Chapter 12: Regret
The cab smelled of pine air freshener and stale cigarettes, exactly like the one she had driven in when leaving her apartment. Amanda pressed her forehead against the cool window, watching the rain-slicked streets of Westford blur past. Each familiar landmark felt jarring, a world away from the warm, sleek haven of Mark’s apartment just minutes ago? It felt like years and seconds simultaneously.
Her body still hummed, a pleasant, deep thrumming beneath the silky fabric of her dress, a lingering testament to Mark’s hands, his mouth, the way he’d looked at her – like she was something rare and exquisite. The sex had been… transcendent. A blur of heat and shared gasps, his strength yielding to her guidance, her own surprising boldness as she’d taken control, ensuring his pleasure mirrored hers. The memory should have been glorious, warming her from the inside.
But it wasn't.
It was the after that filled the cab, thick and choking as the synthetic pine scent. The frantic scramble for her clothes while he lay stunned on the disheveled sheets. His voice, rough with spent passion and utter confusion: "Stay? Amanda, please?" She hadn't even looked back. Just mumbled something about work, grabbed her purse, and practically sprinted down the stairs, the taste of him still on her lips, the ghost of his touch on her skin.
Coward.
The word echoed louder than the cab’s radio playing soft pop. She’d fled. Vanished. Like a thief in the night after the most profound intimacy she’d ever experienced. Why? Why hadn't she stayed? Why hadn't she given him her number? Or taken his? Why had Amanda, the epitome of confidence just moments before, dissolved into Adam's panic the second the physical connection broke?
The cab pulled up to her modest apartment building. She fumbled with bills, avoiding the driver’s eyes, mumbling a thanks. Inside her small, familiar space – a stark contrast to Mark’s curated minimalism – the silence pressed in. She peeled off the beautiful dress, a garment that felt like armor and betrayal, and stepped into a cool shower, trying to wash away the sticky residue of regret mixed with the scent of his cologne. It clung stubbornly.
Later, wrapped in a simple, silky lavender nightie, she lay in the dark. The feel of the sheets was different. Cooler. Lonelier. Amanda closed her eyes, but the scene replayed ruthlessly on the insides of her eyelids: Mark’s face, slack with post-orgasmic bliss morphing into bewildered hurt. The sharp intake of breath when she’d pulled away so abruptly. The click of the apartment door closing, final and damning.
She’d replayed their flirting at the The Velvet Vine, conversation over drinks, the electric tension as they walked to Mark's place, the kiss under the elm tree. But these vibrant memories were muted now, overshadowed by the stark, ugly picture of her flight. The laughter felt distant, the connection fragile, shattered by her own fear. Had the whole night been a lie because she couldn’t face the morning after? Because Amanda couldn’t withstand the vulnerability of being truly known?
Had she made a mistake? The question wasn't intellectual; it was a physical ache in her chest. A cold dread settled in her stomach. Not just a mistake – a colossal, potentially irreversible fuck-up. She’d found something extraordinary, a man who saw her, Amanda, and responded with genuine desire and connection, and she’d thrown it away because Adam was terrified of what came next. Terrified of being found out? Or terrified, perhaps, that it might have been real?
Sleep was a traitor, refusing to come. She traced the lace trim of her nightie, the smooth fabric a poor substitute for the heat of Mark’s skin. The silence of her apartment roared, filled only with the phantom echo of his voice asking her to stay.
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Dawn crept in, grey and unwelcome, painting the familiar shapes of her room in stark relief. She hadn’t slept a wink.
Adam had Sunday off too, which meant another day as Amanda. He treasured the opportunity to have another day in feminine clothing, identifying as Amanda, but the event of yesterday still haunted her. She tried to dismiss it, forget it, focus on something else.
Instagram offered only curated perfection, yoga felt like going through motions disconnected from her churning mind. She moved through sun salutations on her worn mat, the stretch in her hamstrings failing to quiet the replay of Mark’s stunned expression. The scent of lavender oil from the diffuser couldn’t mask the phantom trace of his expensive cologne.
Breakfast yielded little satisfaction. The sizzle of eggs in the pan, the freshness of her orange juice – usually comforting rituals – felt hollow. She ate mechanically, tasting nothing. Video games provided only a numb distraction, the flashing lights and frantic action failing to penetrate the fog of regret.
But despite it all, she couldn’t completely forget about Mark Reynolds, the handsome architect from the Velvet Vine. His laugh echoed in her quiet apartment. The memory of his fingers threading through her hair sent a shiver down her spine, unrelated to the warm August morning air filtering through the window. His confusion, his hurt – it stabbed sharper than any blade.
===
His confusion, his hurt – it stabbed sharper than any blade. Amanda spent Sunday trapped in her own head. The soft feel of her favorite sweater dress against her skin offered no comfort, only a reminder of the silken sheets she’d abandoned. She tried reading, but the words blurred; tried painting her nails a defiant red, but the polish felt like drying blood. Every attempt at distraction dissolved into the same loop: Mark’s stunned face, the frantic scramble for clothes, the cold click of the door closing behind her.
"Why?" she whispered aloud, the sound swallowed by the quiet apartment. "Why did I run?" The answer slithered in the pit of her stomach – a familiar, cold dread. Adam’s fear. Adam’s terror of exposure, of rejection, of the beautiful, terrifying vulnerability of being truly seen. Amanda’s confidence had evaporated the moment the intimacy shifted from physical to potentially emotional. She’d panicked. Pure, unadulterated flight instinct.
The fading Sunday light felt accusatory. Amanda stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror – the flawless makeup, the cascade of styled hair, the elegant lines of the lavender nightie. It was armor. Beautiful armor, but armor nonetheless. Protecting Adam. Hiding Adam. She traced the line of her jaw, the smoothness achieved through careful shaving and foundation. Who was she protecting him from? Mark, who had looked at her with such raw desire? Or herself?
Slowly, reluctantly, the transformation began. The wig came off first, revealing Adam’s own shorter, dark hair. Makeup dissolved under cleansing oil, revealing the sharper angles of his face beneath the soft illusion. The silky nightie was replaced by worn cotton pajamas. Each step felt like shedding a vital layer of skin. Amanda receded, leaving Adam standing before the mirror, shoulders already slumping inward. The confident posture vanished, replaced by a familiar, weary slump. He looked… diminished. Ordinary.
Sleep came fitfully, haunted by fragmented dreams. Mark’s laugh echoing down a supermarket aisle. The feel of his hands on Adam’s hips, not Amanda’s. Waking tangled in sheets, heart pounding, the phantom scent of Mark’s cologne mingling with the stale apartment air. Dawn arrived grey and unwelcome, casting long shadows that felt like bars on a cell.
The supermarket uniform – a cheap polyester polo shirt in an unflattering shade of blue and stiff black trousers – felt like sandpaper against his skin after Amanda’s silks and lace. Adam tugged at the collar, already too tight. He clipped his name tag – ‘Adam’ – onto his chest, the plastic rectangle a heavy, undeniable weight. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed incessantly, casting a sickly pallor over everything. The familiar scent of disinfectant, stale bread, and faintly rotting produce assaulted his senses. It smelled like entrapment.
"Morning, Adam," Brenda, the perpetually tired shift manager, mumbled without looking up from her clipboard. Her voice was flat, devoid of inflection. "Aisle three needs facing. Delivery’s late again."
"Yeah. Okay," Adam mumbled back, his voice lower, rougher than Amanda’s. He grabbed a box cutter and headed towards the canned goods. The repetitive task – pulling dented cans forward, aligning labels, stacking neatly – was mind-numbing. His hands moved automatically while his mind screamed. Every metallic clink of a can hitting the shelf echoed the click of Mark’s apartment door. He kept seeing Mark’s face: the warmth fading into confusion, then hurt. The architect’s hands, strong and sure on Amanda’s waist, now seemed impossibly distant.
A customer shoved a heavy cart past him, clipping his heel. "Watch it!" the man snapped, not even glancing back. Adam flinched, shrinking further into himself. Amanda would have arched an eyebrow, maybe offered a cool, cutting remark. Adam just mumbled, "Sorry," staring at the scuffed linoleum. The fluorescent lights hummed louder, drilling into his skull. He longed for the dim, intimate glow of The Velvet Vine, the soft murmur of conversation, the weight of Mark’s appreciative gaze.
Lunch break in the cramped, windowless staff room tasted like ashes. Adam picked at a limp sandwich, surrounded by the chatter of coworkers discussing weekend football and relationship dramas he couldn’t connect with. Their voices buzzed like flies. All he could hear was Mark’s low chuckle, feel the phantom pressure of his lips tracing Amanda’s neck. The contrast was brutal. Here, he was invisible Adam, stacking cans. With Mark, he’d been Amanda: desired, seen, electric. The sheer drudgery of the afternoon stretched before him, an endless desert of beeping scanners, sticky floors, and vacant stares.
Adam leaned his forehead against the cool metal of the shelving unit, closing his eyes for a stolen second. The image bloomed instantly: Mark’s sleek, minimalist apartment. The soft texture of his expensive sofa. The warmth radiating from his body as they lay tangled together, breathless and sated. The memory was so vivid, so achingly real, it was a physical pain. He wanted to rip off the scratchy polo shirt, shed Adam’s skin like a suffocating shell, and run. Run straight back to Mark’s door. Run back into Amanda’s confidence, her sensuality, her right to be desired. Run and be Mark’s girlfriend, openly, freely, without this crushing duality.
The harsh buzz of a pallet jack jolted him back. Brenda stood nearby, tapping her foot. "Adam? Stockroom. Now. Those cereal boxes won't unload themselves." Her tone held no malice, just weary impatience. Adam pushed himself upright, the fantasy evaporating like mist. The fluorescent lights glared down, the scent of cardboard and dust filled his nose. He was Adam. He was here. And the weight of the dreadful job, the dreadful identity, pressed down, making every step towards the stockroom feel like wading through tar. All he wanted was to be Amanda, walking confidently towards Mark, not Adam trudging towards another pallet of cornflakes.