Chapter 14: The Unclasping
The morning light was golden and soft, slanting across the bed in long rectangles that fell on my bare arms and the rumpled sheets. I surfaced from sleep slowly, the way you rise from deep water, and for a moment I was simply warm and content, wrapped in a cocoon of cotton and morning stillness. The air smelled faintly of woodsmoke, clinging to my hair and skin from the night before.
Then the memory came back in pieces. The fire crackling in the stone ring. Allan's arm around my shoulders. The weight of his hand on my bare waist under my hoodie. The way my head had lolled against his shoulder, heavy with sleep and something else.
I smiled into the pillow. He must have carried me up here. That was the only way I could have gotten from the fire to this bed without remembering it. That thought, the image of his arms under my knees and shoulders, made something warm flutter low in my belly.
I shifted, stretching my arms above my head, and a sharp pain bit into my ribs. I gasped, my eyes flying open. The underwire. I was still wearing my bra.
Of course. I had fallen asleep in front of the fire and never made it to my room to change. Allan had carried me up, laid me down, and covered me with a blanket. He hadn't undressed me. He'd been a gentleman.
The thought should have made me feel safe. Instead it made something twist in my chest, a mix of relief and disappointment I didn't want to examine too closely.
I sat up carefully. The pain was a dull ache now, a red line of pressure where the underwire had dug into my ribs for hours. I reached behind my back and fumbled with the clasp. It was a front-clasp bra, I remembered now, one of the ones from the dresser drawer, and my fingers kept sliding off the plastic hook.
I struggled with it for what felt like a full minute, my arms aching from the awkward angle, my breasts heavy and constricted inside the cups. Finally the clasp gave way with a soft click, and the bra loosened. I shrugged it off my shoulders and let it fall to the mattress beside me.
The relief was immediate and profound. My breasts settled free, their weight dropping, and I let out a long shuddering breath. The air was cool on the skin where the fabric had been, and my nipples tightened against the chill, drawing into hard peaks against the sheet.
I lay back down, staring at the ceiling. The plaster was old, with hairline cracks spreading from the corners like the roots of a tree. Morning light pooled across it, shifting as a stray breeze moved the lace curtains.
My breasts were sore. Not in a painful way anymore, just an awareness, a tenderness where the bra had pressed all night. I brought my hands up and cupped them, feeling their weight, the give of the flesh, the firmness that was still new to me. The nipples were pebbled and sensitive against my palms. I closed my eyes, just holding myself, just feeling what it meant to live in this body.
Ten days ago I had been Justin Zygurski. I had woken up in a man's body, with a man's flat chest and a man's shoulders, and gone to work at an accounting firm, and done nothing more remarkable than balance spreadsheets and drink coffee. Then I'd seen the wrong thing in the wrong warehouse, and testified, and ended up on a table in a government lab being turned into someone else.
I opened my eyes and looked down the length of my new body. The sheet had pooled around my waist. My breasts rose and fell with each breath, pale and full, the nipples a soft rosy color. My waist curved in, my hips curved out, the womanly geography of me still strange and wonderful and horrifying all at once.
I rubbed the sore spots beneath my breasts, the red indented lines where the underwire had left its mark. The skin was tender, and I pressed gently, wincing a little. I would have to be careful about falling asleep in a bra again. Or I'd have to find better ones. Bras that didn't fight me every time I tried to put them on or take them off.
The thought felt almost domestic. Like planning my day around laundry and groceries and the small logistics of living. There was something comforting in that. A way to stop being a witness and a transformation and a refugee from my own body, and just be a woman named Sabrina Parker who needed new bras.
I sat up again, swinging my legs off the side of the bed. My feet found the worn wooden floor, cool and smooth. The room was exactly as I remembered it from the night before, lace curtains, rustic dresser, a mirror that had showed me a stranger. But now there was new weight in the room. A note.
I saw it on the nightstand beside the bed, propped against a water glass. A torn piece of paper, folded in half, with my name written on it in a neat hand. Sabrina.
I reached for it, then paused. My hand hovered over the paper. Whatever it said, it would be the first thing Allan had ever written me. That felt important, somehow. A small artifact of this new life.
I picked it up and unfolded it.
Went home to shower and pick up a few things. Pizza tonight? I'll bring the good stuff from Mario's. Get some rest. Allan.
I read it twice, then a third time. The words were simple, but they settled something in me. Tonight. He wanted to see me tonight. That meant the truck, and the fire, and his arm around me, it hadn't all been a kindness or a courtesy. He liked me. He wanted to spend time with me.
I set the note down carefully, smoothing its creases. Then I looked around the room, at the bed where he'd laid me last night. The dent of my body was still pressed into the sheets. I wondered if he'd lingered a moment before leaving, if he'd looked at me asleep and thought anything softer than a gentleman should.
I shook my head. That was a dangerous path. I barely knew him. And I was carrying enough secrets that any man who got close to me was in danger. But my body didn't care about danger. My body remembered the feel of his hand on my waist, the warmth of his leg pressed against mine on the log.
I stood up, padding naked to the window. The curtains were thin, and I could see the yard below, the gravel drive, the edge of the barn with its big red door standing open. The morning was quiet and blue, a perfect Vermont day.
Somewhere across town, Allan Cole was showering and picking up the good pizza from Mario's. He was coming back tonight. And I would be here, in this farmhouse that was supposed to be my sanctuary, waiting for him with a restored truck and a heart that didn't know if it was beating for a new life or an old one.
I looked down at my body, bare and strange and beautiful in the morning light. The soreness had faded to a pleasant ache. My nipples were still tight against the cool air.
I touched the locket at my throat, the one from my fabricated backstory, the only piece of jewelry I owned. Then I turned back to the bed, to the bra lying crumpled on the sheet, and I smiled a little.
Tonight, pizza. Tomorrow, the truck. One day at a time, one small step at a time, I would figure out who Sabrina Parker was supposed to be.
The note sat on the nightstand like a promise. Pizza tonight. I let my fingers rest on its edge for a moment longer, then pushed myself off the bed, feeling the cool floorboards under my bare feet.
Standing naked in the middle of the room, I considered my options. The bra lay crumpled on the sheet where I'd thrown it, a tangle of wire and fabric that had spent the night digging into my ribs. I left it there. Dressing felt like too much effort for a morning when I had nowhere to be and no one to see me. So I pulled on a loose t-shirt from the dresser drawer, a faded grey one that hung almost to my thighs, and a pair of soft cotton shorts that rode low on my hips. Nothing else.
The fabric pooled against my skin, and for the first time all morning, I felt unencumbered. The t-shirt brushed against my nipples with every step, a whisper of sensation that made me hyperaware of my body's new geography. I could feel the air moving freely against my thighs, the loose weight of my breasts swaying gently beneath the shirt. No constriction. No pressure. Just me and the clothes I'd chosen to wear.
I walked out into the hallway, and the house greeted me with its usual quiet. The kitchen still smelled of breakfast from the morning before. The living room had the particular stillness of a space that had been occupied and then emptied. Coffee cups sat in the sink. The afghan on the couch was draped at an angle, left over from when Allan had sat there yesterday afternoon.
I started with the dishes, running hot water into the sink and watching the suds gather. The sponge was still new, a bright yellow square, untouched by life. I scrubbed the coffee cups and set them in the drying rack, watching the water bead on their surfaces. The motion was simple and good, a rhythm that let my mind drift.
I hummed. I didn't realize I was doing it at first, a low tune I half remembered from somewhere. Maybe it was from a song Justin had liked, or a commercial jingle, or something I'd invented on the spot. I let it carry me, whatever it was. The hum filled the quiet kitchen, and the house felt less empty with it.
I wiped down the counter, then the stovetop, then the table where Allan and I had eaten pasta two nights ago. I was aware of my body in a new way as I moved. The t-shirt shifting against my breasts with each reach. The cotton shorts sliding against my bare hips as I bent. Without the bra, without underwear, every motion had a tactile quality, a reminder that this body was mine and that it moved in ways I hadn't yet learned.
I swept the kitchen floor, then the living room. The broom was old, its bristles worn down, but it did the job. I swept dust and a few stray pine needles that must have come in on our boots, and the motion of the bristles against the wood was satisfying, a small order imposed on chaos.
I hummed a little louder now, a melody I was starting to recognize. Something about rivers and roads. I didn't know where it came from, but it fit. Rivers and roads. New towns and fresh starts.
I sorted the mail on the counter, stacking the flyers and the catalogue into a neat pile. I fluffed the couch cushions and straightened the afghan, folding it into a perfect rectangle and draping it over the backrest. I wiped the dust from the windowsill. I arranged the few books that sat on the shelf, spines facing out, even though they were just decoration.
And all the while, my body kept reminding me it was there. The soft squeeze of fabric against my chest with every stretch. The cool air on my bare thighs each time I bent over. The weight of my hair, loose and wavy, brushing against my shoulders. I hadn't bothered to tie it back, and it fell around my face as I worked, honey-blonde strands tickling my cheeks.
I found myself in front of the hall mirror at one point, broom in hand, frozen mid-sweep. The woman in the mirror wore a loose grey t-shirt and cotton shorts, her hair a tumble of waves, her face flushed from the work. She looked soft. She looked comfortable. She looked like she belonged in this farmhouse, in this small town, in this life.
I didn't recognize her. But I didn't recoil from her either.
I got back to sweeping, and the hum picked up where it had left off. I worked my way through the house, room by room, chasing dust from corners and smoothing ruffled edges. The windows were open now, a breeze pushing the lace curtains inward, carrying the smell of cut grass and dry leaves. The sunlight pooled on the floorboards in warm patches, and I stepped through them as I moved, feeling the heat soak up through my bare feet.
By the time I was done, the house felt different. Settled. The way a house feels when it's been lived in, when someone has cared for it, when the surfaces shine and the air smells of lemon and morning. I stood in the middle of the living room, hands on my hips, and looked around at what I'd done.
I was sweating lightly, a sheen on my skin under the loose t-shirt. The fabric clung in places now, damp against my back and between my breasts. I could feel the pulse of my heart in my throat, and the cotton of the shorts had ridden up slightly on my thigh, creasing against the curve of my hip.
I ran a hand through my hair, pushing it back from my face, and caught a glimpse of myself in the dark window over the sink. A woman, backlit by the afternoon sun, alone in a clean house. She was humming still, I realized. The song had never stopped. It was still there, humming along in her chest, a note of something almost like hope.
I turned from the window and looked at the quiet rooms around me. The floorboards gleamed. The dust was gone. The air was still and sweet with the smell of lemons. And tonight, there would be pizza.
I smiled at the thought, and the hum in my chest got a little louder. I padded down the hallway to the bedroom, my bare feet whispering on the wood, and stopped at the threshold. The bed was unmade, sheets rumpled from my restless night. The bra still lay on the pillow, a puckered shape of wire and lace.
I walked to the bed, picked the bra up by one strap, and carried it to the dresser. I opened the top drawer and looked at the neat rows of bras, the spectrum of pastel colors, each one sized for a body I was still learning. I dropped mine on top of the pile and closed the drawer.
Then I stripped the sheets off the bed, bundled them in my arms, and carried them to the laundry hamper in the bathroom. I shook out a fresh set from the linen closet, crisp and smelling faintly of lavender, and made the bed with slow, careful movements. The sheets settled smooth and white. The pillowcases puffed up clean.
When I was done, I stood back and looked at the room. Immaculate. Peaceful. A bed for a woman who was learning to live in her own body.
My reflection stared back at me from the mirror on the closet door. The loose t-shirt, the soft shorts, the bare legs and bare feet, the tumble of honey-blonde hair. She looked rested, despite everything. She looked like someone who had swept floors and washed dishes and hummed along to a song she barely remembered.
I didn't know her yet. But I was starting to believe she was worth knowing.
The woman in the mirror had a light sheen of sweat across her forehead, a few strands of honey-blonde hair clinging to her temples. I reached up, tucked them behind my ear, and felt the heat of my own skin under my fingers. The hum had finally died in my chest, replaced by a stillness I hadn't felt in days. A morning of hard, simple work had scraped something clean in me.
I turned away from the mirror and headed for the bathroom. The air in the hallway was warm, the afternoon sun pressing against the windows, and I could feel a fine grit of sweat drying on my arms, the residue of sweeping and scrubbing and moving through the house. I needed a shower. I wanted the cool water on my skin, wanted to wash away the morning along with the dust.
The bathroom was small and bright, the white tiles catching the light. I crossed to the tub and turned the knob. The pipes groaned for a moment, then settled into a steady hiss. Steam began to curl up from the showerhead, fogging the air and the mirror. I stood on the bathmat and reached behind my head, gathering my hair in one hand, then caught the hem of the t-shirt with the other.
I pulled it over my head in one smooth motion. The fabric slid up my torso, over my breasts, my ribs, my shoulders, and then it was gone, leaving my skin bare to the warm, humid air. I dropped it in a heap on the floor. Then I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of the cotton shorts and pushed them down over my hips, letting them fall to my ankles. I stepped out of them and stood naked in the middle of the bathroom, steam beginning to collect on the walls.
The mirror was fogged now, my reflection just a soft blur of flesh tones and hair. I didn't need to see myself clearly. I knew what was there. I was beginning to know it, anyway, the weight and curve and feel of this body, how it moved, how it breathed, how it slept. I reached for the shower curtain and drew it back.
The water was running hot and steady, pattering against the tub floor. I tested it with one hand, the spray stinging pleasantly against my palm, then stepped in.
The heat hit me all at once, a wall of it, pouring over my shoulders and down my back. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding and stood still under the stream, letting the water soak my hair, run down my face, spill over my breasts and belly. The sensation was overwhelming in the best way. Every inch of skin, every new inch of this body, came alive under the pressure and heat.
I reached for the shampoo on the shelf, a plain white bottle, and squeezed some into my palm. The smell was clean and green, like rain and cut stems. I worked it into my hair, scrubbing at my scalp with my fingertips, feeling the suds gather in the waves. Rinsing felt like washing away a week of strangeness. The water ran cloudy for a moment, then clear.
I set the shampoo aside and picked up a bar of soap, running it down my arms, across my collarbone, over my shoulders. The lather was slick and white, and I worked it carefully over my chest, my hands moving in slow circles over each breast, soaping the pale skin, the soft undersides, feeling how heavy they were even with the buoyancy of the water. The soreness from the bra had faded to a distant ache, and the soap was soothing against it.
I washed my stomach, the dip of my waist, my hips, my thighs. I bent to soap my legs, feeling the water race down my back, and my long hair swept forward, tickling the tops of my feet. I straightened and turned, letting the spray hit my back, the heat working into the muscles of my neck from the way I'd held myself over the truck all week.
For a long time I just stood there, letting the water run. The steam filled the little room, and the sound of the shower was loud and constant and good. My hands moved without thinking, smoothing lather down my sides, across the curve of my ribs, over my rear, between my thighs. The water sluiced it all away. I felt clean in a way I hadn't felt in days, maybe longer. Clean of dust, clean of grease, clean of the lingering pressure of the underwire, clean of the morning's work.
I tilted my head back under the spray and closed my eyes, letting the water run over my face. What must Allan be doing right now? Showering at his place, picking up pizza at Mario's, maybe. I wondered if he thought about me the way I wondered about him, with a kind of quiet, puzzled warmth.
I let the thought dissolve in the steam. I had time. He was coming tonight.
I turned off the water, and the pipes gave a final sigh. The room was thick with steam, beads of water clinging to the tiles. I reached out for a towel and wrapped it around myself, tucking the corner between my breasts, the terry cloth rough and good against my hot skin. I stepped out onto the mat and caught my reflection in the mirror, still fogged over, just the vague shape of a woman with wet hair and a white towel.
I wiped a clear patch with the corner of my hand. The face that looked back at me was flushed from the heat, lips soft, eyes bright. Wet hair darkened to a deep gold, hanging in heavy ropes against my shoulders. I studied myself for a long moment, the way the towel curved around my chest, the line of my collarbone, the damp skin of my throat.
I didn't recognize her. But tonight she would sit across a table from Allan Cole and share the good pizza from Mario's, and she would smile, and maybe laugh, and she wouldn't have to pretend to be anything but what she was becoming. A woman in a small town, learning to live in her own skin.
I hung the towel over the rack and walked naked back into the bedroom, the air cool against my still-warm skin, and picked out something soft to wear for the rest of the afternoon. The house was clean. The bed was made. The note on the nightstand promised pizza at dusk.
I had time.
I stood at the open closet door, towel still draped over the foot of the bed where I'd left it, and let my eyes wander across the hanging clothes. Most of them were practical, jeans and flannels and simple cotton tops, things chosen by someone who wanted to blend into a small town. But near the back, something caught my eye. A flash of color among the neutrals. I reached in and pulled it out.
It was a sundress. Light floral fabric, small yellow and white blossoms scattered across a pale blue background, with thin straps and a neckline that dipped just low enough to suggest without revealing. The skirt was short, I could tell even before I held it up to my body. It would fall about mid-thigh. Maybe a little above.
I held it out at arm's length, studying it. It was not the kind of thing Justin Zygurski would ever have worn. It was not even the kind of thing the Sabrina I'd been piecing together would have chosen for the truck work or the quiet mornings. But the afternoon was warm, the house was clean, and Allan was coming at dusk.
I tossed it onto the bed and turned to the dresser. The top drawer held the bras I'd already met, a neat spectrum of practical pastels. I opened the second drawer and found the underwear. More practical pieces, cotton in whites and beiges, a few muted colors. I sorted through them with two fingers, not finding what I wanted.
Then my hand brushed against something at the back of the drawer. Something smoother. I pushed aside the cotton and found a small black bundle tucked behind the rest, like it had been hidden there by accident or placed deliberately for later discovery.
I pulled it out and let it unfold in my hands.
It was a lingerie set, black lace with delicate strap details, more straps than any piece of clothing had a right to have. A bra with a low sweetheart neckline, the cups sheer in places, the band connected to a system of thin straps that would sweep across the shoulders and back in a geometric web. The panties were a matching scrap, high-cut at the hip, with straps running along the sides.
I stood there holding it, the fabric soft and insubstantial between my fingers. It wasn't the kind of thing I would have pictured myself wearing. But I wasn't the kind of person I would have pictured, either, standing in a farmhouse bedroom in Vermont with honey-blonde hair and a body that curved in ways I still hadn't mapped.
Before I could think too hard about it, I turned away from the drawer and carried the set to the mirror.
The clasp was at the back, and I fumbled with it for a moment, my fingers learning the mechanics of my own reverse geography. When it finally caught, I slid my arms through the straps and settled the cups over my breasts. The lace was cool against my skin, barely there, more suggestion than coverage. The straps crossed between my shoulder blades in a pattern I couldn't see but could feel, a web of delicate tension.
I stepped into the panties and pulled them up. They rode high on my hips, the straps hugging the curve of my thighs. I turned and looked over my shoulder at the mirror. The black lace stood out stark against my pale skin, the straps making a geometry of my bare back.
I stood there for a long moment, studying myself. The woman in the mirror was a stranger, but she was starting to feel familiar. The weight of the lace against my skin was a reminder of something I hadn't let myself name.
Then I crossed to the bed and picked up the sundress. I pulled it over my head, the fabric sliding down my body, settling over the lace. It was light and cool, skimming my hips, ending just above mid-thigh. The neckline showed a hint of what was underneath if you looked closely, a shadow of black lace beneath the floral pattern.
I turned to the mirror again. The dress was pretty. Simple and summery, the kind of thing a woman wore to a cookout or a walk into town. But at the collar, where the thin straps met their seam, I could just see the edge of the black lace beneath, a line of strap peeking out at the shoulder.
I could have hidden it. Tucked it under, adjusted the dress, made sure nothing showed. But I didn't. I left it there, that small dark hint at the edges, and something in my chest tightened with a boldness I hadn't known I possessed.
I turned away from the mirror, and the dress swirled around my thighs. The house was quiet around me, golden with afternoon light. I had hours yet before dusk, before pizza at the fire pit, before I sat close to Allan Cole in the cooling evening and felt the brush of his hand against my bare leg.
I walked into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water, the lace rubbing softly against my skin with every step. I drank it standing at the window, watching the light change over the treeline. The straps were a secret, a promise, a quiet thing I wore just for me.
I set the glass in the sink and turned from the window, the afternoon stretching out ahead of me with that particular emptiness that follows a morning of hard, simple work. The lace moved against my skin as I walked, a constant soft reminder of what I'd chosen to wear under the dress, and I found my hand drifting to the edge of the fabric at my collarbone, tracing the line where the black strap peeked out.
The thought came from nowhere. Or maybe it had been waiting in the back of my mind all day, patient as a seed.
I remembered seeing a vanity in the corner of the bedroom. A small white piece of furniture with a round mirror and a cushioned stool, half tucked behind the door. I hadn't paid much attention to it when I first explored the house, too caught up in my own strange reflection to notice what was on the surface. But there was a case on it. A flat black rectangular case, the kind that held more than a few essentials.
I didn't know why that memory surfaced now. I'd never worn makeup as Justin. I'd never thought about it, never wondered, never let my eyes linger on the cosmetics aisle at the drugstore. It had all been noise to me, irrelevant data, a world that had nothing to do with the man I was.
But I wasn't that man anymore.
I walked back into the bedroom and stopped at the vanity. The case sat exactly where I remembered it, centered on the white surface, a thin layer of dust on its lid. I reached out and touched it with one finger, tracing the edge of the clasp. The leather was soft, worn at the corners. It had been used. Not new, not bought for show.
I flicked the clasp and opened the lid.
The case unfolded into tiers, each one fitted with slots and wells and studs, holding a complete inventory of the tools a woman might use to make her face into something other than what it was. Brushes of every size, their bristles clean and soft. Small plastic pots of shadow and blush. A compact of pressed powder. A mascara wand sealed in plastic. Lipsticks in shades that ranged from pale pink to deep red, their tips still rounded from use.
I stared at it for a long moment. The previous occupant of this house, the woman whose body I now wore, had left this behind. Or the program had left it, as part of the set dressing of her life. Either way, it was here now, and it held a strange gravity, a pull I couldn't quite explain.
I sat down on the stool. The cushion gave slightly under my weight. The mirror showed me my face, framed by honey-blonde waves. The woman in the mirror had never once applied makeup to her own face, but she wore the evidence of it, in the set of her features, in the way her brows arched, in the fullness of her lips.
I reached out and picked up the mascara, turning it in my fingers. The wand was still sealed. I set it down and picked up a fluffy brush instead, holding it the way I'd seen women hold brushes on television, between thumb and forefinger, angled like a pen.
I didn't know what I was doing.
But the pull was stronger than the uncertainty. I dipped the brush into a pot of pressed powder, a soft neutral shade, and brought it to my cheek.
The powder was cool against my skin, a whisper of sensation, and the brush moved across my cheekbone in a sweep that felt almost natural. I did the other side, then the center of my forehead, then my nose, a light dusting that didn't seem to change anything but made my skin feel smoother, softer under my fingertips.
I picked up a smaller brush and opened a compact of blush, a shade of pink that looked like the inside of a seashell. I touched the brush to the powder and then to my cheekbones, laying down two diagonal sweeps of color. It looked too much at first, harsh and painted. I used my fingertips to blend it, smudging the edges until it faded into my skin, until I looked flushed, like I'd been walking in the sun.
The mirror showed me the change. It was subtle, barely there, but it was a change. My face looked brighter, more alive. The woman in the mirror had a warmth to her skin that hadn't been there before, a softness in her cheeks.
I found a small pot of eyeshadow, a dusty rose shade that caught the light. I dipped a flat brush inside and hesitated. I'd seen the technique. I'd seen a thousand tutorials in passing, in waiting rooms, in the feed of a phone held by someone else. The color went on the lid, in the crease, blended upward.
I closed my eyes and touched the brush to my right lid.
The shadow was smooth, a soft haze of rose that seemed to vanish at the edges. I did the other eye, squinting one side then the other, trying to match them. It wasn't symmetrical. One side was heavier than the other. I used my finger to smudge it, blending the color into a wash that was softer, more forgiving.
I opened my eyes and looked at myself.
The woman in the mirror stared back at me, her eyes ringed with a warm rose tint that made the blue in them seem deeper, brighter. She looked softer. She looked gentle. She looked like someone who belonged in a sundress on a warm Vermont evening, waiting for pizza at dusk.
I picked up the mascara. The plastic seal was smooth under my thumbnail, and I tore it off with a small dry crack. I twisted the wand, watching the bristles draw out of the tube, coated in black. I brought it to my lashes and blinked.
The wand dragged through the lashes, and they darkened, thickening. I did the other eye, holding my breath, trying not to move. When I was done, I blinked and looked at the result.
My lashes were dark and full, framed by the rose shadow and the blue of my eyes. The change was startling. Not dramatic, not painted, just more. More definition. More shape. More her.
I set the mascara down and reached for a lipstick. A soft rosy shade, the color of a summer berry. I twisted the base and the bullet rose out, smooth and waxy. I brought it to my lips and drew it across the bottom one, then the top, feeling the glide of it, the slight pull of the wax over skin.
When I pressed my lips together, the color spread evenly. It was subtle, a shade deeper than my natural lips, brightening them without shouting.
I sat back and looked at the mirror.
The woman there was transformed. Not by much, not into someone else, but the subtle shifts were there. The warm cheeks, the rose lids, the dark lashes, the berry lips. She looked like she'd been kissed by summer. She looked like she'd been loved by the morning.
I reached up and touched her cheek with one finger. The powder was smooth under my skin. I touched my lips, feeling the wax there, the slight tackiness.
I didn't recognize the feeling of makeup on my face. But I didn't hate it either. It was a mask, yes, but a gentle one, a soft layer between me and the world that made the woman in the mirror easier to look at. She was beautiful. She had always been beautiful, in a strange and foreign way. But now she was also deliberate. She had chosen to adorn herself. She had taken the blank canvas of her new face and painted something small and intimate on it.
I studied myself for a long moment, turning my head from side to side. The lace straps peeked out at my shoulders, the hint of black beneath the floral. The makeup was soft and bright. My hair was still drying from the shower, fanning out in honey-blonde waves.
I didn't know who I was becoming. But for the first time, looking at the creature in the mirror, I thought maybe I was becoming someone worth becoming.
I looked at the woman in the mirror for another long moment, then stood and smoothed the sundress down over my hips. The lace moved against my skin with the motion, a soft reminder. I ran my fingers through my hair, fluffing the waves, letting them fall loose around my shoulders. My lipstick was still fresh, a berry stain I could taste faintly at the edges of my mouth.
The afternoon had bled away while I'd worked and washed and dressed. The light through the windows was golden now, the long slant of early evening. Dusk was close. Time I hadn't had to think about was suddenly there, pressing in.
I walked out of the bedroom and down the stairs, my bare feet whispering on the wooden steps. The house was quiet and clean around me, filled with the smell of lemon polish and the last of the afternoon sun. I moved through the living room and into the dining room.
The table had been bare when I'd swept through earlier. Now I stopped at its edge and looked at it, considering. Then I crossed to the kitchen and opened a drawer, finding a set of plates, simple white ceramic with a blue rim. I carried two of them back to the dining room and set them down across from each other, aligning the edges. I added forks, then a folded napkin at each place.
I stepped back and looked at the table. It was sparse, empty without food, the white plates stark against the wood. It needed something. I scanned the room and my eyes caught on the windowsill, where a fat cream-colored candle sat in a tin, one of the decorative bits the house had come with. I carried it to the table, set it in the center, and found a box of matches in the kitchen's junk drawer.
I was about to strike one when a knock came at the front door.
My heart leaped into my throat. I set the matches down and pressed a hand to my chest, feeling the lace beneath my palm, the quick flutter of my pulse. He was here. I smoothed the skirt of the sundress, tugged at the straps where they sat on my shoulders, touched my lips once with my fingertips to check the lipstick was still there.
I crossed the living room and reached for the door, schooling my face into something casual. I pulled it open, and there he was.
Allan stood on the porch with a large pizza box balanced on one hand and a white paper bag in the other. He was still in his uniform. The khaki shirt was pressed, the brass badge catching the evening light, the dark leather belt at his waist. He looked different in it, more official, the easy smile slightly muted by the weight of the job. He was handsome. That was the first word that came to me, and it stayed there, filling my mouth.
He smiled when he saw me, warm and a little tired. "Hey. Sorry I didn't have time to change after work. Dispatch called me out on a fence dispute across town, and it ran long." He held up the pizza box like a shield. "I come bearing food. Mario's special and a side of mild wings with blue cheese. The wings are still hot."
I looked at him in the golden light, the sun catching the edge of his badge and the tired lines around his eyes. The word was out of my mouth before I could stop it.
"You look very handsome."
I blushed instantly, a hot wave that climbed my neck and flooded my cheeks. I felt the heat of it, the absurdity of having said that out loud, to his face, with my heart still hammering in my chest. I looked down at the threshold, suddenly fascinated by the grain of the wood.
Allan didn't seem to notice. He smiled, wider, and the tiredness in his eyes eased. "Thanks. You look like summer." He said it simply, like it was just a fact, then stepped past me into the house, the pizza box leading the way.
I closed the door behind him, my face still warm, and followed him into the dining room. He set the pizza box on the table and put the bag of wings beside it, then straightened and looked at the table. The two plates, the forks, the napkins. The candle in the center, still unlit, the matches sitting beside it.
He was quiet for a moment, taking it in. Then he turned to me, his expression unreadable. "You set the table. And there's a candle."
I felt my pulse pick up again. "I was about to light it. I thought it would be nice. There's no other light in here, and it's getting dark."
He looked at the candle, then at me, and something in his face shifted. "Is this a date?"
The question was soft, not accusing, but it hit me like a wave. I felt my cheeks heat again, and I looked down at the table, smoothing the edge of a napkin that didn't need smoothing.
"I would like it to be," I said. My voice came out small, but steady.
He was quiet for a long moment. I kept my eyes on the napkin, afraid of what his face would show, afraid of the silence stretching between us. Then I heard him move, heard the scrape of the chair as he pulled it out.
"I would like that too," he said.
I looked up. He was standing by the table, holding the back of his chair, his face warm and open in the fading light. He smiled, and this time it reached his eyes.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding and gave him a small smile in return. I struck the match and touched it to the wick. The candle caught, a small steady flame that threw soft shadows across the table. I set the match in the tin, then pulled out my own chair and sat.
We reached for pizza slices at the same moment. Our hands almost touched over the box, and I pulled back, laughing, and he laughed too, taking a slice and sliding it onto my plate. He took one for himself and sat down across from me.
The candle flickered between us. The pizza steamed, and the wings sat fragrant in their bag. The house was quiet, and Allan Cole sat across the table from me in his uniform, and I had set the table for a date.
We ate for a few minutes in comfortable silence, the crackle of the pizza crust and the soft scrape of forks against plates filling the space. He'd already demolished a slice and was reaching for a second when I set mine down, half-finished, and leaned my elbows on the table.
"So," I said, "you mentioned a fence dispute. I want to hear about it."
He paused mid-bite, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "You actually want to hear about my work? Most people's eyes glaze over when I start."
"I'm not most people." I said it lightly, but it was truer than he knew. I wanted to know everything about him. The small details, the texture of his day, the things that made him him. "Tell me."
He chewed, swallowed, and set the slice down. "Okay. So I got a call this afternoon from a woman named Marlene Hutchins. She lives on Old Mill Road, about two miles past the covered bridge. She's got a property line that backs onto the Castor farm, and the Castor farm has a bull."
"A bull?"
"A bull," he confirmed, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "A big one. Named Barnaby. Apparently, Barnaby is an escape artist. He's got a talent for finding weaknesses in fences. He'll test a section for weeks, just nudging it, leaning on it, filing it down, until one day he just walks through it like it's not even there."
I picked up a wing, dipped it in blue cheese, and bit into it. The sauce was spicy, and I fanned my mouth with my hand. He laughed and slid his glass of water toward me.
"He got out again?" I asked after a sip.
"He got out again. Marlene calls me, and I can hear her over the phone before I even pick up. She's shouting about how Barnaby is in her vegetable patch, and he's eaten her prize-winning squash, and she's going to make the Castors pay for it if it's the last thing she does. So I drive out there, and I'm expecting this big dramatic scene, right? Two neighbors at each other's throats, a rogue bull rampaging through the countryside."
I leaned forward, my chin resting on my hand. "And?"
"And I pull up to the property, and there's Marlene on her porch with a garden rake, pointing at this enormous bull who is just sitting in the middle of her corn rows. Eating. Very calmly. Like he owns the place. And beside the bull, there's this tiny little fence post lying on its side, and the wire is just draped over it. Barnaby barely had to push. The whole thing was propped up on a rotten stump."
I laughed, a genuine sound that surprised me. "So he didn't even have to try?"
"He didn't have to try. He's a genius, that bull. He picked the one weak spot in a fence that's probably forty years old. And Marlene is standing there telling me she wants the Castors to pay for her entire vegetable patch, and she's already got a list. She's got an itemized list, Sabrina. Written in pencil. With a column for emotional damages."
"No," I said, laughing harder.
"Yes. Emotional damages. Apparently, she'd been planning to enter that squash in the county fair. She'd named it Gerald."
"Gerald the squash?"
"Gerald the squash. She'd raised him, she told me, from a seed. She kept him watered, she talked to him, she played him music. He had a little hat she'd put on him in the mornings to keep the sun off."
I was giggling now, helpless and bright, my hand pressed to my mouth. The candle flame danced between us, throwing light across his face as he warmed to the story.
"So I'm standing there," he went on, "between a bull who's chewing his way through a row of corn and a woman who's telling me about the musical preferences of a squash, and I'm thinking, this is my job. This is what I signed up for. And then Barnaby looks up at me, gives me this look, and just decides he's done. He gets up, walks back through the hole in the fence, and goes home. Just wanders back like he's finished his afternoon snack and he's ready for a nap."
"That's it?"
"That's it. I spent an hour out there mediating a dispute between a woman and a bull, and the bull resolved it himself by leaving. Marlene got her rake back, I filed a report, and the whole thing ended with her inviting me to dinner to discuss reparations for Gerald."
I laughed so hard my eyes stung. "Did you go to dinner?"
"I told her I had to check in with dispatch. Did you know there's a protocol for high-ticket squash removal? Because there is. She showed me the paperwork." He shook his head, grinning. "Anyway, that was my afternoon. How was yours?"
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, still grinning. "I swept the floors. Made the bed. Found some makeup in the vanity and tried to make myself look like a person."
He looked at me, really looked, his eyes tracing over my face in the candlelight. "It worked."
The simple words sent a flush through me, warm and sudden. I looked down at my plate, suddenly shy, and picked up my pizza again just to have something to do with my hands.
"There was also," he said, reaching for another slice, "a dispute about a chicken. The kind with feathers, not the kind you eat."
"Tell me about the chicken."
He told me. And then he told me about the noise complaint at the trailer park, which turned out to be a karaoke machine and a man who insisted he sounded exactly like Johnny Cash. He told me about the lost hiker on the ridge who'd been missing for exactly forty-five minutes before calling from a spot where he could see his own car. He told me about the dog that kept escaping its yard and sitting on the post office steps, apparently waiting for someone to deliver it a package.
I hung on every word. I watched his face as he talked, the way his hands moved when he got excited, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes when he laughed at his own stories. The candle burned down between us, the pizza box growing empty, and I felt something loosen in my chest, something I hadn't known was clenched.
I laughed at the chicken story, a high bright sound that bubbled out of me, and I caught myself mid-giggle, my hand over my mouth. The sound felt foreign and light, like something I'd never had a body for before.
Days ago, I had been a man. I had been Justin Zygurski, thirty-six years old, an accountant with a careful life and a voice that never sounded like that. I had never giggled at a man's stories. I had never sat across a candlelit table from a handsome deputy, leaning forward, hair falling over my shoulders, hanging on every word about a bull named Barnaby and a lost hiker who could see his own car.
And yet here I was, doing exactly that. And I didn't want to stop.
Allan reached across the table for the last wing, and his fingers brushed mine. He didn't pull away. Neither did I. The candle flickered, and his hand rested there, warm against my skin.
"Thanks for tonight," he said, his voice lower now. "This was nice. Really nice."
"Thank you for the pizza," I said. "And the chicken story. And the bull."
He laughed softly, his thumb brushing over my knuckles before he pulled his hand back. "I should probably get going. It's getting late, and I've got an early shift."
Something in my chest tightened. The evening had been too good, too warm, too full of his laugh and his stories and the way the candlelight caught his eyes. I didn't want it to end.
"You could stay," I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "For a movie, I mean. There's a TV in the living room, and I've got a stack of DVDs in the cabinet. Unless you're tired."
His eyes lit up. It was subtle, a quick brightening behind the tiredness, a shift in his posture as he leaned forward. His smile spread slow and wide, reaching his eyes, and it melted something in me, a warmth that pooled low in my belly.
"I'd love to," he said. "I'm not tired at all."
I stood, gathering the empty plates, and he helped me carry them to the kitchen. We worked in easy silence, stacking the dishes in the sink, folding the pizza box flat. The candle flickered on the table, and I left it burning as we moved into the living room.
The couch was an old floral thing, soft and sagging in the middle, piled with cushions in mismatched colors. I'd swept the room earlier and fluffed the pillows without thinking, and now the space felt cozy, the last of the evening light fading through the windows. I flicked on a lamp, casting a warm glow across the room, and gestured at the cabinet beneath the TV.
"The selection is small," I said, crouching to pull open the doors. "But I think there's some good stuff in here."
Allan settled onto the couch while I sorted through the DVDs. There were the usuals, westerns and romances and a handful of thrillers, but my fingers found the one I was looking for near the back. A worn case, the cover showing a silhouette against a shattered window.
"There's a classic in here," I said, holding it up.
"What is it?"
"Die Hard."
His face broke into a grin, his eyes bright and alive in the lamplight. "Die Hard? Like, the actual Die Hard?"
"The one and only," I said, unable to keep the smile from my own face. "And before you say anything, yes, it's a Christmas movie, and I will die on that hill."
He laughed, a full warm sound that made my heart skip. "That's your favorite movie?"
"It is. I've seen it maybe forty times. I know every line. I can quote the whole thing, including the background chatter on the radios."
"No way."
"Way." I slid the disc from the case and crossed to the TV, bending to slip it into the player. The lace straps shifted against my shoulders, a soft reminder of what I was wearing beneath the dress. I straightened and turned to face him, and he was watching me, something soft and wondering in his expression.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing." He shook his head, still smiling. "Just... you're full of surprises, Sabrina Parker."
I sat down on the couch beside him, close enough that our knees almost touched. The cushions dipped, pulling us together, and I felt the warmth of his body along my side. I tucked my legs up beneath me and handed him the remote.
"You can press play," I said. "I need to get comfortable."
He pressed the button, and the TV flickered to life, the opening credits rolling across the screen. I shifted, pulling a cushion behind my back, and he did the same, settling deeper into the couch. The distance between us shrank, and I felt the brush of his shoulder against mine.
I wanted to be closer. I didn't think, just leaned into him, letting my head rest against his shoulder, my hand finding a spot on his thigh. He didn't tense. He just shifted, wrapping his arm around me, his hand settling on my bare arm, warm and steady.
"This okay?" he asked, his voice low.
"Yeah," I said, my voice coming out softer than I meant. "This is okay."
We watched the opening scene together. The airport, the plane, the first strains of the music. I knew every beat, knew every line before it was spoken, but watching it with him beside me, feeling his heartbeat through the fabric of his uniform shirt, made it feel new.
"Okay," he said as McClane first appeared on screen, gripping his armrest toy. "I've got to ask. Why this movie?"
I tilted my head to look at him. "Because John McClane is just a guy," I said. "He's not a superhero. He's not trained to do this. He's a cop who's in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he's terrified the whole time, and he keeps going anyway. He gets beaten up, he gets cut up, he's bleeding and exhausted and out of options, and he still finds a way to win."
I paused, thinking about the words I was saying, the truth beneath them. "He's a person who wasn't supposed to be there, who didn't want to be there, and he makes himself matter anyway. There's something honest about that."
Allan was quiet for a moment. His thumb traced a slow circle on my arm. "That's a good reason."
"I have a lot of personal reasons," I said, a little embarrassed. "I was a big movie guy. I mean, a big movie fan. This was the one I always came back to."
He didn't question my slip. He just smiled and squeezed my arm. "Well, I'm glad you're sharing it with me."
I watched the screen, but I wasn't seeing the movie. I was feeling the weight of his arm around me, the warmth of his hand on my skin, the solid presence of him beside me on this sagging floral couch in a farmhouse in Vermont. I had been a man who watched Die Hard forty times alone. Now I was a woman sharing it with someone who made my heart beat faster.
The movie unfolded on the screen, the familiar rhythms of John McClane's bad day pulling me in despite myself. I knew every scene, every beat of tension, every wisecrack that landed just before the next explosion. The airport. The limo. The tower. The first time the alarm goes off and McClane is already barefoot, already in over his head.
Allan's hand rested on my arm, warm and steady. He laughed at the right moments, tensed at the right moments, and once he murmured, "This guy is insane," as McClane crawled through a vent shaft, and I felt a swell of affection so strong it surprised me.
The movie built toward its first big climax. McClane had taken out the first group of terrorists, the ones who came up to the roof too early and met a man who knew how to fight dirty. He was bleeding. He was exhausted. He had a broken beer bottle in his hand and a corpse's gun at his hip, and I was leaning forward on the couch without noticing, my hand gripping my own knee.
The music swelled. The door opened. The machine gun went off, and then the explosion hit the screen, a wall of fire and debris that shook the frame, the sound thundering through the little TV speakers.
I grabbed his hand.
It was pure instinct. My heart was pounding from the scene, my body alive with the anticipation of a moment I'd seen forty times and still never failed to move me. My fingers closed around his, gripping tight, and I didn't realize I'd done it until I felt his skin against mine.
I looked down at our joined hands. His fingers were long and slightly calloused, the knuckles scraped from a day spent working on the truck. My hand was smaller, softer, the nails clean and manicured from a body that had never known a day of mechanical work in its life. They fit together anyway. They looked like they belonged.
I looked up at his face.
He was already looking at me.
The movie played on, explosions and gunfire filling the room with noise, but I barely heard any of it. His eyes were steady on mine, dark and warm in the lamplight, holding something I hadn't seen before. A question. A hope. A quiet wanting that matched the one I'd been carrying in my chest since he'd first knocked on my door.
My heart was racing. I could feel it beating against my ribs, quick and light, a bird in a cage. My lips parted, and I didn't know if I was going to speak or just breathe, and it didn't matter because he was leaning in.
I leaned in too.
The distance between us closed slowly, like we were both testing the water, both afraid the other might pull away. His hand tightened on mine, and I felt the warmth of him everywhere, the nearness of his body, the clean scent of soap and something underneath it, something that was just him.
Our lips met.
The kiss was soft at first. Tentative. A gentle press of his mouth against mine, like he was asking permission, like he was afraid I might disappear. I made a small sound against his lips, a breathless little noise, and I felt him smile into the kiss.
I melted.
My free hand came up to his chest, pressing against the starched fabric of his uniform shirt, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath. He shifted on the couch, turning to face me more fully, and his hand slid from my arm to the curve of my waist, pulling me closer. The kiss deepened. His lips parted against mine, and I tasted him, warm and faintly like the beer he'd had with dinner, and I sighed into his mouth.
I broke away just long enough to breathe, my forehead resting against his, and I opened my eyes to find him looking at me, his gaze soft and full of something that made my chest ache.
"Sabrina," he said, and my name sounded different in his mouth. Like something precious. Like something he was just beginning to understand.
"Allan," I whispered back.
He kissed me again, slower this time, learning the shape of my mouth. His hand moved from my waist to the side of my neck, his thumb tracing along my jaw, tilting my face up toward his. I let him. I wanted him. I wanted this.
The movie played on, forgotten. The couch dipped beneath us as he shifted, and I felt the solid line of his body against mine, the muscle of his thigh pressing against my leg. The lace of my dress straps rubbed against his fingers where they rested on my shoulder, and I felt a shiver run through me that had nothing to do with the cold.
He pulled back, his lips red and slightly swollen, his eyes dark. He was breathing hard, and so was I.
"This okay?" he asked, his voice rough.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. I reached up and touched his face, tracing the line of his jaw, the slight stubble that had grown in over the evening. He closed his eyes at the touch, leaning into my palm like a cat.
"More than okay," I managed.
Chapter excerpt truncated at the edge.