Your true self

You delete Chloe Ellison from the name field. Your thumb hovers over the cursor for a moment, then you type: Riley Bennett.

It's your name. Your actual, legal name. And it works either way.

You've always known this, somewhere in the back of your mind—Riley skews female in most people's experience. You've gotten mail addressed to "Ms. Bennett." You've had professors call roll and look surprised when you raised your hand. It's a name that exists in that liminal space between genders, and right now, that ambiguity is the most useful thing you own.

They'll see the name and assume woman. That's on them, not on you. You're not lying about anything. Your degree is real. Your experience is real. Your name is real.

You draft the résumé with practiced efficiency, your crimson-tipped fingers moving across the phone screen. B.A. in Psychology, University of Michigan. Dean's List. Research assistantship in behavioral analysis. Summer internship at a counseling center. Your work history is thin but legitimate—camp counselor, barista, campus tour guide. Nothing that screams any particular gender.

You tweak the summary: Recent psychology graduate with strong interpersonal skills, behavioral analysis training, and experience in client-facing roles. Excellent written and verbal communication. Adaptable, observant, detail-oriented.

That could be anyone. That could be the woman in the mirror or the guy who showed up here two days ago with a backpack and a dead phone battery.

You open three browser tabs. The Larkspur Hollow library bulletin board shows a part-time receptionist position at a local accounting firm. The community board has a listing for a barista at a café called Grounded. And Indeed surfaces a posting for a sales associate at a women's clothing boutique called Petal & Thread on Main Street.

You apply to all three within twenty minutes, attaching your résumé to each submission. The accounting firm wants a cover letter, so you write one—brief, professional, mentioning your "attention to detail" and "warm demeanor." The café just wants availability and experience. The boutique asks for a photo, which you skip, figuring your application speaks for itself.

Three applications. Before noon on your first full day. Not bad.

You set the phone down and take a sip of the latte, which has cooled to a pleasant warmth. The corset presses against your ribs with each breath. Your stockinged ankles are still crossed beneath the island, the pointed heels of the pumps barely touching the floor. You feel... capable. Organized. Like someone who has her life together, even if "her" is a very recent development.

Your phone buzzes. A text from Aunt Vanessa: "Morning, sweetheart! How's the house treating you? My assistant called the airline yesterday—still tracking your bag. Don't lose hope! Also, there's a landscaper coming Thursday to do the hedges. His name's Theron. Just let him in, he has the gate code. Love you!"

A landscaper. Thursday. Someone who will see you.

Tomorrow. A stranger. At the house. While you look like this.

You stare at the text, the crimson gloss on your lips catching the morning light. The résumé submissions sit in your sent folder, three little digital arrows pointing outward into the world. Riley Bennett, job applicant. Riley Bennett, who looks like a pinup in a pencil skirt and four-inch heels.

At least the name won't give me away.

Your phone buzzes again—an email notification. Grounded Coffee has already responded