Chapter 7 - Walking in Heels

Jennifer barely slept.

Every time Michael drifted off, he woke again tangled in satin sheets, aware of unfamiliar hair brushing against his shoulders and the soft weight attached to his chest beneath the nightgown.

The guest room felt wrong.

The blonde hair felt wrong.

Even the way his body moved beneath the sheets felt wrong now after the waxing, shapewear, and careful instructions Michelle had given him before bed.

Around 4:30 AM, Jennifer sat awake in the dark staring at the ceiling while rain tapped softly against the windows.

At some point during the night, the panic had shifted.

Yesterday had still felt temporary.

Performative.

Now it felt procedural.

Planned.

Like Jennifer Brennan was slowly being assembled piece by piece whether Michael could emotionally keep up or not.

And Monday’s interview was no longer hypothetical.

It was tomorrow.

—

By the time Jennifer wandered downstairs Sunday morning, Michelle was already fully awake and moving with unsettling efficiency.

Garment bags hung from the dining room chairs.

Shoes were lined neatly near the kitchen island.

Makeup brushes and palettes covered half the counter.

Michelle looked up from her coffee calmly.

“Good. You’re awake.”

Jennifer stared at the scene.

“…Why does this look like a hostage situation?”

Michelle ignored him and held up a navy sheath dress.

“Try this on.”

Jennifer blinked.

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“It’s eight in the morning.”

“And tomorrow you’ll have even less time.”

Jennifer stood motionless.

Michelle raised an eyebrow.

“Jennifer.”

That still hit him every single time.

Twenty minutes later, Jennifer stood awkwardly in front of the upstairs mirror wearing:

* a knee-length navy sheath dress,

* sheer nude pantyhose,

* low black heels,

* and a soft cream cardigan Michelle insisted “made her seem approachable.”

Jennifer stared downward miserably.

“This feels deeply humiliating.”

Michelle circled him critically like an art director adjusting a model.

“No slouching.”

“I’m not slouching.”

“You’re hunching because you’re uncomfortable with the breast forms.”

Jennifer crossed his arms instinctively.

Michelle immediately pointed.

“No crossing your arms like that.”

“What’s wrong with crossing my arms?”

“You’re doing it like Michael.”

Jennifer stared blankly.

“What does that even mean?”

Michelle demonstrated immediately:

“Men close themselves off differently. Women soften their posture more.”

Jennifer blinked twice.

“You’ve analyzed this way too much.”

Michelle ignored that completely.

“Again. Walk.”

Jennifer groaned softly and shuffled awkwardly across the bedroom in heels.

Michelle winced immediately.

“No.”

“What do you mean no?”

“You’re walking like someone being evacuated during a fire.”

“These shoes are weapons.”

Michelle stepped forward patiently.

“Smaller steps.”

Jennifer tried again.

Still awkward.

Still stiff.

But slightly better.

Michelle nodded slowly.

“Okay. Again.”

—

The entire morning became rehearsal.

Walking.

Sitting.

Standing.

Voice.

Jennifer hated every second of it.

“Your voice drops whenever you get nervous,” Michelle explained while sitting cross-legged on the bed.

“Because I am nervous.”

“I know. But Jennifer can’t suddenly sound like someone’s father during the interview.”

Jennifer rubbed both hands over his face.

“This is insane.”

Michelle softened slightly.

“I know.”

But she kept coaching him anyway.

And to Michael’s growing confusion, Michelle wasn’t mocking him anymore.

She was invested.

Careful.

Almost protective.

Every now and then Jennifer caught Michelle studying him thoughtfully, adjusting details automatically:

* smoothing hair,

* correcting posture,

* repositioning the cardigan,

* fixing lipstick.

Like Jennifer had become a project she desperately needed to succeed.

Around noon, Michelle finally lowered the makeup brush.

“Okay,” she sighed.

“Lunch break.”

Jennifer collapsed dramatically into a kitchen chair.

“My feet are bleeding internally.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I died yesterday at the salon.”

Michelle smirked despite herself and began making sandwiches.

Jennifer sat carefully at the island, hyperaware of every movement:

the nails,

the hair,

the way the breast forms shifted naturally beneath the cardigan.

Nothing about sitting felt automatic anymore.

Then the garage door opened.

Both froze instantly.

Sophie.

Jennifer’s eyes widened in panic.

“I thought she was staying out all day.”

“She was supposed to.”

The door from the garage swung open moments later.

Sophie walked inside carrying an overnight bag and immediately stopped.

Her eyes landed directly on Jennifer.

Confusion crossed her face instantly.

Then polite surprise.

“Oh— sorry,” she said automatically.

“I didn’t know Mom had someone over.”

Jennifer went completely still.

Michelle inhaled once slowly.

Sophie smiled awkwardly toward Jennifer.

“Hi, I’m Sophie.”

Jennifer stared helplessly at Michelle.

Michelle set down the knife carefully.

“Sophie,” she said calmly.

“Sit down for a minute.”

Sophie frowned immediately.

“Why?”

“Just sit.”

Something in Michelle’s tone made Sophie obey.

Jennifer suddenly felt physically ill.

Michelle sat across from her daughter and rubbed both hands together once.

“What I’m about to explain is going to sound insane.”

Sophie looked between them nervously.

Then Michelle told her.

Not everything.

Not the humiliation.

Not the desperation.

Just the essentials:

* Dad couldn’t find work.

* Michelle had submitted his résumé internally as Jennifer Russo.

* Jennifer got an interview.

* The makeover became necessary.

* Tomorrow was the interview.

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Sophie stared at Jennifer in complete shock.

Then slowly:

“…Dad?”

Jennifer gave the tiniest nod imaginable.

Sophie blinked repeatedly.

Then looked closer.

The blonde hair.

The lashes.

The nails.

“Oh my God.”

Jennifer wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

Instead Sophie suddenly covered her mouth and started laughing in stunned disbelief.

Not cruel laughter.

Just pure overwhelmed shock.

“Oh my God,” she repeated.

“You actually look good.”

Jennifer groaned softly.

“That somehow makes this worse.”

But Sophie was already moving closer, fascinated now.

“Wait— stand up.”

“No.”

“Dad.”

Jennifer looked betrayed immediately.

“Not you too.”

Sophie circled him once slowly.

Then looked at Michelle in amazement.

“You guys actually pulled this off.”

Michelle crossed her arms with quiet satisfaction.

“I know.”

Sophie looked back toward Jennifer again.

Then unexpectedly smiled warmly.

“This is kind of iconic.”

Jennifer stared at her.

“I used to teach you how to ride a bike.”

“And now I can teach you eyeliner.”

Jennifer closed his eyes.

“I hate this family.”

But Sophie had already fully adjusted.

Teenagers adapted frighteningly fast.

Within ten minutes she was:

* helping pick jewelry for tomorrow,

* correcting Jennifer’s posture,

* showing better ways to hold a purse,

* and arguing with Michelle about lipstick shades.

Jennifer sat trapped between them in horrified silence while the two women discussed him like a living dress form.

At one point Sophie stepped back thoughtfully.

“You know what the weirdest part is?”

Jennifer sighed.

“There are so many possible answers to that question.”

“You actually look… comfortable.”

The room became quiet.

Jennifer looked down at his freshly manicured hands resting against the cardigan Michelle had picked out that morning.

“That’s impossible,” he said softly.

But even as he said it, he wasn’t entirely sure it was true anymore.

Michelle noticed the hesitation immediately.

And judging by the expression on her face, that realization unsettled her almost as much as it unsettled him.