Taking stock

You don't leave the restroom immediately. Instead, you turn back to the mirror—deliberately this time—and plant both hands on the counter.

Wednesday. You were standing in LUXE like a deer in headlights, wearing a corset and pencil skirt, convinced the world was about to collapse around you.

The girl in the mirror tilts her chin up slightly. Smoky eyes. Loose hair framing a face that's softer than you ever let yourself acknowledge. The sage jacket hangs open over a fitted tee that follows the gentle curve of the breast forms beneath—not hiding them, not apologizing for them. Just... wearing them. Like they belong there.

Four days. That's all it's been.

You think about Wednesday morning—stumbling out of LUXE in heels you couldn't walk in, voice cracking when you tried to speak, hands shaking as you typed job applications with acrylic-length nails. You think about the pharmacy woman calling you sweetheart. About Margot's face when you told her the truth and she just said of course. About Janelle's hand on the seat between you in the minivan, not reaching, just present.

About Theron's shoulders in that battered pickup truck.

About the dream last night—the one that left you gasping and certain of two things you'd been suppressing for seven years.

Seven years of not knowing. Or knowing and refusing to look.

You lean closer. The smoky eyeshadow has held up remarkably well through three hours of closet organization, a bike ride, and a minivan journey. Your skin looks good—clear, even-toned, the light setting powder doing its job. The gold hoops catch the warm mason-jar light and throw tiny crescents of reflection across your collarbone.

You touch your jaw. The skin there is smooth—LUXE's depilatory cream from this morning took care of the faint shadow that used to appear by evening. You hadn't even questioned it when the robotic arm applied the cream. Hadn't flinched.

Because you wanted it gone. You've wanted it gone for a long time.

The door opens again. A woman in her forties with reading glasses pushed up on her head steps in, gives you a brief smile, and enters a stall. You straighten up, gather your crossbody bag, and take one last look.

The person staring back isn't a costume anymore. Isn't a mistake or a trap or something you're enduring. The sage jacket, the messy bun, the smudged liner that looks deliberate—these are just clothes. Just choices. Just... you, figuring out what fits.

Four days ago I didn't know who I was. Now I have a job, a therapist appointment, friends, and a crush on the landscaper. That's not bad for a week.

You push through the door and navigate back through the dim interior—past the bar where the tattooed bartender is pouring something amber over ice, past a cluster of older men arguing about baseball stats—and out onto the patio.

The evening air hits you, warm and carrying the smell of woodsmoke from the fire pit near the fence line. Your table is easy to spot: Priya has commandeered the trivia sign-up sheet and is scribbling a team name. Wren has her camera out, photographing the string lights. And Janelle—

Janelle is watching the door you just came through. When she sees you, something shifts in her expression. Not worry exactly. More like relief settling into warmth.

She lifts her hand—just slightly, a half-wave—and pats the empty seat beside her.

Priya looks up from the sign-up sheet. "There she is. I put us down as 'Closet Case' for the team name. Janelle vetoed it."

"For obvious reasons," Janelle says, not looking away from you.

"I changed it to 'The Organizers.' Which is boring but apparently acceptable." Priya taps her pen against the table. "Also, nachos are coming. Two plates. And I ordered you a smoked cherry mocktail because you deserve something fancy."

Wren looks up from her camera. "Riley, sit. Trivia starts in like fifteen minutes and I need you for the science round. I know nothing about science."

Janelle's knee is already waiting where yours will be.