flame out, it would be terrible for me, but so much worse for Tammy, because she would undoubtedly blame herself.

"I'm sorry I got you into this," she kept saying.

And I kept saying, "Don't worry. It's not your fault."

We went around and around on this until I finally yelled her.

"It's not your fucking fault so knock it the fuck off!"

Friendship!

Like I said, we knew right away Tammy's decision was a foregone conclusion. But admitting it? That would take some time. And while I was waiting for that nightmare to unfold, another one was hot on its heels.

—————————--

In therapy, Samantha and I were at an impasse. Neither of us wanted to give up on our marriage — or perhaps none of us wanted to be the one to say it — but we weren't making any progress. So Dr. Stephanie surprised us by suggesting that we spend some time apart.

"Aaron, you mentioned you had a guest house, right?"

"Yeah," I said guardedly. "You need a place to stay?"

She smiled. "No. But how would you feel about living there for a while?"

Both Samantha and I were stunned into silence. By this time, of course, we were both unhappy with the way things were. For Samantha, this had been true for a long time, but I had believed I was happy until, thanks of the efforts of our rock and roll therapist, I realized that I wasn't. To me, Dr. Stephanie was like that annoying friend who points out all the flaws in a movie you thought you liked — everyone has that friend; usually, I am that friend — and not only does it make you like the movie less, but you suddenly start noticing a whole bunch of other flaws and suddenly it's like: Wait a second, Captain America: Civil War isn't a delightful romp; it's terrible!

(And yes, I am aware I've used two movie metaphors in this chapter, but hey, at least I've stopped talking about sex and hookers, so that's something.)

Here's an example of what I'm talking about. After Jana was born, Samantha went through a bout of postpartum anger. I noticed her disturbing mood swings, but I said nothing. Characteristically, Samantha didn't say anything, either, for weeks acting like everything was fine.

But one day I heard her in the bathroom, cursing out loud, furiously ranting at nobody. (Hormones, man. They will mess you up.) Concerned, I gingerly approached the door. Then I paused, uncertain. Do I knock? Do I call her name? Or... maybe... do I just back away quietly and pretend this never happened?

That last option seemed pretty appealing.

Eventually, her mood stabilized — thanks to the healing power of time and the magic of Prozac —but not before it led to what was, for my money, one of my funniest parenthood moments ever. I had asked three-year old Hannah to come inside and she didn't want to. I told her again and she got really mad.

"No, Daddy!" she screamed, glaring up at me, hands balled into little fists. A willful china doll. "Don't say that!" And then she used some of Samantha's depressive postpartum vocabulary. "SHUT YOUR FUCKING FACE!"

I thought that was hilarious. I laughed until I could barely stand, while my daughter's fury turned to puzzlement as she tried to figure out why I found that so funny. Samantha, meanwhile, was mortified. In part because she knew where Hannah had learned those words, but also because she believed that my laughter would encourage Hannah to use them even more. (For the record, Hannah never used that language again. You know, until her teenage years.)

The point, of course, is that when it came to our marital problems I didn't know... but I knew.

"So what are we talking about here?" Samantha asked Dr. Stephanie. "A trial separation?"

"A reset. Living separately, sharing custody of the children."

"So really, a trial divorce."

"Yes. You know what your life is now. You should see what the alternative looks like."

"For how long?" Samantha asked.

"Let's say a month. After that, we'll revisit."

Again, a troubled silence. For me, it wasn't just the strangeness of what Dr. Stephanie was suggesting, but that I had no idea what Samantha really thought about it. Was she worried? Was she relieved? And for that matter, I wasn't even sure how I thought about it.

"And in answer to the question that neither of you wants to ask," Dr. Stephanie continued, "Yes, you can date if you want to. But I'd strongly suggest keeping it above the waist for now." Samantha and I exchanged a look of horror. The first thing we'd agreed on in while. "And if nothing else, Aaron, I've just given you a great idea for a sitcom."

I gave our therapist a reproachful look. It was without a doubt a very unprofessional thing for her to say. But I couldn't get too mad at her, because I had been thinking the exact same thing.

————————-

After a few days, Tammy told me her Comic-Con decision. There were no surprises.

"Have fun on the panel," she said. "Try not to say anything stupid."

"I always try."

"Then try harder," she said and I laughed.

I felt like a sellout. Granted, I had long been a sellout, but this was different. In the past, I had sacrificed my artistic integrity in exchange for a large paycheck, and in doing so, I was hurting no one except maybe myself.

(And even then... money!)

Now, though, DuckGoose was screwing over my best friend, not because of anything she had done, but simply for who she was, for what she was. And no matter what I tried to tell myself, by doing what they wanted, by being what they wanted — the acceptable family-friendly heterosexual male representing the show — I would be complicit, too.

I talked to my father about this. He sympathized with my plight, and with Tammy's.

"Maybe I shouldn't go," I mused.

"Why? What would that accomplish?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "But... the whole thing just doesn't seem right."

"And?"

"And... weren't you the one who taught me to always stand up for what's right?"

"Sure," he said. "When you were five. You'd barely stopped shitting in your pants, you weren't ready for moral complexity."

"First of all, I never stopped shitting in my pants."

"Like father like son." I laughed. "Go on."

"She's my friend, Dad."

"Listen," he said. "I get it. And I know I've asked you this before, but—"

I completed his sentence for him. "—if the situation was reversed, would Tammy do that for me?"

"Yeah."

I thought about it. I wish I could have answered with a confident yes. But I couldn't.

The following morning, Tammy and I marched into Evelyn's office. This time, her Anne Klein suit was navy blue. Clearly, she had decided on her look. She was on the phone, but she cut the call short to hear what we had to say.

"So?" she asked brightly as she returned the handset to its cradle. "Have we made a decision?"

"I decided to sit this one out," Tammy said. She felt defeated but she sounded businesslike.

"Are you sure?" Evelyn said, her feigned concern betrayed by her feral grin.

"I am."

"Well, you'll be missed," she said, and amazingly neither I nor Tammy punched her in the face. "Thanks for letting me know." Expecting us to leave, she started to reach for the phone.

But then I dropped my bombshell. "Oh, and by the way?" She looked up at me. "I won't be going, either."

I thought that this would have some devastating impact. I thought this would fuck up DuckGoose's shit. You didn't see that coming, didja, bitches?

But Evelyn didn't even blink. "OK, thanks." I hovered awkwardly at her desk. I had anticipated some pushback. At the very least, I thought she would ask me to reconsider, for the good of the show.

Nope.

I knew that the cool thing would be to nonchalantly walk away. Walk away like I didn't give a shit. Like I never even wanted to go to their stupid event in the first place. But I just couldn't do it.

"Seriously, Evelyn?" I said, anger and incredulity vying for top billing. "You really want have a panel for your most talked-about new show without either of the creators?"

She shrugged as she dialed the phone. "It's not my preference," she said calmly, "but I respect your choice. Besides, we'll have the art director. We'll have the voice talent. It'll be fine."And then she started talking to whomever was on the other end of the line.

Satan, probably.

That evening, with my skin still hot from the sting of defeat, I said good night to the kids and then walked approximately a hundred and fifty feet across our yard and moved into the guest house, just like Samantha and I had joked about years earlier.

As a (hopefully) temporary exile, it was quite nice. Spacious — three bedrooms and two-and-a-half bathrooms — and featuring a great room with a vaulted ceiling. And since my parents would stay there whenever they visited, it was already comfortably furnished. Plus, there was a big-ass flat screen and surround sound. And there were glass sliders looking out onto the swimming pool, now illuminated. Dancing waves of light undulated on the walls, giving the place a sense of unreality.

Samantha and I were still keeping our "reset" a secret, mostly. We had both told our respective parents. They all reacted with shock, but then told us of their own marital crises and expressed confidence that we would overcome ours, too.

I also told Tammy, which was a little frustrating. Absorbed as she was in her own issues, she wasn't a particularly attentive listener when it came to mine. I believe that her sympathy was genuine, if tinged with schadenfreude — given my criticism of her own failed marriage she could not help but take some satisfaction in watching my relationship come crashing down — but she was frequently distracted, and she rarely if ever inquired about how things were going with my wife, or even how I was doing generally.

There is, I learned, a certain amount of selfishness involved in transitioning. It was to me a lot like how recovering alcoholics behaved when they started going to AA. Their sobriety was their highest, their only priority, and it crowded out everything else. On the one hand, you are happy for them for getting their life back together; on the other hand, you really wished they'd just shut the hell up about the twelve steps for one goddam minute.

And speaking of alcoholics, on that first night in the guest house I drank a whole bottle of wine by myself and fell asleep on the couch. It was alarming. Not the drinking of a whole bottle — I did that all the time — but waking up in the dark and not knowing where I was.