GFW - Wellness Center - Part 8

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After we’d walked for a while, the air getting cooler and the streets quieter, Brad offered to drive me home.

I hesitated for a second, but then nodded.

"Sure."

The ride was mostly quiet.

The radio played something classic. The kind of background music that lets your thoughts get louder than you want them to be. I glanced out the window, watching the streetlights pass, wondering how I looked in this moment, my hair styled, makeup still faintly there, nails still painted, legs crossed instinctively in those rust-colored trousers that felt so.

Brad didn’t say much, and I was grateful for that.

And somehow, that presence meant more than conversation.

When he pulled up outside my building, he let the car idle for a moment.

I reached for the handle, but he spoke first.

“Hey.”

I turned to him.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he said softly. “About how you looked tonight. And how you made me feel, just being with you. Don’t overthink it. You don’t have to know what’s next."

I swallowed hard, heart thudding against my chest.

No one had ever said something like that to me, not like this.

“Thank you,” I said. It came out more sincere than I meant.

He smiled, eyes meeting mine. “Get some sleep.”

I nodded, pushed open the door, and stepped out.

I walked slowly to the building, the dress bag in one hand. As I reached the door, I turned and looked back.

He was still parked there.

And when I lifted my hand in a small wave, he waved back.

The apartment was dark when I stepped in.

My sister had already gone to bed, the hallway lit only by the faint glow from the kitchen nightlight. I slipped off my shoes, set the dress bag down on the couch, and stood there for a moment, not moving.

The silence settled around me.

I walked to my room, turned on the lamp, and sat on the edge of the bed without changing out of my clothes. I looked down at my hands, polished nails, the delicate sleeve of my blouse pulled just past my wrist, and I exhaled, long and slow.

Tonight hadn’t gone the way I expected.

I thought it was going to be a date with Reva. I thought I was going to impress her. Maybe flirt. Maybe see if there was something more.

Instead, I sat across from Brad. And he made me feel nice. And when he said I was beautiful. I didn’t feel insulted. I felt something warm.

And now, sitting here in the quiet, my heart still buzzing from the echo of it all, one thought kept repeating in my mind like a whisper I couldn’t silence.

Am I gay?

The words made my chest tighten. I wasn’t ready for that.

Maybe I just needed more time to figure it out.

I barely remembered crawling into bed the night before.

The moment my head hit the pillow, exhaustion—and maybe a little emotional overload—knocked me out cold. The only thing I managed to do was drop the dress bag on the living room sofa before shutting my door.

When I woke up the next morning, sunlight was streaming through the curtains, quiet and warm. For a few seconds, everything felt normal quiet, still, like any other Sunday.

Then I heard her voice.

“Well, well. Look who finally woke up.”

I rubbed my eyes and sat up, heart already sinking. My sister stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame with her arms crossed and one eyebrow arched.

“You wanna explain why there’s a designer dress sitting on our couch?” she asked, her voice dripping with curiosity.

“And don’t tell me it’s a return because there’s a receipt in the bag."

I groaned, pulling the blanket over my head. “Can we not do this first thing in the morning?”

She laughed. “Oh, we’re doing this right now. How was the date? And don’t leave out the part where some guy bought you a dress.”

I froze under the blanket for a second.

Of course, she noticed.

I lowered the blanket slowly, meeting her gaze. “It wasn’t exactly what I expected.”

She grinned. “Define not what you expected.”

I hesitated, my throat dry. “I thought it was with Reva.”

“And?”

“And, it wasn’t.”

Her grin widened. “Oh my God. She set you up, didn’t she?

Who’s the guy? Is he cute? Do I need to start practicing calling someone ‘brother-in-law’?”

“Stop,” I muttered, my cheeks burning. “It’s not like that.”

She perched on the edge of my bed.

“Then why is there a blue designer dress in the living room, and why do you look like you spent the night thinking about someone?”

I didn’t answer.

Because of the truth?

After breakfast, I was rinsing my plate when she appeared in the doorway again, arms folded and that mischievous smile still plastered on her face.

“So,” she said casually, “when are you going to try on that dress?”

I turned, dish towel in hand, and stared at her. “What?”

“The blue one,” she said like it was obvious. “You know, the one your mystery man bought for you yesterday?”

I set the towel down and shook my head. “Why would I try it on?”

She tilted her head. “Because he bought it for you? Because it probably looks amazing on you?

Because—”

“I’m not a woman,” I cut in sharply.

The smile faded from her face just a little, but her eyes stayed on me.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I’m not gay either,”

I added, louder than I meant to. “I don’t want to try it. I don’t even want the dress.

Keep it. You wear it.”

She blinked, taken aback for a second by the edge in my voice. Then she stepped closer, resting her hip against the counter.

“You don’t have to yell, Derek,” she said quietly. “I’m not trying to push you. I just thought, maybe part of you wanted to.”

“I don’t,” I snapped. “Okay? I don’t want to.

I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms, and looked away.

“Just, keep it,” I muttered. “I don’t want it.”

She studied me for a long moment, like she could see every crack in the wall I was trying to hold up. Then she sighed and said, “Okay.”

But as she walked out of the kitchen, the dress bag was still sitting on the sofa.

It was late afternoon when my phone buzzed.

Brad was calling.

I stared at the screen as his name lit up, and I let it ring out. Then another message came through.

Had a great time yesterday. Hope you’re okay. Would love to see you again soon.

I didn’t reply.

I didn’t want to.

Or maybe I did, and that was the problem.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed the phone and scrolled to Reva’s name.

She answered on the second ring, her voice calm, like nothing was wrong.

“Hey, you.”

“Why?” I blurted out.

“Why did you do that to me? Set me up with Brad.

“I thought it was you and me."

I stopped myself, breath shaky.

“You made me look like an idiot.”

“I didn’t,” she said softly.

“You looked amazing. And I didn’t do it to embarrass you.”

“Then why?” My voice cracked.

“Why push me into something I never asked for?”

Another pause. When she spoke again, her tone was measured but firm.

“Because I’ve watched you for weeks. The way you’ve changed. The way you’ve stopped hiding from yourself. And I thought maybe—just maybe—you’d want someone who sees that too.”

“I’m not gay, Reva.” My voice dropped to a whisper.

“I’m not,”

“You don’t have to be,” she said. “Brad doesn’t care about labels. And maybe you don’t either. Maybe that’s what scares you.”

I closed my eyes, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

“This isn’t me,” I whispered.

“Isn’t it?” she asked gently.

I didn’t answer.

Because I didn’t know.

Or maybe I did, and I wasn’t ready to say it out loud.

“I’m not your project, Reva,” I said finally, my voice barely steady.

“You’re not,” she said. “You’re just someone who deserves to feel wanted. And whether that’s by Brad or someone else, that’s up to you.”

I hung up before she could say more.

That night, the apartment was quiet.

My sister was in her room, earbuds on. The only light came from the lamp on my nightstand, casting a warm circle across my bed.

And on the sofa in the living room?

The blue dress.

Still in its boutique bag. Still untouched, like it was waiting for me.

I tried to ignore it. I sat on my bed, scrolling through my phone, opening apps I didn’t care about, watching videos I couldn’t focus on. Every few seconds, my eyes drifted toward the open door, where the faint outline of that bag was visible in the dim light.

I told myself I didn’t want it.

I told myself I wouldn’t do this.

I wasn’t a woman. I wasn’t gay.

But the truth was louder than the lies tonight.

I wanted to feel what I’d felt in that fitting room again. That moment when the fabric slid over my skin and I saw myself in the mirror.

My pulse quickened as I stood, crossing the floor like someone walking into a confession booth.

I lifted the bag from the sofa, the rustle of the paper louder than I expected in the silence. My fingers trembled as I pulled the zipper on the garment bag down, revealing the dress inside, structured, perfect.

I carried it to my room, closing the door behind me.

For a long moment, I just stood there, holding it against my chest, staring at my reflection in the mirror. The neckline brushing my collarbone, the color glowing against my skin.

And then, before I could talk myself out of it.

I slipped it on.

The cool fabric hugged my waist, draped over my hips, flowed down in a line that made my body feel right.

I stared at myself in the mirror.

And for the first time that day, I wasn’t angry.

I wasn’t ashamed. I was quiet. Still. A little terrified.

And underneath all of that, I was beautiful.

When I finally crawled into bed, the blue dress was hanging neatly on the back of my chair, like a secret that could see me even with the lights off.

I lay awake for a long time.

Not scrolling through my phone. Not listening to music. Just staring at the ceiling, feeling the ghost of that fabric against my skin. Remembering the way it hugged my waist.

The next morning, sunlight crept across my room, bright and unrelenting. I sat up slowly, my mouth dry, my heart already heavy with thoughts I didn’t want to name.

The dress was still there.

Like it belonged to a life I wasn’t sure I was ready for.

I forced myself through the motions: shower, joggers, an oversized tee that used to feel comfortable but now felt like a disguise. I avoided my own reflection as I brushed out my hair, because I didn’t want to see the difference that one night had made.

When I walked into the kitchen, my sister was already there, sipping coffee and scrolling on her phone. She looked up and grinned.

“Morning, sleeping beauty.”

I managed a faint smile and grabbed a glass of water, my pulse spiking as I prayed she hadn’t gone into my room. That she hadn’t seen the dress on the chair. That she didn’t know what I’d done.

She didn’t mention it.

But as I sat across from her, pretending to check emails, her eyes flicked to my hands to the matte brown polish that was chipped now, uneven.

She didn’t say a word about that either.

Just sipped her coffee and smiled like she knew something I didn’t.

I spent the rest of the morning pretending to be busy.

Answering emails I didn’t need to answer, cleaning the kitchen counter twice, scrolling through social media like it might distract me from the quiet throb in my head.

But every so often, my phone buzzed.

First, it was Morgan from the gym:

Hey, Derek! Haven’t seen you today. Everything okay?

Then another:

We’ve got a new class starting. Reva was asking about you.

Then Reva herself:

Hey. I hope you’re not hiding from me. Call me when you can.

Then, one by one, the notifications from the girls in class:

Missed you today! Hope you’re alright.

You better not be skipping on us.

The studio feels empty without you, queen.

I stared at the screen until the messages blurred together.

And then I turned the phone face down.

I hadn’t gone to the gym today. I’d ignored Reva’s calls, Morgan’s messages, and every ping from the girls in class. And now, staring at my reflection, I realized how much everything had changed while I pretended it was all temporary.

The outfit I’d picked wasn’t even a question anymore. My old shirts and slacks didn’t fit right, not with the curves that had crept in, the faint lines I couldn’t hide. So I reached for what felt inevitable.

A bra, smooth and barely-there, slipping snugly across my chest.

A silk blouse, pale and weightless, falling over me like liquid.

Tailored trousers, grazing just above my feet, hugging my waist in a way that didn’t leave room for denial.

I added a whisper of nude lipstick—just enough to even out my lips—and stared at the effect in the mirror. My hair was loose but styled, with a gentle inward curve brushing my jawline. Feminine, but not loud.

I slipped on the blush loafers, grabbed my bag, and whispered to no one:

“Just another day at the office.”

The elevator ride up to the 12th floor felt longer than usual.

I kept my eyes fixed on the silver doors, adjusting the strap of my bag against my shoulder like that could anchor me. The faint scent of my own perfume—a light floral spray my sister had left on the dresser—clung to me.

When the doors opened, I stepped out, heels of my loafers clicking against the polished floor.

Heads turned.

Not dramatically. Not all at once. But enough for me to feel it. The subtle flicker of eyes over my blouse, the way my tailored trousers skimmed just above my ankles, the sheen of silk catching the office light.

I pretended not to notice. Pretended my pulse wasn’t thudding in my ears as I walked toward my desk.

And then Jake’s voice cut through the hum of keyboards:

“Well, well.”

He leaned back in his chair, smirking as his eyes ran over me from head to toe.

“Here comes Miss Universe.”

A few people chuckled under their breath.

The kind of laugh that stings because it isn’t loud enough to call out, but sharp enough to slice through skin.

I froze for half a second, heat crawling up my neck.

“Nice blouse,” he added, voice dripping sarcasm. “Who’s your designer? Victoria’s Secret?”

More muffled laughter.

I wanted to say something. To bite back. To throw his words like knives right back at him.

But all I managed was a tight smile, sliding into my chair like the air had turned to glass.

I kept my eyes on the screen, pretending to work.

But the truth?

Every click of my keyboard felt heavier than the last.

Because no matter how strong I tried to seem.

Jake’s words weren’t the only thing echoing in my head.

It was the question I still couldn’t shake:

Was he laughing because he saw a man in women’s clothes?

I stared at my monitor, the words on the screen blurring into nonsense. My hands hovered above the keyboard, trembling slightly despite how tightly I clenched them.

The laughter had died down, replaced by the usual hum of office noise, but the weight of Jake’s voice still hung in the air like a stain I couldn’t scrub off.

“Miss Universe.”

“Victoria’s Secret.”

The silk blouse against my skin suddenly felt louder than the clicking keyboards around me. My lips still carried that faint sheen of nude gloss, and I wondered if everyone was staring; they could all see the same thing Jake had.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, someone slid a small paper cup onto my desk.

I looked up.

It was Camille, from HR, the same one who had complimented my nails a few weeks ago. She gave me a knowing smile as she set the coffee down beside my keyboard.

“Triple shot caramel latte,” she said lightly.

“Ignore Jake. He’s a toddler in a grown-up chair.”

I almost laughed. Almost.

Instead, I managed a faint smile.

She winked, her voice dropping so low only I could hear:

“By the way, the blouse? Stunning. Seriously. If they can’t handle it, that’s their problem.”

When lunch break rolled around, I debated hiding at my desk.

The idea of walking into the break room felt like stepping onto a stage I didn’t want to perform on.

But before I could open my food container, a voice called from across the aisle.

“Derek?”

I looked up. Camille was standing by the glass doors, smiling in that calm, easy way she had.

“Come on,” she said, tilting her head toward the break room.

“You’ve been glued to that chair all morning."

I hesitated, but something in her tone, friendly, almost protective, made me stand and follow.

The break room smelled faintly of coffee and vanilla creamer. A couple of women from accounting were sitting at one of the tables, chatting quietly. One of them, Jess, waved as we walked in.

And then I noticed it. A small bottle of matte brown nail polish was sitting on the table between them. The exact shade.

Jess grinned. “Look what I picked up this weekend. Same color you had on last time, Derek. It looked so good on you, I had to grab it.”

I didn’t know what to say. Camille nudged me gently toward a chair. “Sit. Eat. We’re just having some fun.”

Before I could protest, Jess opened the bottle with a quiet click and patted the empty chair beside her.

“Give me your hand. You need a touch-up; half your polish is chipped.”

I looked down at my nails, and she wasn’t wrong. Every instinct told me to pull back, to say no. But then I saw their face.

And before I knew it, my hand was resting on the table, palm relaxed as Jess stroked on the first layer of that matte brown. The scent of polish filled the air, and the faint tickle of the brush sent a strange calm washing over me.

“There,” Jess said after finishing the last nail, holding my hand up like a piece of art. “Perfect again. Seriously, you were made for this shade.”

Camille grinned, leaning back in her chair. I managed a weak laugh, my cheeks warm as I stared at my freshly painted nails.

We were still laughing when I felt the shift in the air. That prickling sensation at the back of your neck when someone’s eyes are on you.

I didn’t have to look up to know who it was, Jake.

Standing in the doorway of the break room, arms crossed, smirk plastered across his face like a stain that wouldn’t wash out.

“Well, well,” he drawled, his voice dripping with mockery loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Is this where the ladies’ club meets? Guess I shouldn’t be surprised you fit right in, Derek.”

The laughter in the room stilled. Camille’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t say anything yet. Jess glanced at me, her smile fading, the nail polish brush frozen mid-air.

Jake took a few slow steps into the room, eyes flicking to my hands resting on the table, freshly painted, matte brow, and gleaming under the fluorescent light.

“Oh, look at that,” he sneered. “Matching manicures now?

What’s next, spa day with the girls? You gonna start swapping lipstick shades too?”

The words hit like tiny shards of glass, sharp, cold, cutting deeper than I wanted them to. Camille spoke then, her voice sharp as steel.

“Jake. Don’t.”

He raised his eyebrows, mock innocence painted across his face.

“What? I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. If he wants to play dress-up, that’s his business. I just think it’s cute he’s getting help.”

I gripped the edge of the chair so hard my knuckles went white.

Part of me wanted to shout. Part of me wanted to run.

Instead, I sat frozen, every muscle rigid, my nails perfect, brown, mocking me under the glare of the overhead lights.

Jess cleared her throat, her voice even but cold. “Jake, you should probably leave before Camille writes you up.”

He snorted. “Whatever.”

But as he turned to go, he tossed one last look over his shoulder, his grin sharp enough to slice.

“Careful, Derek. People might start calling you Miss Universe again.”

Then he was gone, his laughter fading down the hall. Silence settled in the room like dust.

Camille reached across the table, her fingers brushing mine most gently. “Ignore him,” she said softly. “He’s pathetic.”

I was angry at myself because his words hurt so much more than they should have.