Continued!

Back home, he locked the door, double-checked the blinds, and dumped his haul on the bed. The dress went on first, sliding over his jeans with a faint rustle. It was tight across the chest, loose around the waist, and smelled like mothballs and lavender. He wrestled the wig onto his head, strands catching in his mouth, the synthetic fibers itching like a swarm of ants.

The heels came next, and he wobbled upright, clutching the bedframe as his ankles threatened mutiny. He shuffled to the bathroom mirror, the clack of the shoes echoing in the silence.

“Holy shit,” he breathed. He looked… not awful. Ridiculous, yeah—lips too red where he’d smeared the lipstick, cheeks flaming with uneven blush, lashes clumped into spiky clumps from the mascara. But with practice? Maybe passable. He straightened, hands on hips, and tried a smile.

“Hi, I’m Diana,” he said, pitching his voice high. It cracked like a pubescent kid’s, and he groaned, rubbing his face—then cursed as he smeared makeup everywhere. “Diana” stuck, though. Quiet, nervous, the kind of girl who’d slip into a sorority sleepover unnoticed. He’d say she was a transfer student, eager to help, pizza in tow.

The thought of facing Lila like this—of her smiling at “Diana,” maybe even chatting—sent a jolt through him, equal parts dread and exhilaration.