Author's Note: Happy New Year! This chapter was something that I imagined leading up to from the moment I started the book. It's a very powerful chapter and I'm so excited to share it with you. As of now this is the only place I share this book. I may be suffering illusions of grandeur but I believe that it is good. I may attempt to publish it somehow when it's complete.
You may notice that I still refer to Whit as Whit and use male pronouns, while Grace refers to him as Sarah and she/her. This is intentional on my part. Grace would call Paul Bunyan, Lady Priscilla if he told her that was who he was. Whit on the other hand isn't so flexible.
Thank you again for reading and commenting.
Chapter 11 September 26th 2025
Grace slid into the Jeep beside Whit, with a big grin on her face, “Wow, sweet ride Sarah,” she said. She was wearing a “The Fray” T-shirt, flared jeans, and Chuck Taylors. Grace’s body existed in a luminal space between thick and thin, kid and adult, pretty and plain, but she’d be difficult to clock as trans.
“You know The Fray?” Whit asked.
“Of course, I love old music,” she said.
Whit frowned, he’d only recently started listening to the band after somehow missing them 20 years ago.
Whit looked over and couldn’t hide the nervousness he felt. “Are you sure about this?
“No. It was your idea dummy. Do you want to back out?” Grace asked.
Whit turned around and drove down her driveway, the morning light casting shadows across the gravel. “I already took the day off work,” he said.
Grace nodded, “OK, so what did you tell Lucy?”
“I told her I was going to an instructor's conference in Paducah,” he replied.
Grace chuckled, “Oh what wicked webs we weave when first we… Um, deceive.”
Whit scoffed, “What tangled webs we weave, when first we practice to deceive. Don’t they teach you Shakespeare in school?”
Grace laughed, “I dropped out, remember, probably did Shakespeare my Senior year.”
Whit gritted teeth, he could only continue this course if he tried to block out the fact that he was taking an 18 year old across state lines to help him buy women’s clothes.
Whit gripped the wheel a little too hard. “Look, this is just… weird, okay? I don’t even know what we’re doing. I feel like I’m having a midlife crisis.”
“You’re not,” Grace said, flipping down the sun visor and checking her nose ring in the mirror. “Midlife crises involve sportscars and cheating. You’re finally doing something honest for once.”
Whit didn’t answer.
Grace snapped the visor shut and slouched back. “So. Be real with me. You’ve never bought your own clothes? Like… ever?”
Whit felt his face heat. “I, I mean, not really.”
Grace gave him a side-eye. “Liar.”
“I’m not lying,” he said, defensive. “OK, I did a few times, but I just couldn’t keep anything. I’d buy something, panic, hide it somewhere stupid, then throw it away before Lucy found it.”
Grace stared at him for a long second. “Damn, Sarah. That’s bleak.”
He shrugged, embarrassed. “I wasn’t scared of her. I was scared of what it meant if she found them.”
Grace softened a little. “I get that. Still messed up, though.”
Whit blew out a breath. “Yeah.”
“Promise me you won’t throw this stuff away,” she said.
Whit looked over at her and smiled, “OK,” he said.
“If you need to get rid of it just give it to me,” Grace said and laughed.
They turned onto the highway, the fall trees burning bright gold on either side. Grace tapped her fingers on her knee in rhythm with whatever song was stuck in her head.
“So,” she finally said. “We’re hitting Ross first. It’s cheap, chaotic, and the lighting will make everyone look terrible, which is perfect for your first time.”
Whit smiled. “Cheap is good.”
“Yes,” Grace said firmly. “And you need actual clothes. Not the fantasy crossdresser shit. Real stuff. Stuff you could wear out in public if you ever grow the balls for it.”
Whit swallowed. “I’m not… I don’t think I’m ready to be seen.”
“That’s why we’re going early,” she said. “Avoid the lunch crowd. And no one in Ross pays attention anyway. They’re too busy fighting for the last clearance sweater.”
Whit forced a weak laugh.
***
“What do you think of this?” Grace said as she held a fuzzy burnt orange fall sweater up to her chest and did this cute thing with her hips. Whit was walking a tightrope, trying to look closely at everything she picked up while swiveling his head at every single movement. Sure this wasn’t home, but he wasn’t that far away. Every shuffle of shoes made his stomach twist. He couldn’t stop thinking about it, he was putting everything on the line for what? Some clothes?
“Dad, hey focus, I’m asking you a question?” Grace said.
Whit looked behind him and got closer, “Dad?” he asked.
Grace lowered her voice, “Well I’m not going to call you Sarah in here, plus you’re just about the right age to be my Dad. Just pretend you're undercover, you know. Being a good Dad, taking your daughter shopping, not trying to rizz up some random trans chick from Ohio.”
Whit rolled his eyes, “What the hell does that mean,”
“Forget about it, boomer.”
Grace tossed the sweater in the cart, “It’s only 8 bucks, you couldn’t buy the yarn to make this 8 bucks.”
Whit formed a coy smile. “I like it, good fit for you daughter,” Whit said.
After picking out a few more tops Grace steered them to the jeans. Whit frowned, “Jeans?” he asked.
“Yeah look around Dad, how many girls do you see in here wearing skirts and dresses?” she asked.
Whit nodded, “Good point.”
Grace pulled several off the rack and tossed them in the cart then looked around to make sure no one was within earshot.
“Okay. You’re trying these on.”
Whit stiffened. “Absolutely not.”
She huffed and rolled her eyes. “This isn’t like buying men’s jeans. You can’t buy them without trying them on. That’s, like, a rule of the universe. ”
“Grace”
“Nope. Shut up. Go.” She shoved the jeans into his hands. “If they don’t fit your butt right, you’ll hate them and then you’ll blame me. Get in the booth.”
Whit’s throat tightened. “People will see me.”
“No one’s looking,” she said. “Half these people are hungover, and some don’t speak English. We’re in Ross, not Paris Fashion Week.”
When he didn’t move, she softened. “I’m coming with you, this is totally safe. I promise.”
Whit nodded and followed her to the back of the store where the fitting rooms were.
“Wait, Grace, no, hold on,” Whit whispered, digging his heels in. “There’s a guy up there.”
“Yeah?” she said. “And?”
“He’s… he looks like he’ll ask questions.”
Grace snorted. “Look at him, he’s gay, Sarah. He won’t care if you’re trying on a prom dress.”
Whit froze as they reached the podium.
The attendant, a slim man with immaculately shaped grey hair, perfect eyebrows, multiple ear rings and black nail polish looked up from the clothes rack he was sorting.
“Hey y’all,” he said, in a flat, practiced voice. “How many?”
Grace started pulling items out of the cart and handing them to Whit, “Eight total.” His hands were shaking.
The attendant gave them each a pink plastic tag. “Room eight and nine are open..”
Whit blinked. “You, don’t need to write my name down or something?”
The man gave him a confused smile. “No, babe. This isn’t the TSA.”
Grace grabbed Whit’s elbow and pulled him along. “Come on, Dad, before he changes his mind.”
The attendant laughed. “Oh, I love that. Y’all are adorable.”
Back into the maze of dressing rooms they parted for a women leaving and then they were alone. Whit was trying not to shake.
Grace piled Whit’s clothes on his arms, “OK, look, go try this stuff on, “I’ll come out in the hall, if the coast is clear you can open your door and I can give you a look-see.”
He started with the jeans, nearly tripping when trying to step into them and hitting the wall. Grace chuckled in the next stall, “You OK over there she whispered.”
“Yeah, technical difficulties.” Grace was right, the first pair of jeans were all wrong, tight at the waist, loose in the hips, and sagging at the rear. The second pair were softer, and had some stretch. As soon as he pulled them on he could feel them hugging everything just right. The mirror confirmed it. Whit tried on the burnt orange top and felt his breath catch.
There was a light tap on the door and he opened it and bashfully stood in front of Grace, cheeks turning red.
“Wow Sarah, you look good,” she said quietly.
Whit couldn’t meet her eyes, but felt his own getting wet.
“You’re allowed to like this,” Grace said.
Whit swallowed, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
***
Grace didn’t look up from her phone, “Left at the next stop light.”
It was 1PM, after Ross they went to Wal-Mart where Grace sorted out a basic makeup kit, then Hobby Lobby for a few random art supplies, a promised lunch at a pizza buffet and now finally they pulled into a small low rent strip mall with a dollar tree, nail salon, vape store, and Queen City Beauty Supply.
Much of Whit’s apprehension was gone. They had leaned into the whole “Dad” thing as a joke around other shoppers. At lunch Whit clumsily tried to comment on how relaxed Grace was, “How are you so confident?”
Grace gave a pout, “Shouldn’t I be?”
“I mean… um.. Yeah, obviously no one could…” Whit said.
Grace snorted, “Relax Sarah, I’m just fucking with you.” Then she leaned back in the booth, getting serious. “But being here in Paducah, this is easy mode. I’m just another girl here, or if someone clocks me, I’m just some random queer. Back in Mud Creek, that’s different.”
Whit wiped his face with a napkin, “Why are you still there?”
Grace shrugged, her eyes flicking down to her soda. “I tried leaving once, didn’t work out.”
Whit could sense the pain in her answer. He wanted to know more, but knew this was not the time or place. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Grace wiped her face, maybe pushing away a tear, then smiled, “It won’t be forever, I’ll figure something out.”
Back in the present Whit eased into a parking spot. “OK, I’m not getting my nails done,” he said.
Grace laughed, “What do you think we’re rich or something? You’re getting a wig.” Grace pointed at the mannequin head in the window at Queen City.
“Umm, I don’t..”
Grace cut him off, “Yeah wigs suck, and there is no law that says girls have to have princess hair. But, trust me it just helps.”
Whit looked at the store front. The window was filled with mannequin heads, sleek bobs, curled styles, long glossy waves, and rows of hair products stacked to the ceiling. It was clearly a shop catering to Black women, bright colors and bold fonts, a world Whit had never stepped into in his life. “No, sorry, I can’t go in there and shop for a wig.”
Grace blinked, then looked from the store to Whit, then back again. “Why not?”
“It’s” He gestured helplessly. “ I don’t belong there. People will stare. They’ll know.”
Grace snorted softly. “Sarah, it’s a cheap beauty supply store, I promise they could care less who you are or why you’re buying a wig.”
He kept shaking his head, breath speeding up. “No. I’d stick out. They’d see me for five seconds and know I’m… something. Something weird. I just can’t.”
Grace studied him, her teasing falling away. She unbuckled her seatbelt and turned toward him fully, her colorful plastic bracelets clinking. “Look at me.”
Whit tried, but his eyes kept darting back to the storefront like it might swallow him whole.
“Whit. Sarah. Whatever name you’re answering to right now. Listen.”
He finally met her gaze.
“No one in there cares,” she said softly.
Whit swallowed hard. “Yeah, but”
“No.” She shook her head gently. “This isn’t about them. This is about you. This is about your brain telling you you’re not allowed to take up space where women go.”
Whit went quiet.
He whispered, “I just… can’t.”
Grace leaned back in the seat, letting the moment breathe. “Okay,” she said. Not disappointed. Not annoyed. Just accepting. “Okay. Then we don’t go in.”
Whit exhaled shakily, some mixture of relief and shame tightening his chest.
Grace examined Whit’s hair and frowned. It was warm brown, but thinning, turning grey on the sides. He combed it in the morning and it got progressively shaggier as the day went on.
“How much cash do you have left?” Grace asked.
Whit pulled out his wallet, and counted. “63 bucks,” he said.
“OK give me sixty, and trust me on this.”
Whit mechanically gave her three twenties and then watched her bounce out of the Jeep. She strode toward Queen City Beauty Supply like she’d been walking into it her whole life, and Whit watched her go, wondering how anyone that small could make him feel so much braver just by existing.
***
“Oh my God,” Whit said. Grace stood behind him a blur in the mirror admiring her handiwork.
Whit was standing in Grace’s small bedroom, cluttered with half finished paintings, clothes, and stuffed animals, looking at someone else in the mirror.
He turned toward her and smiled, “This is incredible.”
“Yeah I know, I’m a miracle worker,” she said and tossed her hair.
Whit looked back, leaning in closer. The wig, the makeup, the clothes. It was tickling some part of his brain, creating a euphoric rush the likes he’d never experienced.
“I feel like I’m dreaming,” he said.
“Yeah it was the same for me. It’s called gender euphoria,” Grace said.
Whit kept staring, then handed Grace his phone, “Take a picture please,” he said.
“Of course,” she said. When she handed him back the phone he could see he had a text from Lucy asking how the conference went.
“I don’t want to take this off,” he said.
“I know,” Grace said quietly.
“But I have to,” He felt panic start to trickle in. “Lucy is expecting me soon. I have to call her, and..”
“Sarah,” Grace’s voice was gentle but firm. “Look at me.”
He did.
“You have to tell her,” Grace said.
Whit shook his head, “I can’t tell her, not this. She’ll think I’m a pervert. She’ll hate me.”
Grace handed him a makeup wipe. “You don’t have to tell her about today.” She sighed, “Look you have two choices. You love your wife, you don’t want to hurt her. You either put this all back in the closet. Pretend this never happened. Stop talking to me, I’ll quit your painting class. Or you come out to her. She deserves to know the truth.”
Whit wiped foundation and concealer off his face and saw his old self peering back through the mirror. “I don’t know how to tell her,” he quietly said.
Grace exhaled through her nose, and made a tiny smile. “Good news Sarah, I do.”
Whit sat down on the bed.
Grace put a hand on his shoulder, “You’re going to go home.And in a few days, you’re going to sit her down and tell her you’ve been hurting for a long time. And that you’re tired of hiding.”
He shook his head, tears prickling. “I’m not ready.”
“No one ever is.”
Grace started to hand him another makeup wipe but realized they were a finite resource. “I went a little heavy on the makeup, I think we’re going to need to go to the bathroom and get a rag for that,” she said with a chuckle.