Chapter 8: Costume Conquest
The walk back from the café had been a study in nerve-shredding normalcy. Nobody had stared. The barista had called Tracy “ma’am” without a flicker of doubt. The world, it seemed, saw exactly what Kaylee saw: a slightly tired young woman in borrowed clothes. The validation was as destabilizing as the rejection would have been. Tracy felt like a ghost successfully wearing a skin, moving unseen among the living.
Now, back in the neon sanctuary of Kaylee’s room with the door locked, the lamp placed back on the desk like a returned idol, a different kind of tension thrummed. The immediate shock had settled into a low, persistent hum of unreality. Tracy perched on the edge of the bed, sipping the dregs of her cold coffee.
“It’s weird, right?” Kaylee said, kicking a pile of laundry aside with her foot. “That it just… works. No one looked twice.”
“Maybe they’re just polite,” Tracy muttered, but she didn’t believe it. The reflection in the café window had been definitive.
“Maybe the lamp’s magic is more thorough than we thought.” Kaylee’s gaze drifted to her closet, a large, industrial thing plastered with stickers. A thoughtful, mischievous light sparked in her eyes. “Which means we should test its limits.”
“Test how?”
Instead of answering, Kaylee crossed the room and yanked open the closet door. She hauled out a large, black storage box, dropping it with a soft thump at Tracy’s feet. The lid was adorned with a peeling decal of a character Tracy didn’t recognize—a feline girl with twin tails and a weapons harness.
“My specialty gear,” Kaylee said, kneeling and popping the lid open. The scent of clean latex and fabric conditioner wafted out. “Con stuff. The pieces I put real money into.”
She began lifting items out with a reverent care she didn’t show for her everyday clothes. A cascade of shiny fabrics, intricate leather straps, and vibrant wigs filled the space between them. Tracy saw a pair of boots with heels that could qualify as architectural, a breastplate molded to impossible proportions, and several garments that seemed to consist mostly of strategic ribbons.
“Kaylee, what—”
“Shh, I’m thinking.” Kaylee held up a bundle of black and white fabric, shaking it out. It was a maid outfit, but one that had clearly been designed by someone with a very specific, non-domestic agenda. The skirt was micro, the bodice a lace-up corset that looked more like bondage wear, and the attached apron was purely decorative. She paired it with a set of pristine white thigh-high stockings.
“Let’s see how these fit your new curves,” she purred, her artistic focus sharpening into something hotter, more possessive. She was already moving, her fingers going to the buttons of Tracy’s borrowed band t-shirt.
Tracy’s breath caught. This wasn’t like before. That had been a frantic, shared discovery in the dark. This was deliberate. A performance in the making. She placed a hand over Kaylee’s, stilling her. “Whoa. Hold on. You want me to put that on?”
“Why not?” Kaylee’s smile was all challenge. “It’s just fabric. And I’ve spent hours imagining what certain looks would be like on… well, on a body like yours. Now I don’t have to imagine. I can see.”
“It’s a costume.”
“It’s an exploration.” Kaylee countered, her head tilting. “Come on, Tracy. You’re a walking exploration. What’s one more step?” Her voice softened. “And you look scared. Of a dress.”
“I’m not scared of the dress.” Tracy’s protest was weak. She was scared of the person she’d see in the mirror wearing it. Travis in a maid outfit would have been a joke, a humiliation. Tracy… that was a different category altogether. A category that made her stomach do a slow, anxious flip.
“Then prove it.” Kaylee’s voice was a low, tempting murmur. She unbuttoned the first button herself, then the second. “Let me see.”
The practicality of it broke through the panic. They were here, in this bubble. The lamp had done its work. What was the harm in playing along, just for an hour? To make Kaylee’s eyes light up like that?
Tracy let her hands fall away. “Okay. But if I look ridiculous, we burn the pictures.”
“Deal.” Kaylee’s efficiency was startling. She had the shirt off, the leggings down, and Tracy standing in the center of the room in moments. The air was cool on her skin. Kaylee didn’t stare this time; she was a stylist on a mission. She knelt, rolling the stockings up Tracy’s legs with a meticulous, smoothing touch that sent sparks across Tracy’s nerves. The material was slick and tight.
Next was the corset. It laced up the back, and Kaylee pulled the strings with a firm, practiced hand, her knuckles brushing Tracy’s spine with each tug.
“Breathe out,” Kaylee instructed, and Tracy obeyed. The lacings tightened, cinching her waist, lifting her chest, creating an hourglass silhouette that was both utterly foreign and strangely, intuitively correct. It reshaped her, presenting her body in a new, deliberate way.
Finally, the tiny skirt and the useless apron. Kaylee clipped them into place, stepped back, and let out a soft, choked sound. It wasn’t a laugh. It was pure, unadulterated awe.
“Oh, fuck me,” Kaylee breathed.
Tracy dared to look down. The black lace of the corset contrasted sharply with her pale skin. The stockings gleamed. She felt exposed, constrained, and powerfully, undeniably seen. Not as Travis in drag. As a specific fantasy, made flesh.
“Mirror,” Kaylee commanded, her voice husky. She took Tracy’s wrist and pulled her towards the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door.
Tracy’s reflection stopped her cold.
A stranger stared back. A beautiful, illicit stranger. The costume should have looked tacky, over-the-top. Instead, it looked like a second skin. The corset accentuated the subtle swell of hips that hadn’t been there two days ago. The stockings lengthened legs that now had a different taper. Her face, under the messy boy-cut hair, seemed softer, her eyes wider. The overall effect wasn’t comical. It was… potent.
“See?” Kaylee whispered, appearing behind her in the mirror, her chin hooking over Tracy’s shoulder. Her pink hair was a vivid splash against the black. “It fits. You fit.”
Tracy couldn’t speak. She was a collage of contradictions—the lingering ghost of Travis’s memories, the brutal new reality of Tracy’s body, and now this… this character Kaylee had dressed her as. They were all true, layered over each other like transparencies.
Kaylee’s hands slid around from behind, palms smoothing over the slick satin of the corset, coming to rest on Tracy’s stomach. Her touch was electric through the material. “How does it feel?”
“Powerful,” Tracy admitted, the word surprising her. “And really, really vulnerable.”
“That’s the point.” Kaylee’s lips brushed the shell of her ear. “It’s armor that invites attack. Aesthetic conflict.” She was quoting someone, maybe herself. Her hands drifted lower, over the front of the tiny skirt. “And here’s the best part.”
Tracy tensed. The delicate fabric did nothing to hide the reaction her body had to Kaylee’s proximity, to the view in the mirror, to the entire overwhelming situation. The scandalous contrast was the entire design.
“The ultimate fantasy,” Kaylee murmured, her hand applying a gentle, knowing pressure. Tracy gasped, her head falling back against Kaylee’s shoulder. “Cute and lewd. Innocent and obscene. All at once.” She turned Tracy in her arms, the mirror now showing their profile. “My perfect creation.”
This time, the kiss was different. It was slow, deep, and laced with a tangible pride. Kaylee was kissing her artwork, her wish, her manifested dream. Tracy melted into it, letting the costume and the persona armor her. Being Tracy was easier when she was also this character. It gave the chaos a shape.
They stumbled back toward the bed, a tangle of lips and lace and straining satin. The back of Tracy’s knees hit the mattress and she sat down hard, the short skirt riding up. Kaylee followed her down, straddling her lap, the coarse denim of her jeans rough against Tracy’s stockings.
“Don’t take it off,” Kaylee breathed between kisses, her fingers fumbling with the front lacing of the corset, not to undo it, but to loosen it just enough to slip her hand inside. Her cool palm cupped Tracy’s breast, her thumb circling a nipple. “I want to see you come in this.”
The command, delivered in that light, casual tone, unraveled Tracy completely. Her hips bucked up, seeking friction. The layers were maddening. Kaylee seemed to savor the frustration, rocking against her, the hard buttons of her jeans providing a taunting pressure.
It was a slow, torturous deconstruction. Kaylee worshipped the costume with her mouth, nipping at the lace trim, kissing the tops of the stockings. She treated Tracy’s body like a present she was unwrapping with excruciating slowness, finding new, sensitive places that Travis had never possessed. Every gasp, every shudder, was cataloged in Kaylee’s hungry gaze.
When Tracy finally broke, it was with a choked cry that sounded alien to her own ears, her back arching sharply against the corset’s restraint. The colors of the neon posters in the room blurred into a vibrant wash. Kaylee held her through it, whispering a steady stream of praise that was more devastating than any filthy talk.
Afterwards, they lay in a heap of rumpled satin and damp stockings. The corset was digging into Tracy’s ribs, but she didn’t want to move. Kaylee had her head on Tracy’s stomach, listening to her heartbeat slow.
“We should take pictures,” Kaylee mumbled, her voice sleepy with satisfaction.
“You said no pictures.”
“I lied. For art.”
Tracy snorted, a weak, exhausted sound. The world outside this room felt a million miles away again. The only reality was the ache of the corset, the smell of Kaylee’s hair, and the low hum of the LED strips.
Then Kaylee’s phone, discarded on the floor, buzzed. Not a call. A rapid-fire sequence of text alerts.
Kaylee groaned, reaching down to grab it. She squinted at the screen. Her relaxed expression faded, replaced by a puzzled frown.
“Who is it?” Tracy asked, tracing idle patterns on Kaylee’s shoulder.
“My roommate, Chloe,” Kaylee said, her thumb scrolling. “She’s been away for the weekend. Her boyfriend’s car broke down.” She paused, reading. “She says… huh.”
“What?”
“She says she’s outside the door. And she can hear… us.” Kaylee looked up, meeting Tracy’s eyes. A slow, creeping blush rises up her cheeks. “She says it sounds like I have a girl in here."
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the persistent buzz of the phone in Kaylee’s hand. Tracy’s post-coclusion haze evaporated, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity. Her body, still humming from Kaylee’s attention, now froze under a wave of pure, undiluted panic.
“Shit,” Kaylee breathed, the word all air. She was off the bed in a fluid, panicked motion, her eyes darting around the catastrophic room. The evidence was everywhere: Tracy’s discarded boy-clothes in a heap, the open box of costumes, the general aura of illicit activity. And her, a corseted fantasy sprawled on the rumpled sheets.
“What do we do?” Tracy whispered, her voice strangled. She pulled the thin comforter up to her chest, a futile gesture.
“You. Closet. Now.” Kaylee was already moving, snatching up Tracy’s jeans and t-shirt. She tossed them into the dark maw of the wardrobe, then turned, her hands fluttering. “The corset. Can you get it off fast?”
Tracy’s fingers fumbled with the laces, still tight from Kaylee’s meticulous cinching. They were knotted, complex. “No. It’ll take a minute.”
“Forget it, just get in.” Kaylee grabbed her wrist, pulling her toward the closet. The space was a canyon of hanging fabrics and stored boxes. “Crouch behind the winter coats. Don’t make a sound.”
“Kaylee—”
“Please, Tracy. Trust me.” Her eyes were wide, not with fear, but with a fierce, protective intensity. Another text buzz echoed. “She’s getting impatient.”
Tracy stumbled into the darkness, the stockings snagging on a loose staple. She burrowed behind a heavy wool coat that smelled of dust and old perfume. The world reduced to a sliver of light from the barely-closed door. She heard Kaylee take a deep, steadying breath.
The exhale was followed by the sound of quick, purposeful movement. A drawer opened and closed. The rustle of fabric. Then Kaylee’s voice, pitched into casual annoyance. “Alright, alright, I’m coming! Hold your horses!”
The main door unlocked and swung open.
“Finally.” Chloe’s voice was a familiar, breezy intrusion. “What were you doing, redecorating? I could hear you shuffling around for ages.”
“Just cleaning up,” Kaylee said, her tone impressively light. “You know how it gets. What happened with the car?”
“Total nightmare. The tow truck took forever.” There was the sound of a bag dropping, keys clattering on the desk. A pause. “Wow. You really were cleaning. It actually looks worse.”
“Thanks. You’re a treasure.”
Tracy held her breath. The corset felt like a cage of rigid bone, making it hard to expand her lungs silently. From her slit of visibility, she saw Chloe’s booted feet walk into the center of the room.
“So,” Chloe drawled. “You wanna tell me why it sounded like you were running a marathon in here five minutes ago?”
“Podcast,” Kaylee said instantly. Too fast. “A really immersive true crime one. Lots of… heavy breathing. From the detective.”
“Sounded less like detective work and more like the crime itself.” Chloe laughed. She was moving again, walking toward the bed. Tracy’s heart hammered against the boning of the corset. “And what’s this?”
“What’s what?”
“This.” A hand entered Tracy’s limited view. Chloe’s fingers, adorned with chunky silver rings, plucked the discarded maid’s apron from the floor where it had fallen. She held it up. “Since when do you clean in… this?”
“It’s a costume piece. I was airing it out.” Kaylee’s voice was closer now. “Give it here.”
“Airing it out. On the floor. Right.” Chloe didn’t relinquish it. Her feet turned toward the closet. Tracy squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would help. “You know, your ‘podcast’ had a very distinct… voice. Feminine.”
“Chloe, come on.”
“I’m just saying!” The feet stopped. “If you’ve finally taken my advice and gotten yourself a cute scene partner to play with, I’m proud of you. You don’t have to hide her.”
The playful accusation hung in the air, a challenge wrapped in a laugh. Kaylee’s forced casualness was fraying at the edges. Tracy could hear it in the slight crack of her voice. “There’s no one, Chloe. I’m serious.”
“You’re always serious. It’s boring.” Chloe’s boots scuffed against the cheap linoleum, moving with a deliberate, curious rhythm. She was circling. “Nice podcast, by the way. Sounded award-winning.”
“Can you drop it?” A hint of genuine irritation, sharp and brittle, sliced through Kaylee’s tone. It was the wrong note.
It made Chloe stop. Tracy, pressed against the scratchy wool coat in the dark, felt the change in the room’s pressure. The playful tease evaporated, replaced by a genuine, probing curiosity. Silence stretched, thin and taut.
“You’re being weird,” Chloe stated, her voice losing its breezy quality. “Weirder than usual.”
“I’m tired. The car story exhausted me by proxy.”
“Uh-huh.” A drawer slid open nearby—Kaylee’s sock drawer. Then a soft, puzzled hum. “Where’s all your underwear? The comfy stuff.”
Panic, hot and acidic, flooded Tracy’s throat. Her lace panties were probably still tangled in the sheets. The evidence was everywhere.
“Laundry,” Kaylee shot back, too quickly.
“You don’t do laundry. You perform ritual sacrifices to the fashion gods.” Chloe’s footsteps resumed, coming closer to the closet. Each step was a measured thump that vibrated through the floor. “You know what this feels like? It feels like when we were freshmen and you tried to hide that broken bong from the RA.”
“This isn’t a bong.”
“Obviously. You’re sweating.” The closet door handle, a cold brushed metal, was right in front of Tracy’s sliver of vision. A fingernail, painted chipped black, tapped against it. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Chloe, don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s my space. Respect the bubble.”
“Your bubble has a heartbeat. I can hear it from here.” Chloe’s hand closed over the handle. The mechanism gave a faint, metallic click. “Is it a person? Just say yes or no.”
Kaylee didn’t answer. The silence was a confession.
“Okay, then.” Chloe pulled the door open.
Light from the room flooded the cramped closet, outlining Tracy’s hunched form behind the hanging coats. She was curled into herself, the black satin of the corset gleaming dully, one stocking-clad knee poking out. Her face was half-hidden in shadow and coat fabric, her eyes wide and terrified.
Chloe froze. Her gaze, sharp and assessing, scanned the scene: the expensive costume, the smudged makeup around Tracy’s eyes, the utterly damning intimacy of the hiding spot. She looked at a beautiful, startled girl caught in a deeply compromising situation. She saw Tracy.
She did not see Travis.
A long, low whistle escaped Chloe’s lips. “Well,” she said, her voice dripping with a new, awe-struck understanding. “Hello.”
She turned slowly to face Kaylee, whose expression was a masterpiece of defensive horror. “A podcast,” Chloe repeated, deadpan. “You’re a fucking liar, and I love you for it.”
“Chloe, it’s not what you—”
“It’s exactly what it looks like.” Chloe grinned, a real, delighted grin. She looked back at Tracy, who hadn’t moved, couldn’t breathe. “And you must be the reason my roommate has been radio-silent all weekend. No wonder she didn’t answer my texts. She was… busy.”
Tracy remained statue-still. Any movement felt like it would shatter the fragile illusion.
“You can come out,” Chloe said, her tone softening from teasing to something approaching kindness. “I don’t bite. Unlike this one, apparently.” She jerked a thumb at Kaylee.
Kaylee found her voice, a desperate, rushed plea. “Chloe, you can’t tell anyone. Anyone. This is… private.”
“Private,” Chloe echoed, nodding slowly as the full picture assembled itself in her mind. The secrecy, the costumes, the hidden girl. Her eyes traveled from Tracy’s trapped form back to Kaylee’s panicked face. A different, more surprising emotion flickered across her features: respect. “You’re living your best, most complicated life. I get it.” She took a deliberate step back, granting space. “Your secret’s safe with me. Scout’s honor.”
The relief that washed over Kaylee was visible; her shoulders slumped. But Tracy, still crouched in the closet, saw the other truth in Chloe’s eyes. She saw fascination, and the spark of a hundred new questions. The secret was safe, but the world had just gotten infinitely smaller. The closet door was open now, and there was no closing it.
Chloe’s grin didn’t fade, but it softened at the edges into something more genuine. She took another step back, raising her hands in a gesture of surrender. “Seriously, come out. You’re gonna get a cramp.”
The wool coat scratched Tracy’s cheek as she uncurled, every movement stiff with terror and the corset’s unyielding grip. She emerged from the closet like a animal from a burrow, blinking in the main light. The stockings were torn at one knee from her frantic hiding.
“This is Tracy,” Kaylee said, the name sounding both foreign and necessary on her tongue. She moved to stand slightly between them, a useless barrier.
“Yeah, I gathered.” Chloe’s eyes were doing that quick, artistic scan again, missing nothing: the exquisite fit of the costume, the smudged eyeliner, the utterly vulnerable posture. “You look like you just walked off a doujinshi cover. In a good way.”
Tracy’s voice, when she found it, was a rasp. “Hi.”
“Charmed.” Chloe leaned a hip against the cluttered desk, crossing her arms. The silver rings on her fingers gleamed. “So. You two met at a con, or is this a campus thing? Kaylee never tells me anything fun.”
“It’s… new,” Kaylee interjected, her mind clearly racing to build a backstory. “A friend of a friend. From my illustration forum.”
“Right.” Chloe popped the ‘t’, her skepticism playful. “And you just happened to have a perfect-fit battle maid getup for her. How convenient.” She turned her attention fully to Tracy, her gaze curious but not unkind. “You’re trembling.”
Tracy looked down at her own hands. They were shaking. She clasped them together, the contrast of the black lace gloves she still wore stark against her pale skin. “Adrenaline crash, I guess.”
“From the podcast?” Chloe winked. “Must’ve been a hell of an episode.” She pushed off the desk and walked to her own bed, flopping down with a sigh. “Relax. Your secret’s safe. I’m not a monster. I’m just nosy.”
The permission to breathe should have helped. It didn’t. The room now contained a witness. The fragile, private universe Kaylee had spun over the last two days had been punctured. The air felt thinner, shared.
Kaylee finally moved, fetching Tracy’s discarded t-shirt and holding it out like a lifeline. “Here.”
Tracy took it, clutching the soft cotton to her chest, a pathetic shield over the satin and lace. The gesture was more exposing than covering. Chloe watched the exchange, her head tilted.
“You know,” Chloe said, stretching out on her bed, “if you’re gonna have a gorgeous cosplayer girlfriend appear out of nowhere, the least you could do is share the artist. Her makeup is impeccable. Even post… podcast.”
“She does it herself,” Kaylee said, too quickly again.
“Talent.” Chloe’s phone buzzed, and she glanced at it, thumbing a reply without sitting up. “My boyfriend’s asking if we want to get late-night diner food. Waffle Haus.”
“No,” Kaylee said instantly.
Tracy said nothing, paralyzed by the mere idea of a public appearance.
Chloe shrugged, typing. “Suit yourselves. More hash browns for me.” She sent the text and let her phone clatter to the blanket. “But for real, Kaylee. This is cool. I’m happy for you.” Her eyes drifted back to Tracy, lingering on the elegant line the corset created. “And slightly in awe. You clean up… spectacularly.”
The compliment landed with the weight of an indictment. It was meant for Tracy, a person who didn’t exist forty-eight hours ago. Travis’s heart hammered against Tracy’s ribs, a frantic bird in a gilded cage. Which one of them was supposed to answer?
“Thanks,” Tracy whispered, the word ash in her mouth.
A heavy quiet settled, broken only by the hum of the mini-fridge. Chloe’s presence had shifted the dynamic into something static and uneasy. The energy from before was gone, dissipated like smoke. Kaylee stared at the flickering scissor-lamp, her jaw tight.
Chloe, perhaps sensing she’d killed the mood, sat up. “Alright, I can take a hint. I’ll go meet Jeff. Give you two your… bubble back.” She stood, grabbing her jacket from her desk chair. She shrugged it on, then paused at the door, her hand on the knob. She looked back, not at Kaylee, but directly at Tracy.
“It was really nice to meet you, Tracy,” she said, and the sincerity in it was disarming. “Don’t be a stranger. And for god’s sake, let her help you with those laces before you pass out.”
Then she was gone, the door clicking shut with a finality that echoed.
The silence she left behind was immense and different. It wasn’t the comfortable silence of shared secrecy. It was the silence of a crime scene after the police leave.
Kaylee let out a long, shuddering breath. “Okay. That happened.”
Tracy didn’t move. She stood in the center of the room, holding the t-shirt, still dressed for a performance that had been violently interrupted. The knowing smile of the plush futanari doll on the bed seemed to have widened.
“She believed it,” Kaylee said, turning to Tracy, her voice gaining a desperate momentum. “She saw you and she just accepted it. That’s huge, Trace. That means it’s working.”
“What’s working?” Tracy’s voice was flat. “The lie?”
“The reality!” Kaylee crossed the space between them, her hands coming up to cradle Tracy’s face. Her thumbs stroked the high cheekbones that hadn’t been there last week. “She didn’t see a guy in a dress. She saw a beautiful girl hiding in her roommate’s closet. That’s what you are now.”
The words were meant to reassure, but they sliced deep. A beautiful girl. That was the wish, wasn’t it? To be Kaylee’s ideal. Yet hearing it stated as fact, to a third party, made it feel like a sentence. The corset wasn’t just clothing; it was a harness, holding this new shape intact.
“She called me your girlfriend,” Tracy said, the term sticking in her throat.
“Well.” Kaylee’s eyes darted away for a fraction of a second, a tell. “That’s the easiest explanation, isn’t it? For why you’re here. For… everything.”
“Is it?” Tracy pulled away, the lace of Kaylee’s gloves catching slightly on her skin. The movement made her wince. The physical discomfort was a grounding anchor. “What’s the explanation for me, Kaylee? In here.” She tapped her own temple, then let her hand fall to her chest, over the heart. “Where does he go?”
Kaylee had no answer for that. She looked suddenly young, her confidence frayed. The sculptor confronted by the living, breathing consequence of her art. “I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice small. “But do you want to go back? Right now? Like this?”
The image flashed: trying to explain this to his parents, to his professors, to the world. Travis, returned, but irrevocably altered in ways no one could see or understand. The loneliness of that was a yawning chasm.
“No,” Tracy whispered, the truth of it a relief and a terror.
“Then we move forward.” Kaylee’s resolve hardened again, her artistic vision reasserting itself. “We adapt. Chloe believes, which means others will. We just have to be careful. And we need a better story.”
“A story.”
“Yes. Where you’re from. Why you’re here. Why you’ve never been to the dorm before.” Kaylee was pacing now, her creative mind tackling the problem of narrative. “We can say you transferred. From a community college upstate. You’re shy. Reclusive. An artist. It fits.”
It was building a fiction around a fiction. Tracy felt herself receding, layer by layer. Travis was the secret now. Tracy was the cover story.
“Okay,” she heard herself say, the agreement feeling like surrender.
“First thing,” Kaylee said, stopping her pacing and coming close again. Her fingers went to the knotted laces at Tracy’s back. “Let’s get you out of this. It’s digging into your skin.”
Her touch was gentle, careful, as she worked the complex knots loose. With each tug, the constricting pressure lessened. Tracy felt the expansion of her own lungs, the rush of blood returning. When the corset finally sagged open, she gasped, a full, deep breath that felt like her first.
The cool air hit the sweat-damp chemise underneath. She shivered.
Kaylee guided the heavy satin over her shoulders, and it fell to the floor with a weighty sigh. Tracy stepped out of it, standing in the stockings, the torn lace panties, and the simple white undershirt. She felt impossibly light, and impossibly exposed.
“Better?” Kaylee murmured, her hands resting on Tracy’s bare shoulders.
Tracy nodded, not trusting her voice. She was adrift between selves, the armor removed.
Kaylee’s phone lit up on the desk, casting a blue glow. A new notification. Then another. They both glanced at it.
“It’s Chloe,” Kaylee said, walking over to pick it up. She read the screen, and a strange, unreadable smile touched her lips. “She says… ‘Tell your girlfriend if she ever needs a shopping buddy or a alibi, I’m her girl. Also, Jeff thinks he saw you with a tall brunette at the library yesterday. I told him he was dreaming.’”
The message was a benediction and a lock. Chloe was now an accomplice, weaving their cover story into the wider world without even being asked. Jeff had seen ‘a tall brunette.’ The rumor mill was already turning, etching Tracy into existence.
Kaylee looked up from the phone, her eyes glowing with a renewed, fierce light. “See? It’s already happening. You’re becoming real.”
Tracy looked at her reflection in the dark window. A pale, slender figure in a white tank top and torn stockings, long-legged and fragile. A tall brunette. She saw a stranger who was becoming more familiar than the face she’d worn for twenty-one years. The momentum was undeniable, a current pulling her out to a sea where Travis could not follow.
She wrapped her arms around herself, holding the new shape together.
“What do we do now?” Tracy asked, her voice barely audible.
Kaylee put the phone down and came to her, slipping her arms around Tracy’s waist from behind, resting her chin on her shoulder. They stared at the reflection together—the pink-haired artist and her creation.
“Now,” Kaylee said, her breath warm against Tracy’s ear, “we see how deep the rabbit hole goes.”