Chapter 8 September 18th 2025

Whit’s phone buzzed at 9:02AM

Grace: I’ll be at class tonight, if you’re free after the class I think we should talk.

It had been a week since he heard from Grace. He thought he dodged a bullet, that she'd just forget his little admission in the Rural King parking lot. Everyday he lingered at her mailbox just a bit too long wondering if she’d come back to class or ignore the creepy old man.

Whit looked up just in time to see he was about to run off the road.

“Shit!” he yelled and jerked the little mail truck back into the lane. “Get it together Whit,” he said.

Whit put his focus back on his job, but his thoughts kept drifting back to the text. She probably just wanted to tell him he was a creepy old man and he needed to back off. Maybe she wanted to talk about art? Surely she didn’t want to talk about being trans.

“I should just tell her I’m busy,” Whit said to his rear view mirror.

“I can't be hanging out with a 18 year old, she’s a kid.”

“If Lucy found out she’d kill me.”

At the next mailbox Whit sent a text.

Whit: Sounds good.

***

“Great job on the underpainting, Grace. I look forward to seeing where you take this,” Whit said, then quickly made his way to another student.
He glanced back and caught Grace making a funny face at him and giggling. She was enjoying his discomfort.

Still, Whit went out of his way to treat her like he would any other student, to the point where it came off more like awkward avoidance.

He leaned over Troy and Angie Phelps’ table and groaned inwardly at their cliche subject matter. They were both painting Bob Ross style barn scenes. Whit could almost hear the TV painter’s voice in his head.

“A happy little rabbit could live in this thicket, and he is probably friends with the raccoon who comes by the barn every night. It is your world, friends.” Angie’s painting was actually pretty good. Troy, on the other hand… well, he liked to paint.

“Hey Whit, that reminds me, I have an important date for you. We have a big name speaker coming to Harvest Chapel on October 27th through November 2nd,” Troy said.

“We are having a big, old fashioned tent revival. We got a well-known pastor coming up from Tennessee, Levi Hale. I am sure you have heard of him,” Angie said.

“Can’t say I have,” Whit replied.

Troy beamed. “Well, he is a man who tells it like it is. He is not afraid of cancel culture or the wokesters up north. It is going to build a lot of spirit around here.”

“Well, sounds great. I will put it on my calendar,” Whit said.

“It is a collaboration between us and Friends of Jesus, so it is going to be huge,” Angie added.

Whit blinked. That name meant something.
“I think that is where Lucy’s mom and dad go to church,” he said.

“Yeah, they are a smaller church, but their pastor is the one who got Brother Levi to come to Mud Creek,” Troy said.

Whit excused himself from the conversation.

Lucy’s parents went to one of those batshit crazy small churches. He had met their pastor. The man was a three-hundred-pound idiot who preached about how food stamps were making everyone lazy, all to a congregation who mostly received food stamps.

This Levi Hale guy was probably even worse. Just what the town needed, another leech.

***

Whit walked over and closed the door of the classroom. Grace was still at the sink cleaning her palette. Whit walked around the room, checking corners like he expected an ambush. He saw Grace smiling at him.

“The coast is clear sir,” she said with a chuckle.

“So you wanted to talk?” Whit asked, ignoring the joke.

Grace frowned and furrowed her brow, “Do I want to talk? You’re acting like we’re going to do something illegal. I sent you a text because you were upset last week. That is all.”

“I was not upset,” Whit said too quickly.

“Right,” Grace replied. “You just reach out to every transgirl you meet after doing them a favor.”

Whit opened his mouth, then closed it. He could not meet her eyes.

Grace sighed. “Look, if you don’t want to talk, that is fine. I get it. You can go back to pretending everything is normal.”

She picked up her backpack and started toward the door.

“Wait,” Whit said. It came out rough. “Grace, wait. I am sorry. I do want to talk. I just didn’t want the entire class seeing us… talking.”

Grace turned slowly. She studied him for a beat. “Because you are worried about looking unprofessional?”

“Something like that,” Whit muttered.

Before Grace could reply, the door jerked open behind them. The janitor stepped inside rolling a mop bucket. Both of them jumped.

“Oh. Did not think anyone was still in here,” the man said.

Grace hugged her bag tighter. Whit cleared his throat. “We were just finishing up.”

“Take your time,” the janitor said, already moving toward the sink.

Whit and Grace exchanged a startled, embarrassed look and slipped out of the room.

In the hallway, Whit rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry. I didn't mean to act weird.”

Grace walked beside him toward the exit. “It’s fine you are weird.” Grace said and chuckled.

They stepped out into the parking lot. The yellow lights buzzed, a few students were milling about after night classes, but the parking lot was mostly empty. Grace glanced toward the line of cars.

“Oh, I almost forgot” Grace pulled open her purse and took out a hundred dollar bill and handed it to Whit. “For the battery.”

He put up his hand. “It was a gift, don’t worry about it.”

“Mr. Whitfield, that will be leaving me in your debt,” Grace said with a smile.

“Consider it a scholarship, put it in your college fund or buy some new brushes.”

“OK, I’m hungry, let's go get something to eat, let me buy you supper, maybe you’ll feel more like talking. We could go to John’s Cafe. That dump never closes, but their burgers are good.”

Whit felt his stomach twist. A diner. A public booth. A young woman sitting across from him. People looking. People wondering.

But he used to hang out at John’s Cafe all the time when he was younger. His parents hated it, they told him that was where losers hung out at midnight. But it was the perfect place for deep conversations about the universe and his parents never got out of the shallow end of the pool. Whit felt like he was climbing the ladder of the high dive.

“That is probably the best place,” he said. “If you want to.”

Grace gave him a small, patient smile. “Yeah. I want to.”

The door of her beat up F150 creaked and she got in.

He sent Lucy a text, “Some of us are grabbing a bite to eat after class, be home late.”

***

The Thursday night crowd was pretty thin, they took a booth in the back. A few eyes drifted towards them but quickly looked away. Whit didn’t recognize anyone.

They ordered burgers, and when the waitress walked away Grace crossed her arms on the table and gave him a warm, almost playful smile, “So, why are you a mailman in Mud Creek?” she asked.

Whit rubbed the back of his neck. “Mud Creek is not that bad.”

Grace gave him a look that said come on.

He sighed. “My wife, Lucy and I grew up here. She likes it. We have family here. My parents needed help for a while, and I didn’t want to leave them. One thing led to another and… well, life happened.”

Grace nodded slowly. “That still does not answer the question. Why are you delivering mail in a town you outgrew twenty years ago?”

Whit hesitated. The truth stung. “Its a good job, its steady. I feel useful. And honestly, I do not need to be some big city artist. I am married. I have responsibilities.”

Grace stared at him like she could see every excuse for what it was.

“Do you have kids?” she asked.

Whit paused, he hated this question. “No, we tried, didn’t work out.”

Grace tilted her head down, “I’m sorry,” she said.

Whit felt cornered and tried to steer the conversation away. “Why do you live out in the woods in a trailer?”

Grace did not flinch. “Because it is the only place I have. My mom did not want me around anymore. My dad left but said I could live in his hunting cabin. Wal-Mart doesn’t pay much and I like having a roof over my head. Even if it’s rusty metal.”

Whit felt his chest tighten at her matter-of-fact tone.

Grace lifted her chin slightly. “Your turn. Why do you stay?”

“It is complicated,” Whit said.

“So is my life,” Grace replied.

He opened his mouth, closed it, then stared at the water ring under his glass.

“Most of the people I grew up with couldn’t wait to leave. I used to think staying here made me a good person,” he said quietly. “Like it meant I was loyal or something. But lately I feel like I am stuck in something I can’t explain.”

Grace studied him, softer now. “I guess we’re both stuck in Mud Creek then.”

Whit swallowed and looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “The other night, in the parking lot. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have dumped that on you.”

Grace shook her head, “You didn’t dump anything on me, you saved me. You asked me how I know I’m trans that night, I thought at first you were going to try to preach to me or something. But that wasn’t it was it? Why did you ask me that?”

Whit felt like a deer in headlights, he was about to get ran over. “I feel like… like my life does not match who I am inside.”

Grace held his gaze. “I kind of guessed that.”

Whit’s breath caught. “How?”

Grace smiled sadly. “Because I know what hiding looks like.”

Whit sat up straight with a jolt when he noticed the waitress in his peripheral vision, “Here you guys go, burgers and onion rings for the lady, and fries for the gentleman.”

Grace tore into her burger like a kid. Whit rubbed his palms on his jeans and put ketchup on his plate. He started to take a bite, and then stopped.

“There is something I need to say,” Whit murmured.

“Okay,” Grace said.

“It is embarrassing.”

Grace shrugged. “So is most of my life.”

He gave a small, humorless smile, then looked down at the table. “Back when I was younger. I found something online. About people like me. Or people who thought like me. It explained why I felt the way I did.”

Grace leaned in a little. “What kind of thing?”

Whit inhaled slowly. “Autogynephilia.”

Grace sat the burger down and wiped her mouth. “Autogynephilia,” she said with disgust.

“It is the idea that some men want to be women because it turns them on,” Whit said. “Like it is a fetish or a perversion. Like the only reason someone would want to be female is because it gets them excited.”

Grace stared at him for a moment.

“I know what fucking autogynephilia is. It’s stupid,” she said.

Whit’s head snapped up. “It’s not stupid. It made sense. At least it explained why I… why I…” He trailed off, feeling the heat rush to his face.

“Whit. Come on,” Grace said. “That is ancient pseudoscience trash. Have you been to a therapist this decade?.”

“I’ve never been to a therapist. You don’t understand,” Whit said. He felt his voice tighten. “It fits me perfectly.”

Grace softened. “How did you find out about that term?”

Whit took a drink of his coke before answering. “When I was like 13 my parents got the internet. I did a search for guys who want to be girls, and I read about it.”

“You were a kid reading garbage on a dial-up connection. How long did you believe it?”

“Still do,” Whit whispered.

Grace shook her head. “No you don’t. You are scared it might be true. That is different.”

Whit swallowed hard. “It explains the… why I do what I do. It explains why I’m different from you.”

Grace leaned forward slightly. “Different from me how?”

Whit stared at the table. “You knew. You figured it out when you were a teenager. You had the courage to say it out loud. You were not confused. You were not…” His voice tightened. “You were not messed up the way I am.”

Grace sighed. “Whit. My parents took me to a therapist who told me I was a pervert. My mom prayed over me with her church friends like I had a demon. I thought I was disgusting too. I stopped believing their lies and you didn’t.”

Whit’s breath caught.

“You are not different from me,” Grace said. “You just had a twenty year head start on hating yourself, and there is way better information for us on the internet now.”

Whit felt tears, he was going to lose it, he quickly turned his head and looked out the window.

Grace let him sit in that silence for a few seconds. Then she spoke carefully.

“Whit, listen. Men do not spend decades tormented because of a fetish. People with fetishes get off on licking feet, or getting pee’d on then they go to sleep happy. You are not sleeping well are you?”

Whit flinched.

Grace leaned her forearms on the table. Her voice dropped to something gentle and precise.

“You are not a fucking autogynephilic, because it’s a made up bullshit term for people who weren’t allowed to be themselves when they were young. You are scared you might be a woman.”

Whit felt something collapse in his chest. He tried to breathe but it felt like the air had turned thick.

“That is not true,” he whispered.

Grace looked at him without any pity, only clarity. “Then tell me what it is.”

He could not.

His throat worked around the words that would not come. His jaw began to tremble. He took off his glasses and brushed tears out of his eyes.

Grace glanced back, then leaned in close and handed him a napkin, “Go out to my truck, I’ll pay and be right there. Don’t leave OK?”

Whit nodded. It dawned on him that he was taking orders from a kid, “Can you get my food?” he asked.

Grace smiled, “Of course.”

A few minutes later she slid into the truck, Whit was staring at the dashboard.

“Thanks,” he took the clamshell box. “I better get going,” Whit said and started to open the passenger door.

Grace grabbed his arm and tugged, “Wait, you read one bad thing when you were a dumb kid and you’ve let it ruin your whole life. You’re not a freak, and you don’t have to be ashamed.”

Whit pressed his fingers to his eyes. “Grace, please, you’re a good kid, thanks for trying to make an old man feel better about himself, but you can stop.”

Grace shook him, “Stop trying to run and hide for once in your life. Your not an auto fucking gynephiliac!”

Whit’s voice raised. “Then what am I god gamn it?”

Grace held his gaze, steady as a hand on the back of a drowning swimmer.

“Tell me your name,” she said.

Whit froze.

Grace’s voice stayed soft. “The one you call yourself when nobody can hear.”

Whit looked over at Grace and pressed his hands together in his lap. He could feel his breath, his heartbeat. He didn’t feel like a character in an RPG, this was his life. What he did not realize was that, for the first time in years, he was not floating away from himself. He was here. He was in his body. He was living the moment instead of watching it from somewhere else.

The tears gathered again, but his jaw stayed tight.

He opened his mouth.

“I… I do have a name,” he said.

Grace nodded once. “Good. Say it.”

He breathed in, slow, shaky, like a final breath.

“Sarah, my name is Sarah Whitlock.”