Lately, with the help of AI, I’ve been doing a good bit of writing. I find writing cathartic, that’s why I originally started doing it. Well that, and to learn about myself and to put my thoughts out there in the hope that someone will see them and relate, have their own thoughts start a conversation, or maybe learn something about themselves (the latter of which is very narcissistic and I only mean that by sharing what I think, maybe someone else’s journey will be a little easier).
Anyway, back to the point, the beauty of AI is that it can do a lot very fast and do it fairly well. So as I pull together plots and sketch outlines, I can use AI to build on that and add the color, keep the style and syntax in sync, point me to flaws or holes in my thinking, etc. And then I can refine what AI puts out there to shape it and mold it where I want it to go through an iterative, back and forth process. Basically, AI does a lot of the work that makes writing down my thoughts seem like an overwhelming task allowing me to concentrate on the vision and the execution (which I can refine). I guess this is CEO Amanda with the vision and delegating the tasks.
So I’ve “written” (with the help of AI) the stories I’m posting. The first, entitled “Brick by Brick” was written to express many of my feelings - it starts with one of my own writings about my formative years and places “Connor” (me, but not my real name) in a situation that isn’t exactly the same but rhymes with my own, including many of the ups and downs Connor experiences along the way. His journey ultimately takes him to a place where I haven’t been, but maybe somewhere I’d like to go. The other story that I’m posting, “Tides of Amanda,” revisits many of these same themes, albeit from an earlier point in life, and with more emphasis on some of the turmoil I felt earlier in my life, how dressing impacting some of my social development, and ultimately a recognition that the journey to acceptance of oneself is fragile, as is life itself.
Fair warning - these stories are long, raw, heavy, and emotional - a difficult read that the reader has to persevere through. For these reasons, not anything 18+, it’s not for the faint of heart. Ultimately, they are tales of coming to piece with oneself and creating the balance in life that I’ve written on many times. But that’s not a linear process, instead being one that involves taking steps backwards along the way (including right out of the gate), but with the hope that over time one can move forward and come to peace with who they are.
All my love,
Amanda
Title: Tides of Amanda
In the humid shadows of Darien, Georgia, a quiet boy named Connor uncovers a secret self in a faded yellow sundress, a tide of hidden longing and fragile courage that pulls him toward an unknown shore. Across years and cities, with his girlfriend Emily navigating her own currents of love and understanding by his side, he wrestles with the relentless pull of Amanda, a truth that threatens to unravel the life he’s built. From small-town tides to New York’s electric pulse, their story weaves a tender bond that defies time and tragedy, its echoes rippling through generations.
Chapter 1: The Attic Door
In a quiet, salty-aired town along Georgia’s coast, where the shrimp boats bob lazily in the brackish water and the live oaks drip with Spanish moss, Connor’s discovery began on a humid afternoon in late spring. It was 1994 in Darien, Georgia, and he was fifteen, a freshman at McIntosh County High, lanky and quiet, the kind of kid who blended into the background. His mom was at the diner pulling a double shift, and his dad was long gone, leaving behind a ramshackle house with creaky floors and an attic stuffed with forgotten things. It was there, poking through a cardboard box labeled “Mama’s Old Stuff,” that Connor found it: a faded sundress, yellow with tiny white flowers, soft as a whisper against his calloused fingers. He wasn’t sure why he pulled it out, why he held it up to the dim light filtering through the attic window, the air thick with dust and the faint tang of marsh at low tide. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was something deeper, a pull he couldn’t name yet, like the tides he’d watched his whole life, always coming back no matter how far they receded.
Downstairs, in the safety of his room, he locked the door—an old habit from years of wanting privacy in a house that felt too small. The dress slipped over his head, cool against his skin, and he stood in front of the chipped full-length mirror his mom had salvaged from a yard sale. He expected to laugh, to feel ridiculous, but instead, his breath caught. The boy staring back at him wasn’t just Connor anymore. There was a softness in his shoulders, a tilt to his head he’d never noticed, like the way the marsh grass bent with the wind. He tucked his shaggy brown hair behind his ears, imagining it longer, flowing like the Altamaha River at sunset, and whispered, “Amanda.” The name came unbidden, like it had been waiting for him, a secret tide eroding the walls he’d built around himself. His chest tightened—not with shame, but with a thrill that raced down his spine. Amanda felt right, like a song he’d always known the tune to but never the words.
But Darien wasn’t a place for Amanda. Not yet. Connor knew this as surely as he knew the tide schedule or the smell of low marsh at dusk, a scent that clung to his clothes after fishing trips with Jake and Tanner. So he built a facade, a careful shell of “normalcy” to keep her safe. At school, he was still Connor—the kid who was decent at math, who nodded along when the guys talked about football or fishing trips, even if his mind drifted to the feel of that sundress against his skin. He remembered the time Tanner had shoved a kid into a locker for wearing a pink shirt, calling him a “fairy,” the word sharp as a fishhook, and Connor had laughed along, his stomach twisting. He wore his dad’s old flannel shirts, too big but rugged enough to pass muster, and kept his voice low, his gestures small. After school, he worked part-time at Tillman’s Bait & Tackle, hauling buckets of shrimp and minnows, cracking jokes with Mr. Tillman about the weather or the tourists. No one suspected a thing. He was good at it, this performance—years of fading into the background had taught him how to be what people expected.
At home, though, Amanda stirred, a tide he couldn’t hold back forever. She was there in the quiet moments, when the house was empty and the cicadas hummed outside, their song a restless echo of his own longing. Connor started small—a pair of clip-on earrings from the dollar store, a tube of cherry lip gloss he hid in a sock drawer, the scent of it sharp and sweet like the candies his mom used to buy him at the county fair. Each time he let her out, it was a rush: the swish of a skirt he’d scavenged from a thrift store in Brunswick, the way his reflection shifted into someone braver, brighter, her eyes catching the light like the marsh at dawn. But with every moment of freedom came a shadow. Guilt crept in, thick and heavy. What would Mom say? She was a churchgoing woman, tired but kind—would she see Amanda as a betrayal, a sin? He remembered her face at a Sunday sermon last month, nodding along as the preacher railed against “unnatural ways,” his voice booming like thunder over the marsh. And the guys at school—Jake and Tanner, who slugged him on the shoulder and called him “bro”—they’d turn on him in a heartbeat if they knew. Darien was a place where “different” got you whispers at best, a fist at worst.
The inner turmoil gnawed at him. Amanda felt like the truest part of him, but accepting her meant dismantling everything he’d built to survive. Nights were the worst—he lay awake, staring at the cracked ceiling, torn between wanting to bury her and wanting to set her free. He’d pull the dress out, run his fingers over the fabric, the tiny white flowers like stars against the yellow, then shove it back under his bed, heart pounding with a mix of longing and fear. “This ain’t right,” he muttered to himself, echoing the preacher’s voice from those Sunday sermons, the words heavy as the humid air before a storm. But then he’d catch Amanda’s name on his tongue again, and it was a lifeline, pulling him toward something he couldn’t unsee. He was caught in a tug-of-war—Connor on one side, the boy Darien knew, and Amanda on the other, the girl he was afraid to love, a tide he couldn’t stop.
Sometimes, he dreamed of her walking the pier at sunset, unafraid, her hair catching the light, the tide lapping at the pilings below as if welcoming her. But morning always came, and with it, the flannel, the bait shop, the careful mask. Amanda waited, patient but persistent, a secret tide eroding the walls he’d built around her. How long could he keep her hidden? How long before she demanded to breathe?
Chapter 2: The Mask of Normalcy
It was fall 1994 in Darien, Georgia, and Connor was a sophomore at McIntosh County High, navigating the sticky heat of late August as the school year kicked off. He was still lanky, his frame all elbows and knees, but he was determined to fit in, to sand down the edges that felt too sharp, too revealing. Amanda was there, tucked away like a Polaroid hidden in a shoebox, but Connor pushed her deep into the recesses of his mind, her name a whisper he silenced with every step. This year, he decided, he’d be the guy everyone expected—normal, easygoing, one of the pack, a boy who could ride the tide of Darien’s expectations without being swept under.
He tried sports first, figuring it was the quickest way to blend in. Football was king in Georgia, but Connor wasn’t built for the line—he was too wiry, too uncoordinated for the varsity squad. Instead, he landed on the track team, running the 800-meter. He wasn’t a star, but he was decent, his legs pumping against the red clay track, the rhythm a distraction from the thoughts he couldn’t outrun. The guys clapped him on the back after practice, calling him “Con” like it was a badge of honor, and it was enough to get him invited to bonfires on the beach, where the air smelled of salt and burning driftwood, and the boombox blared Nirvana and Hootie & the Blowfish. He was reasonably well-liked—Jake and Tanner, his loudest teammates, dragged him into their orbit, their laughter booming over the crash of the waves. The girls smiled at him sometimes, their eyes catching the firelight, though he never quite knew what to do with that.
Dating was trickier. He tried, because that’s what sophomores did. There was Jennifer, a junior with a loud laugh and a perm, who he took to the movies in Brunswick one Friday night. They saw Forrest Gump, and he fumbled through small talk over popcorn, but when she leaned in close during the ride home, her perfume sharp as the marsh at low tide, his stomach twisted—not with excitement, but dread. He remembered a sermon from First Baptist, the preacher’s voice thundering about “proper roles,” and saw Tanner’s sneer at the kid in the pink shirt. He mumbled something about curfew and dropped her off early, his hands shaking on the wheel. Later, there was Kelly, a quiet girl from his algebra class, but that fizzled too when he couldn’t bring himself to hold her hand at the homecoming dance, the gym lights too bright, the music too loud. “You’re sweet, Connor, but you’re kinda… off,” she said, not unkindly. He nodded, forced a grin, and didn’t try again. It was easier to stay single, to dodge the questions, to keep the tide of Amanda at bay.
Summers, he worked at Tillman’s Bait & Tackle, hauling ice and shrimp, chatting up the old fishermen who tipped him in crumpled dollar bills, their stories of the tides a constant hum in the background. The job was a good excuse to stay busy, to keep Amanda buried. He had friends—Jake, Tanner, a girl named Sarah who was more tomboy than flirt—and they hung out at the pier or piled into Tanner’s beat-up Chevy for late-night Sonic runs. Connor was there, laughing at the right times, tossing back a Coke, the salt air clinging to his skin, but he was always a step removed. He’d crack a joke, but never linger too long in a conversation, never let anyone dig past the surface. “You’re chill, man, but you’re like… a mystery,” Sarah said once, half-teasing, her eyes narrowing as they watched the tide roll in. He shrugged it off, heart thudding, terrified she might see more than he meant to show.
Junior year, fall of 1995, he doubled down. Track kept him lean, and he picked up a little swagger from the team, enough to get nods in the hallway. He went to parties—keggers in the woods, where the cops rarely bothered to show—and learned to sip a beer without wincing, though he hated the taste, bitter as the guilt that lingered after his secret moments with Amanda. Amanda was still there, a quiet ache he couldn’t shake. Late at night, when the house was silent, he’d pull out that yellow sundress, now joined by a thrift-store skirt and a pair of scuffed Mary Janes he’d bought with bait-shop cash. He locked his door, let her breathe for an hour, her reflection in the mirror a glimpse of a life he couldn’t have, then buried her again, guilt clawing at him. The preacher at First Baptist droned on Sundays about sin, his voice heavy as the humid air, and Connor wondered if he was damned, but Amanda’s tide was too strong to let go.
Senior year, 1996, rolled in with a humid September. Connor was eighteen now, still running track, still showing up to the parties, still the guy everyone liked but no one really knew. He had a plan: college. Not too far—maybe Georgia Southern in Statesboro, an hour inland. It was close enough to check on Mom, far enough to breathe, a new tide to ride. He was decent at math, so he figured he’d study engineering, something practical to keep him grounded, maybe even take him to a city like New York one day, where he’d heard people could be whoever they wanted. His grades were solid, his SATs passable, and the guidance counselor patted him on the back when he got accepted. “You’re goin’ places, Connor,” she said. He smiled, but inside, he was churning—college could be Amanda’s chance, or it could bury her deeper.
Graduation came in May ’97, a sticky night under stadium lights. Connor walked across the stage in his cap and gown, shaking hands with Principal Hargrove while the crowd clapped. Jake and Tanner whooped from the stands, and Mom wiped her eyes in the front row, the tide lapping at the shore in the distance. He’d done it—survived high school, kept the facade intact. But as he tossed his cap into the air, Amanda flickered in his mind, unbidden, her presence as persistent as the tides he’d grown up with. She’d been patient, waiting through the track meets, the failed dates, the summers of shrimp and sweat. Now, with Darien shrinking in the rearview, Connor felt the pull of something new. College loomed—a dorm room, strangers who didn’t know his past, a chance to let her out or lock her away for good. He wasn’t sure which scared him more, but the tide was turning, and he couldn’t stop it.
Chapter 3: The Stifled Freshman
In the fall of 1997, Connor arrived at Georgia Southern University in Statesboro, a sprawling campus an hour inland from Darien’s salty shores. He was eighteen, armed with a duffel bag, a secondhand desk lamp, and a fragile hope that college might be the fresh start he’d been chasing, a new tide to carry him away from Darien’s shadows. The dorms were loud, chaotic—guys blasting Third Eye Blind from boomboxes, girls laughing in the halls—and Connor threw himself into fitting in, just like he had in high school. He declared an engineering major, joined a study group, and even rushed a fraternity, Sigma Nu, because Jake’s older brother had sworn it was the way to “make connections.” He got in, barely, pasting on a grin through the hazing rituals—chugging warm beer, running laps in the dark—but it felt like he was wearing someone else’s skin, the tide of Amanda pulling beneath the surface.
The facade held, but it was flimsy. At frat parties, he was the guy in the corner nursing a Solo cup, nodding along to stories about hunting trips and high school glory days he couldn’t relate to, the music a dull roar against the quiet hum of Amanda in his mind. His roommate, a stocky kid named Ryan from Macon, was friendly enough, but Connor kept him at arm’s length, terrified of what might slip out if they got too close. Amanda was still there, a quiet current he couldn’t escape, and the dorm’s thin walls and constant eyes made her impossible to let out. He’d smuggled the yellow sundress and Mary Janes in a taped-up cardboard box labeled “Books,” but they stayed buried under textbooks, untouched, their presence a weight he couldn’t ignore. The freedom he’d imagined—space to breathe, to be—felt stifled by the same old script: be normal, be one of the guys, don’t slip up.
Classes were fine—calculus and physics kept his mind busy—but socially, he was awkward, a beat off from everyone else. The frat brothers ribbed him for being quiet, calling him “Deep Thoughts,” and the girls he met at mixers lost interest when he stumbled over small talk, his mind drifting to the dress hidden in his room. He tried dating again—a sophomore named Megan with a nose ring and a psych major—but when she invited him back to her place after a coffee date, he froze, the memory of Jennifer’s perfume and the preacher’s voice crashing over him like a wave. He muttered an excuse and bolted, his sneakers pounding the pavement as he fled. It wasn’t her; it was him, or rather, it was Amanda, tugging at the edges of his thoughts, a tide he couldn’t outrun. By spring ’98, he was miserable, the weight of pretending heavier than ever. Statesboro was too close to Darien, too steeped in the same small-town vibe he’d hoped to escape. He needed out.
That summer, back in Darien working at Tillman’s Bait & Tackle, he made a decision. Atlanta was calling—a real city, big and anonymous, where maybe Amanda could breathe without suffocating him. He’d heard stories of Atlanta’s skyline, its towering buildings like the ones he’d seen in pictures of New York, a place where people could disappear and be whoever they wanted. He applied to transfer to Georgia Tech, leveraging his solid freshman grades. When the acceptance letter arrived in August ’98, he felt a flicker of something—fear, yes, but also possibility, a new tide to ride. Mom was proud but worried, hugging him tight before he loaded up his beat-up ’89 Honda Civic and headed north, the marsh fading in his rearview as the tide turned.
Fall 1998, Connor stepped onto Georgia Tech’s campus in Midtown Atlanta, a sophomore again at nineteen. The city hit him like a wave—towering buildings, MARTA trains rattling by, people who didn’t care where you were from or what you did in high school. His dorm was a concrete tower, and his new roommate, a wiry computer science major named Vijay, barely looked up from his laptop long enough to say hi. It was perfect. No one knew him here, and the anonymity felt like armor, a chance to ride a new tide.
He stuck with engineering, diving into circuits and statics, but Atlanta’s pulse seeped into him. He walked past drag bars on Ponce de Leon Avenue, caught glimpses of queens in sequins and heels, their laughter echoing like the tide against the pier, and his heart skipped—not with shame, but recognition. Amanda stirred, louder now, a current he couldn’t ignore. One night in October, alone in his room while Vijay was at a hackathon, he pulled out the sundress. The fabric was worn, but it still fit, the yellow faded but warm, like the marsh at sunrise. In the cracked mirror propped against his desk, he saw her again, her eyes bright with possibility. It was tentative, shaky, but for the first time, he didn’t shove her away. Atlanta’s vastness offered a promise Statesboro never could: maybe here, he could figure out who Connor—and Amanda—really were, a tide he might finally learn to ride.
Chapter 4: The Shameful Release
Fall 1998 deepened in Atlanta, and Connor, now settled into his Georgia Tech dorm, wrestled with a storm he couldn’t outrun. The city buzzed around him—traffic humming, streetlights casting long shadows through his window—but inside, it was just him and the cracked mirror, the yellow sundress, and the weight of Amanda, a tide that kept rising no matter how hard he tried to hold it back. One night in late October, with Vijay gone for another all-night coding binge, the dorm was quiet, the air thick with the hum of possibility and dread. Connor locked the door, pulled the sundress from its hiding spot under a pile of textbooks, and slipped it on. The familiar thrill raced through him—his reflection softened, Amanda stared back, bold and alive, her presence as undeniable as the tide at full moon. His breath quickened, his hands trembled, and in the dim light, he gave in to the urge that had been building, a mix of longing and confusion. He masturbated, the act raw and urgent, Amanda’s presence fueling it, her image in the mirror a beacon he couldn’t look away from.
But as the rush faded, shame crashed in like a storm surge. His chest tightened, his face burned, and he ripped the dress off, stuffing it back into the box with shaking hands. “What the hell am I doing?” he muttered, voice cracking in the empty room. He paced, heart pounding, the preacher’s words from First Baptist echoing in his skull—sin, abomination, unnatural, the same sermon he’d heard at sixteen, the preacher’s voice booming as his mom nodded in the pew beside him. Amanda wasn’t just a secret anymore; she was a wound, a part of him he couldn’t reconcile with the Connor he was supposed to be. He slumped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling, disgust warring with the lingering ache of wanting her. He told himself it was wrong, that he was sick, that he could stop—but deep down, he knew she wasn’t gone, just buried again, a tide waiting to rise.
The next day, he doubled down on normalcy. He hit the library, buried himself in circuit diagrams, and avoided the mirror, its reflection a reminder of the night before. Classes kept him busy, and he started hanging out with a few guys from his engineering cohort—quiet types who didn’t ask much, just swapped notes and bitched about professors, their conversations a safe harbor from the storm inside him. He skipped the drag bars on Ponce, kept his eyes forward when he passed posters for queer events on campus, their bright colors a taunt he couldn’t face. But Amanda lingered, a ghost in his peripheral vision, her tide pulling at him. He’d catch himself tracing the hem of his jeans, imagining silk instead, and snap his hand away like it was burned, the memory of her in the mirror too vivid to erase. Nights were the worst—alone, he’d lie awake, torn between reaching for the box and torching it, the tide of her presence relentless.
By spring ’99, he was still at Tech, still fighting. Atlanta’s freedom taunted him—people lived louder here, unapologetic in ways Darien never allowed, their laughter echoing like the tide against the pier—but he wasn’t ready to join them. He dreamed of Amanda walking the streets of a city even bigger, maybe New York, a place where she could be free. But here, now, she was a fault line running through him, splitting Connor in two: the guy who was passing his midterms, cracking beers with classmates, and the one who dreamed of her, ashamed and afraid. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep her locked away—or if he even wanted to, the tide of her presence growing stronger with every passing day.
Chapter 5: The Girl Who Landed Him
Spring 1999 bloomed in Atlanta, and Connor, now halfway through his sophomore year at Georgia Tech, was coasting on fumes—engineering problem sets, late-night coffee runs, and the constant push-pull of Amanda locked away in that taped-up box. He was nineteen, leaner from stress and city walking, his brown hair a little longer, curling at the nape, a quiet rebellion against Darien’s expectations. He’d mastered the art of blending in again—cracking dry jokes with his study group, showing up to the occasional frat party even though he wasn’t in Sigma Nu anymore. But there was a restlessness in him, a fraying edge he couldn’t quite hide, a tide he couldn’t hold back forever.
That’s when Emily showed up. She was a junior, an industrial design major with sharp green eyes and a bob of dark hair that swung when she laughed. They met in a mixed elective—Intro to Materials Science—where she was the only one who didn’t groan at the professor’s puns. Connor was paired with her for a group project, analyzing tensile strength in metals, and she was relentless in a way that threw him off. “You’re quiet, but you’re smart,” she said after their first meeting, leaning across the lab table with a grin, a sketch of a chair doodled in her notebook. “I like that.” He flushed, mumbled something about stress calculations, and hoped she didn’t notice how his hands fidgeted, the tide of Amanda stirring beneath his calm exterior.
Emily pursued him with a casual confidence he’d never encountered. She was from Savannah, talked fast with a Lowcountry lilt, and had a way of making him feel seen without prying. She mentioned her cousin Mark once, a throwaway comment about how he’d moved to San Francisco after coming out, her tone light but proud, a hint of the progressive streak that ran through her family. She sat next to Connor in class, texted him dumb memes on his Nokia brick phone, dragged him to the Student Center for greasy pizza after late study sessions, her laughter a bright counterpoint to the city’s hum. “You’re kinda mysterious, Connor,” she teased one night over Cokes, her knee brushing his under the table, the air thick with the scent of spring rain. He laughed it off, but his pulse raced—partly because she was pretty, partly because he was terrified of what she might uncover, the tide of Amanda threatening to rise.
He resisted at first, keeping her at arm’s length like he’d always done. Dating was a minefield—Jennifer and Kelly back in high school had taught him that—but Emily was different. She didn’t wait for him to make the move. By April, she was the one who kissed him, bold and quick, outside the library after a rainstorm left the air muggy and electric, the city lights reflecting in puddles like a promise of something new. He froze, then kissed her back, clumsy but earnest, and something clicked. She was warm, real, a tether to the “normal” he’d been chasing, a way to hold back the tide. They were a couple by finals week—she called him her boyfriend with a laugh, and he didn’t correct her.
Summer ’99, they were inseparable. Emily stayed in Atlanta, interning at a design firm, and Connor picked up a part-time gig at a hardware store near campus. They spent humid nights on her apartment balcony, splitting cheap beer and talking about everything—her dreams of designing furniture, maybe in a city like New York one day, his vague plans for an engineering job. She was tactile, always touching him—fingers in his hair, hand on his arm—and he leaned into it, craving the anchor. With her, Amanda felt quieter, like a tide at low ebb, a radio turned down low. He didn’t pull the dress out, didn’t dare, and for a while, he convinced himself he’d won. Emily was his proof—he could be this guy, the boyfriend, the one who fit, the one who could ride the tide of normalcy without drowning.
But it wasn’t that simple. Late at night, when Emily was asleep beside him, her breathing soft against his shoulder, Amanda crept back, her tide rising in the quiet. He’d stare at the ceiling, her name a whisper in his skull, and the shame returned, sharper now. He loved Emily—or thought he did—but there was a piece of him she couldn’t touch, a door he’d bolted shut. She noticed his distance sometimes, the way he’d go quiet mid-conversation or flinch when she asked about his past, her green eyes narrowing with concern. “You okay?” she’d murmur, and he’d nod, force a smile, and change the subject. He’d landed her, sure, but he was still split—Connor on the surface, Amanda clawing underneath, a tide he couldn’t hold back forever, and the tension was starting to show.
Chapter 6: The Cracks Appear
Fall 1999 swept into Atlanta, and Connor’s junior year at Georgia Tech began with a deceptive calm. He was twenty now, settled into a rhythm with Emily that felt almost too good to question. They’d got a routine—study dates at the Clough Commons, weekends at her cramped apartment off North Avenue, where she cooked spaghetti and he fixed her leaky sink with hardware store know-how. She was still bold, still the one steering them forward, and he was grateful for it. With her, he had a role to play—boyfriend, engineering student, the guy who had it together—and it was a lifeline keeping Amanda at bay. The yellow sundress stayed buried, the box gathering dust under his dorm bed, and he told himself he was past it, that Emily was enough to fill the hollow, a dam against the tide of Amanda’s presence.
But cracks appeared by October, the tide seeping through. It started small—Emily was pushing for more closeness, not just physically but emotionally. “Tell me about Darien,” she said one night, sprawled on her couch with a sketchpad, pencil tapping her lip, a sketch of a chair taking shape under her hand. “What were you like as a kid?” He froze, the old panic flaring, the memory of Tanner’s sneer and the preacher’s voice crashing over him like a wave. “Not much to tell,” he muttered, flipping through a textbook he wasn’t reading. “Just a boring small-town kid.” She frowned, not buying it, her green eyes searching, but let it slide. It happened again a week later—she asked about his dad, why he’d never mentioned him, mentioning her own cousin Mark and how her family had rallied around him after he came out. Connor snapped, “He’s gone, okay? Drop it.” The edge in his voice surprised them both, and she backed off, hurt flickering in her eyes, the tide of his secrets rising between them.
Amanda was stirring, louder now, a tide he couldn’t outrun. It was the little things—passing a drag queen on Peachtree Street, her heels clicking with a confidence he envied, her laughter echoing like the tide against the pier, or catching a snatch of The Rocky Horror Picture Show on late-night TV at Emily’s place, the characters’ freedom a taunt he couldn’t ignore. His chest tightened, a mix of longing and dread, and he started slipping. One night in November, alone in his dorm while Emily was at a design critique, he pulled the box out. The dress was creased, the fabric faded, but it still fit, the yellow warm as the marsh at sunrise. He stood there, Amanda in the mirror, and the rush was back—electric, undeniable. He didn’t masturbate this time; he just stared, letting her exist for a moment before shame flooded in, the preacher’s voice booming in his skull. He shoved it all away, but the next morning, Emily caught the edge in his voice, the way he flinched when she touched him. “What’s wrong with you lately?” she asked, sharp now, and he snapped, “Nothing, just back off.” She stared, wounded, and left without a word, the tide of his secrets pulling them apart.
Days stretched into a cold silence. Emily didn’t call, didn’t show up, and Connor was torn between relief and panic, the tide of Amanda rising in the quiet. He buried himself in school, but Amanda was relentless—every quiet moment, she was there, demanding space, her presence as persistent as the tides he’d grown up with. One rainy night in March, alone again, he gave in. The dress went on, the bracelet too, and he stood in front of the mirror, letting her stay. No shame this time, just exhaustion and a question: Who am I if I keep her locked up? He still had Emily’s number scrawled on a Post-it, but he didn’t reach for it. The semester was unraveling, and so was he—caught between the girl who’d landed him and the one he couldn’t let go, the tide of Amanda rising, unstoppable.
Chapter 7: The Caught Moment
March 2000 dragged on in Atlanta, a wet, gray slog that mirrored the mess inside Connor. He was twenty, teetering on the edge of his junior year at Georgia Tech, and the silence with Emily had hardened into weeks. She hadn’t called, hadn’t texted his Nokia, hadn’t shown up with her sketchpad and that disarming grin. He missed her—her warmth, her steadiness, the way she’d anchored him against the tide of his own secrets—but the space she’d left let Amanda breathe louder than ever, a current he could no longer hold back. He’d stopped fighting it as hard. The dress came out more, late at night when Vijay was at the lab, and he’d started adding to her—lip gloss from a CVS run, its cherry scent sharp as the candies his mom used to buy him in Darien, a pair of clip-on earrings he told himself were just “for fun.” It was still secret, still shadowed with guilt, but it was also a release, a crack in the dam he’d held up for years, the tide of Amanda rising, unstoppable.
Then, one Thursday evening, it all shattered. It was past nine, rain tapping the dorm window like a restless drum, the air thick with the scent of wet pavement and the faint hum of the city beyond. Connor was alone—or so he thought. Vijay was out, the hall was quiet, and he’d locked the door, slipped into the yellow sundress, the Mary Janes, the gloss smudged on his lips, the taste of cherry a fleeting comfort. Amanda stared back from the cracked mirror, softer, surer, her reflection a beacon in the dim light, and for once, he let himself linger, swaying to a faint Radiohead track from his stereo, the mournful chords of “Exit Music (For a Film)” echoing the tide of emotions inside him. He didn’t hear the knock at first, didn’t register the key turning—Vijay had lent Emily a spare months ago, back when things were good, and Connor had never thought to ask for it back, never imagined the tide of his secrets would crash so suddenly.
The door swung open, and there she was—Emily, rain-damp hair sticking to her face, a bag of takeout in one hand, her mouth open to say something that died when she saw him. Time froze. Connor’s heart stopped, then slammed into overdrive, a storm surge of panic flooding his chest. She was staring at Amanda—him—and he was caught, raw and exposed, no mask to hide behind, the tide of his secret finally breaking free. “Connor?” she whispered, voice cracking, the takeout slipping to the floor with a dull thud, the scent of soy sauce mixing with the rain. He stumbled back, tripping over the Mary Janes, hands clawing at the dress like he could tear it off and rewind the moment, erase the tide that had swept him here. “Get out,” he choked, but it was weak, panicked, and she didn’t move.
Emily stepped in, shut the door, and locked it behind her, her eyes never leaving him, green and wide as the marsh at dawn. “What… what is this?” she asked, not angry yet, just lost, her voice a lifeline he didn’t deserve. He was shaking, shame and fear crashing over him like the waves at high tide, but there was nowhere to run, the tide of Amanda too strong to hold back now. “It’s nothing,” he lied, voice high and brittle, yanking the dress over his head and tossing it onto the bed, the yellow fabric crumpling like a shed skin. He was down to boxers and a T-shirt, Amanda stripped away, but Emily had already seen, the tide of his secret laid bare. She took a step closer, her eyes searching, the rain on her jacket dripping onto the floor. “That wasn’t nothing. That was—you. Wasn’t it?” Her tone was soft, almost gentle, and it cut deeper than yelling would, a knife through the guilt he’d carried since Darien.
He sank onto the bed, head in his hands, unable to look at her, the memory of a Sunday sermon flashing through his mind—the preacher’s voice booming, “The wages of sin is death,” his mom nodding beside him, her face etched with worry, while Tanner snickered in the pew behind, whispering “freak” under his breath. “I don’t know,” he muttered, the truth spilling out despite himself, a tide he couldn’t stop. “It’s… me, sometimes. I don’t know what it means.” Silence stretched, heavy as the humid air before a storm, and he braced for her to leave, to call him a freak, to end it for good, the tide of his fear threatening to drown him. But she sat beside him, close but not touching, the rain drumming outside, a steady rhythm that echoed his racing heart. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she said finally, hurt threading her words, a wound he’d inflicted with his silence. “I thought we were… I thought you trusted me.”
“I didn’t want you to hate me,” he admitted, barely audible, the weight of years—Darien, the preacher, the locker room taunts—pouring out like a tide he couldn’t hold back. He thought of Jake’s fist slamming into a locker, the word “fairy” sharp as a fishhook, the way he’d laughed along to hide his own fear, and wondered if Emily would see him the same way. She didn’t say anything for a long moment, then reached for his hand, tentative, her touch a lifeline against the storm inside him. “I don’t hate you,” she said, firm despite the tremor in her voice. “I’m mad that you hid this, yeah. But I don’t hate you.” He looked up, stunned, and she was there—confused, reeling, but not running, her presence a harbor against the tide of his shame.
The rain kept falling, a steady patter that filled the silence after Emily’s words—“I don’t hate you.” He was twenty, still trembling from the shock of being seen, the yellow sundress crumpled on the bed like a shed skin, its tiny white flowers a reminder of the attic where he’d first found Amanda. Emily’s hand was warm in his, grounding, but her presence felt fragile, like a thread that could snap if he moved wrong. She was still there, though, sitting beside him on the edge of the mattress, her damp jacket dripping onto the floor, her green eyes locked on him with a mix of confusion and something he couldn’t name—pity, maybe, or resolve, a resolve that made him think of a city far away, maybe New York, where people could be whoever they wanted, where Amanda might one day walk free.
“I don’t get it,” she said after a while, voice low, unsteady but deliberate. “Is this… a costume? A game? Or is it more?” She gestured at the dress, the Mary Janes kicked off in his panic, the lip gloss smudged on his nightstand, its cherry scent lingering in the air. Connor’s throat tightened. He’d never had to explain Amanda—not to himself, not out loud—and the words felt like jagged glass, a tide he couldn’t hold back any longer. “It’s not a game,” he managed, staring at his knees, the memory of the marsh at sunset flashing through his mind, Amanda walking the pier unafraid. “It’s… me. Sometimes. I don’t know how to say it right.” He risked a glance at her, expecting disgust, but her face was soft, furrowed, like she was piecing together a puzzle, her eyes searching for the truth he’d hidden for so long.
She nodded, slow, processing, the rain outside a steady rhythm against the silence. “How long?” she asked, and he shrugged, the weight of years pressing down, a tide that had been rising since Darien. “Since high school. Maybe before. It’s not all the time—just… when I can’t keep it in anymore.” His voice cracked, and he hated how small he sounded, but Emily didn’t flinch. She shifted closer, her knee brushing his, a quiet anchor against the storm inside him, and asked, “What’s her name?” It was so quiet he almost missed it, but when he did, his breath hitched, the tide of Amanda breaking free at last. “Amanda,” he whispered, the first time he’d said it to anyone, and it felt like a confession and a release all at once, a tide he could no longer fight.
Emily repeated it—“Amanda”—testing it, letting it hang between them, the name a bridge across the chasm of his secrecy. “Okay,” she said finally, exhaling, her breath a soft wave against the tension in the room. “Okay.” She didn’t push more, didn’t demand answers he didn’t have, and that alone kept him from breaking apart, the tide of his fear ebbing just enough to let him breathe. They sat there, the stereo long since gone silent, the rain a steady patter outside, until she stood, picking up the spilled takeout bag, the scent of soy sauce sharp in the air. “It’s cold now,” she muttered, half to herself, then looked at him, her green eyes steady despite the storm they’d just weathered. “I’m not leaving you like this. Let’s eat anyway.” It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet, but it was a lifeline, a harbor against the tide, and he clung to it, the name Amanda still echoing in his mind, a tide that had finally broken free
Chapter 7.5: Through Her Eyes
Emily stood frozen in the doorway of Connor’s dorm, the rain still dripping from her jacket onto the linoleum floor, the takeout bag heavy in her hand. The smell of lo mein mixed with the damp air, but all she could focus on was Connor—or the person standing in front of her, who was Connor but not. He was in a yellow sundress, the kind she might’ve worn to a summer picnic, with Mary Janes on his feet and a smudge of lip gloss on his lips. His broad shoulders stretched the fabric, but the way he stood—soft, almost graceful, swaying to the faint hum of Radiohead’s “Creep” from the stereo—made her breath catch. Then he’d seen her, and the spell broke. His face crumpled, panic flooding his eyes as he stumbled back, tripping over the shoes, hands clawing at the dress like he could erase what she’d seen.
“Connor?” she’d whispered, her voice cracking, the takeout slipping from her grip to the floor with a dull thud. Now, minutes later, she was inside, the door locked behind her, the rain tapping a steady rhythm against the window. Connor was on the bed, down to his boxers and T-shirt, the dress a crumpled heap beside him, his head in his hands. “What… what is this?” she’d asked, her voice trembling, not with anger but with a confusion so deep it felt like the ground had shifted beneath her.
She sat beside him now, close but not touching, her green eyes searching his face. He’d just admitted it—“It’s me, sometimes. I don’t know what it means”—and the words hung heavy between them, mingling with the patter of the rain and the faint static of the stereo, which had gone silent after the song ended. Emily’s mind raced, trying to piece together what she’d seen, what he’d said, with the Connor she thought she knew.
She’d grown up in Savannah, but her family had moved there from Connecticut when she was 10, carrying with them a progressive lens that often clashed with the South’s more rigid norms. Her parents were artists—her mom had marched for women’s rights in the ‘70s, her dad had a trans colleague at SCAD he’d always spoken of with respect. Emily had gone to a high school with a GSA, had friends who were out, had even attended a drag show in Savannah’s Starland District with her sister, Claire. She’d always thought of herself as open-minded, the kind of person who’d never judge. But this was different. This was Connor—the man she’d fallen for— the guy who’d charmed her with his Southern drawl and shy smile over late-night study sessions at Georgia Tech, the one who’d held her hand at the Fox Theatre during a Radiohead concert, whose shy smile could light up her darkest days. And now, he was telling her he was… someone else, too. Someone named Amanda.
Her mind raced, replaying the moment she’d walked in—Connor in that dress, swaying to “Creep,” a softness in his posture she’d never seen before. It hadn’t looked like a costume, not like a game. It had looked… right, somehow, like a piece of him she’d never been allowed to see. The thought made her chest ache, but it also stung. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she’d asked, the hurt in her voice raw, and his answer—“I didn’t want you to hate me”—had hit her like a punch. Hate him? She thought about her cousin Mark, who’d come out as gay at 16 and been kicked out by his parents. Her family had taken him in, given him a safe place, and she’d seen the shame in his eyes, the fear of rejection. Was that what Connor thought she’d do? Turn him away? The idea made her want to cry, but it also made her angry—not at him, but at the world that had made him so afraid.
“I don’t hate you,” she’d said, and she meant it, but the words felt small against the storm inside her. He looked up, his brown eyes wide, stunned, and she saw the fear there, the same fear she’d seen in Mark’s eyes all those years ago. It made her want to cry, but she held it together, for him. She tucked a strand of rain-damp hair behind her ear, her sketchpad still in her bag by the door—she’d planned to show him her latest drawings over dinner, a silly peace offering after weeks of silence. She’d been pulling away, overwhelmed by school and her own doubts about their relationship, but she’d missed him, wanted to fix things. Now, though, she wondered if she’d ever really known him at all.
She was mad—mad that he’d hidden this, mad that she hadn’t seen it, mad that she didn’t know what to do now. She’d always thought they were close, that he trusted her with everything, but this… this was a piece of him she’d never even glimpsed. She thought about her own secrets—the panic attacks she’d hidden in high school, the way she’d sometimes sketch until her hands bled just to quiet her mind. She’d never told Connor about those, not because she didn’t trust him, but because she was scared of being seen as weak. Maybe he felt the same way. Maybe this—whatever it was—was his way of being strong.
Connor was still in his boxers and T-shirt, his face buried in his hands, his shoulders trembling from the shock of being seen. “Amanda,” he’d whispered, the name a confession that hung heavy between them, and Emily felt the weight of it settle into her bones. She looked at him now, his head still in his hands, and felt a surge of protectiveness. She didn’t understand—not fully—but she knew she couldn’t walk away. Not tonight, not like this. This was Connor—her Connor—and he’d been hiding this… this part of himself, this her, for God knows how long.
“What’s her name?” she asked, the question slipping out before she could stop it. Connor’s breath hitched, and for a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he whispered, “Amanda,” so softly she almost missed it. The name settled between them, heavy with meaning. “Amanda,” she repeated, testing it, letting it sink in. It felt real, more real than the dress or the lip gloss. Amanda wasn’t a costume—this was part of him, part of the person she cared about.
“Okay,” she said finally, exhaling a shaky breath. “Okay.” She didn’t have all the answers—hell, she didn’t even know all the questions—but she knew she wasn’t walking away. Not tonight, not like this. She stood, picking up the spilled takeout bag, the lo mein cold and congealed. “It’s cold now,” she muttered, half to herself, then looked at him. “But I’m not leaving you like this. Let’s eat anyway.” She set the bag on his desk, her hands trembling slightly, and turned back to him. He was watching her, still wary, but there was a flicker of hope in his eyes, and it was enough to keep her there, sitting beside him, the rain falling outside as they started to navigate this new, fragile space.
“I don’t get it,” she admitted, her voice softer now, “but I want to. I just… I need time, okay? This is a lot.” Connor nodded, his hands dropping to his lap, his eyes red and searching hers. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and she shook her head, reaching for his hand again.
“Don’t be,” she said, her voice steadier. “Just… don’t hide anymore. Not from me.” She squeezed his hand, the rain outside a steady patter, and they sat there, the silence less heavy now, the first crack in the wall between them starting to show.
Chapter 8: Shadows and Sketches
The gray slog of March 2000 stretched into early April, Atlanta’s streets slick with rain that mirrored the uncertainty inside Connor. He was twenty, still raw from the night Emily caught him as Amanda, the yellow sundress a confession he couldn’t take back. They’d eaten the cold lo mein in near silence that night, the rain drumming outside, but Emily had stayed, her presence a fragile lifeline. “Don’t hide anymore,” she’d said, and the words echoed in his mind as the weeks passed, a challenge he wasn’t sure he could meet.
Emily was different now, watchful, her green eyes searching for something Connor wasn’t sure he could give. They fell back into a rhythm—coffee runs to the shop on Peachtree, movie nights at the old theater on Ponce—but there was a new edge, a space where Amanda lingered, unspoken but present. Connor was still scared, still split between the boy he’d always been and the girl he sometimes needed to be, but Emily’s willingness to stay, to try, gave him a flicker of hope. He’d stopped fighting Amanda as hard, letting her out late at night in his dorm when Vijay was at the lab, but the shame still clung to him, a shadow he couldn’t shake.
Emily, meanwhile, was wrestling with her own storm. She couldn’t stop picturing Connor in that dress, the way he’d stood in front of the mirror, a softness in his posture that had felt so… right. It wasn’t the dress itself that unsettled her—it was the realization that she’d missed this part of him, that he’d been carrying this alone. She thought about her cousin Mark, the way he’d flinched at loud voices for months after his parents kicked him out, and wondered if Connor had been living with that same fear. She’d always prided herself on being open-minded—her parents’ progressive values, her own experiences in Savannah’s art scene—but this was closer, more personal. Could she love this part of him, too? Could she love Amanda?
One rainy afternoon in late March, Emily invited Connor to her apartment, a small one-bedroom near campus with mismatched furniture and a turntable in the corner. She’d been thinking about Amanda all week, replaying that night in her mind, and she’d decided she needed to see more—not to judge, but to understand. “You can bring her, if you want,” she said over the phone, her voice careful but warm. “Amanda, I mean. If you’re up for it.” Connor hesitated, his heart pounding, but the sincerity in her tone gave him the courage to say yes.
He showed up with a backpack, the yellow sundress and Mary Janes tucked inside, his hands sweaty as he knocked on her door. Emily answered in a faded Tori Amos T-shirt and jeans, her sketchpad on the coffee table, a pot of coffee brewing in the kitchen. “Hey,” she said, offering a small smile, and he saw the effort in it, the way she was trying to make this okay. They sat on her couch for a while, sipping coffee, talking about nothing—her latest design project, his circuits exam—until she nodded toward his bag. “Do you want to…?” she asked, leaving the question open.
Connor swallowed, his throat tight, but he nodded. He changed in her bathroom, the dress slipping over his shoulders, the Mary Janes clicking softly on the tile. When he stepped out, Amanda staring back at him in the mirror, he felt exposed, raw, but Emily’s expression wasn’t what he’d feared. She didn’t laugh, didn’t recoil—she just watched, her green eyes soft, curious. “You look… different,” she said finally, her voice gentle. “Not bad different. Just… you, but more somehow.” She paused, then asked, “Does it feel good, being her?”
“Yeah,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Sometimes.” He sat on the couch, careful not to wrinkle the dress, and Emily picked up her sketchpad, her pencil moving across the page. “I’m not great with words,” she said, her eyes on the paper, “but I want to see you—all of you. If this is part of you, I want to know her.” She sketched in silence for a while, the rain tapping the window, and Connor felt a weight lift, just a little.
Emily’s pencil scratched against the paper, but her mind was elsewhere. She thought about her parents, how they’d always taught her to see people for who they were, not what the world expected them to be. She thought about Savannah, the whispers she’d heard growing up—about the drag queens on River Street, the way some folks in her church had called them “sinners.” She’d never bought into that, but this was different. This was Connor, and she was starting to see Amanda as part of him, not a separate entity. It scared her—how much this changed things, how much she didn’t know—but it also made her want to try harder. She didn’t want to be the person who turned away, not when he’d been so afraid of losing her.
Over the next few weeks, Connor started letting Amanda out more, testing the waters in Emily’s apartment. Never in public—that was still too terrifying—but in the safety of her space, where she’d sit sketching while he tried on a skirt or the clip-on earrings, her presence a quiet permission. She asked questions sometimes, gentle ones: “Does she have a favorite color?” or “What do you feel when you’re her?” He fumbled answers—“Maybe blue” or “I don’t know, lighter, I guess”—and she listened, didn’t judge, though there were moments where she went quiet, processing. She was still hurt, still grappling with the fact that he’d hidden this, but she was also starting to see the beauty in it, the way Amanda brought out a side of Connor she’d never known.
One night in early April, as they sat on her couch watching a movie, Emily turned to him, her voice soft but firm. “I’m still figuring this out,” she admitted, her hand resting on his. “But I want you to know I’m trying. I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide—not from me.” Connor nodded, his throat tight, and for the first time, he felt like Amanda might not be a secret he had to bury. It wasn’t perfect—there was still tension, still fear—but Emily was there, holding space for both Connor and Amanda, and that was enough to keep him going.
Chapter 9: The Dam Breaks
April 2000 settled over Atlanta with a humid weight, the city’s air thick with the promise of spring, but for Connor, the warmth brought no relief. He was twenty, his junior year at Georgia Tech winding down, finals a looming shadow, but the real pressure came from within. The weeks since Emily caught him as Amanda had settled into something tentative, fragile, and new. They were still together—coffee runs to Peachtree, late-night talks in her apartment—but there was a shift, an unspoken agreement to navigate this uncharted space. Emily had been patient, giving him room to breathe, but she’d also been watching, waiting for him to take the next step. Amanda was no longer a secret, but she was still a ghost, hovering at the edges of their days, and Connor could feel the weight of her growing heavier.
Emily was trying—harder than she’d expected to. She’d invited Amanda into her apartment, sketched her while Connor sat in the yellow sundress, asked questions to understand. But the hurt lingered, a quiet ache she couldn’t shake. She’d thought she knew Connor, thought they were close, but this… this was a piece of him she’d never even glimpsed. She thought about her cousin Mark, the way he’d lived in fear of rejection, and wondered if Connor had been carrying that same burden. She didn’t want to be the person who made him feel that way, but she also didn’t know how to be with Amanda, how to love this part of him without losing the Connor she’d fallen for. It scared her—how much this changed things, how much she still had to learn—but she was determined to try, for him, for them.
It happened on a Saturday night, late, in Emily’s cramped living room. The windows were open, a warm breeze rustling her curtains, and The Smashing Pumpkins hummed softly from her stereo, “1979” filling the space with a nostalgic ache. Emily was sprawled on the couch, sketching a chair design for a class project, while Connor sat cross-legged on the floor, the yellow sundress on, Amanda’s bracelet glinting on his wrist—a small silver chain he’d bought at a thrift store, a quiet addition to her. He’d been quieter than usual, the air thick with something unsaid, and Emily noticed. “You okay?” she asked, her pencil pausing, her green eyes flicking to him.
He nodded, automatic, but his hands trembled, and Emily set her sketchpad down, sitting up. “Connor, talk to me,” she said, her voice soft but firm, and that was all it took. The dam broke. “I can’t do this anymore,” he choked out, his voice raw, and the tears came fast, hot, spilling down his cheeks. He pulled his knees to his chest, the dress bunching, and it all poured out—a flood of confession, shame, and fear he’d held back since Darien. “I’ve been her—Amanda—since I was a kid, sneaking into Mom’s stuff, hiding it, hating myself for it. I’d put it on and feel… right, for once, but then I’d hear the preacher, see the guys at school, and I’d want to die for even thinking it.”
His words tumbled, jagged, coated in sobs. “I thought I could bury her, be normal, be what everyone wanted—Mom, the town, you—but she’s me, Emily, and I’m so scared she’s all I’ll ever be.” The shame was a tidal wave—years of sermons calling him damned, locker room laughs he’d dodged, the terror of being found out. “I didn’t want you to know,” he gasped, “because you’d see this—this freak—and I’d lose you. I’ve been running from her my whole life, and I’m so tired.” His hands clawed at his face, wiping at tears that wouldn’t stop, and he was bare, every wall down, Amanda and Connor spilling together in a mess he couldn’t untangle.
Emily was off the couch in an instant, kneeling beside him, her hands hovering before settling on his shoulders. “Hey, hey, look at me,” she said, firm but soft, pulling his hands down. His eyes met hers, blurry and red, and she was crying too—not as hard, but enough to show she was in this with him. “You’re not a freak,” she said, her voice fierce. “You’re Connor, and you’re Amanda, and I’m not losing you over this. I’m scared too—I don’t know what it all means—but I’m here, okay? You don’t have to run anymore.”
Her words broke something in her, too. She’d been holding back her own fears, trying to be strong for him, but seeing him like this—so raw, so broken—made her realize how much she cared, how much she wanted to understand. She thought about her parents, how they’d taught her to see people for who they were, and she knew she couldn’t walk away, not from him, not from Amanda. She didn’t have all the answers, but she had this moment, and she wasn’t going to let him face it alone.
Connor collapsed into her, sobbing into her shoulder, and she held him tight, her fingers in his hair, letting him break. The fear was still there, sharp and cold—Darien’s judgment, the world beyond her apartment—but it was shared now, lighter for it. They stayed like that, tangled on the floor, until the tears slowed and the night quieted. Emily didn’t fix it, didn’t have answers, but she stayed, and for Connor, it was enough to start breathing again.
Chapter 10: The Shared Truth
The air in Emily’s apartment hung heavy after Connor’s flood of confession, the late April night pressing in through the open windows. He was still on the floor, the yellow sundress damp with tears, his face streaked and raw as he clung to her embrace. Emily’s arms were steady around him, her own cheeks wet, but she pulled back gently, keeping her hands on his shoulders. The stereo had gone quiet, leaving only the hum of crickets and distant traffic. She took a shaky breath, her green eyes locked on his, and the conversation shifted—she needed him to hear her now.
“Okay,” she started, her voice low, unsteady but deliberate. “You’ve been carrying this forever, and I get why you hid it. I do. But I need to tell you how I feel, because this—” she gestured at the space between them, at the dress, at the weight of the moment—“this is a lot, Connor.” He tensed, bracing for rejection, but she squeezed his shoulders, grounding him. “I’m not mad you’re… Amanda. I’m not. It’s not about that. It’s that you didn’t trust me with her. All this time, I’ve been falling for you—you—and you’ve been holding this huge piece back. That hurts.”
Her words stung, and he dropped his gaze, shame flickering anew, but she tilted his chin up, insistent. “Listen,” she said. “I’ve known something was off since last year—those walls you put up, the way you’d shut down. I thought maybe it was your dad leaving, or Darien, or just… I don’t know, guy stuff. But this? This is bigger, and I wish you’d let me in sooner. I feel stupid, like I missed it, like I wasn’t enough for you to lean on.” Her voice cracked, and she swiped at her eyes, frustrated. “I’m trying to understand, but it’s hard when I’ve been loving someone who’s only half here.”
Emily’s chest tightened as she spoke, the hurt she’d been holding back spilling out. She thought about the sketches she’d done of Amanda, the way Connor had looked in that dress—alive, more than she’d ever seen him. It had scared her at first, but it also made her want to know more, to see more. She thought about her cousin Mark, how her family had given him a safe place, and knew she wanted to do the same for Connor. She wasn’t there yet—not fully—but she was starting to see Amanda as part of him, not a threat to what they had. It was a slow shift, one she was still navigating, but she was committed to trying.
Connor’s chest tightened, guilt mixing with the fear still churning inside. “I didn’t want to lose you,” he whispered, echoing his earlier confession. “I thought you’d run if you knew.” Emily shook her head, a small, sad smile tugging at her lips. “I’m still here, aren’t I? But I’m scared too, Connor. I don’t know what this means—for us, for you. I don’t know how to be with Amanda, or if you even want me to be. I’m not walking away, but I’m… I’m figuring this out, same as you.”
She shifted, sitting cross-legged in front of him, her hands sliding down to his. “I like you—both of you, I think,” she admitted, softer now. “When I saw you that night, in the dress, it was a shock, yeah, but you looked… alive. More than I’ve ever seen you. That matters to me. I just need you to stop hiding. If Amanda’s you, then I want to know her too—not just the Connor who’s trying to be what he thinks I want.” Her fingers tightened around his. “Can you do that? Be real with me?”
He nodded, slow, tears welling again but quieter this time. “I’ll try,” he said, his voice rough. “I don’t know how, but I’ll try.” Emily exhaled, relief and uncertainty tangled in her breath. “Good,” she murmured, then leaned forward, resting her forehead against his. “We’re a mess, huh?” He laughed, a broken little sound, and for the first time that night, it felt like they might survive this—together, somehow, one shaky step at a time.
May 2000 crept into Atlanta, the air thick with spring heat and the buzz of finals winding down at Georgia Tech. Connor was twenty, out of classes for the summer, and splitting his days between a part-time gig at the hardware store and Emily’s apartment, where Amanda had been blooming. The weeks since his tear-soaked confession in late April had settled into a fragile rhythm—coffee runs, late-night talks, and quiet evenings where Amanda emerged in the safety of Emily’s space. The yellow sundress, the Mary Janes, the clip-on earrings—they’d become a ritual, a bridge Connor crossed with Emily’s steady encouragement. The shame that had once roared in his chest was quieter now, drowned out by her unwavering “You’re enough,” a mantra she’d whispered after that night on her living room floor, when he’d broken open and she’d held him together.
Emily, too, had been changing. She’d spent the past two months grappling with Amanda’s presence, wrestling with the hurt of Connor’s secrecy and her own uncertainty about what it meant for them. She’d thought she knew him—her boyfriend, the shy Southern boy who’d charmed her at a Georgia Tech party, who’d held her hand at the Fox Theatre during a Radiohead concert—but Amanda had revealed a side of him she’d never glimpsed. It had scared her at first, the way it shifted everything she thought she understood, but it had also drawn her closer. She’d seen Connor light up in that dress, a softness in his posture that felt so… right, and it had made her want to know more, to understand this part of him she’d been excluded from. She thought about her cousin Mark, who’d come out as gay and been kicked out by his parents, and how her family had given him a safe place. She wanted to do the same for Connor, even if it meant navigating her own fears along the way.
One humid Friday evening, they were holed up in her place again, the windows open to a faint breeze that did little to cut the heat. Connor was in his usual jeans and T-shirt, sprawled on her couch with a Coke, while Emily sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a thrift-store makeup book she’d snagged for a dollar. She’d been dropping hints all week—casual mentions of mascara, a comment about his cheekbones—and now she looked up, green eyes glinting with mischief. “Hey,” she said, tapping the book, “I’ve got an idea.”
Connor knew that tone, and his guard went up. “What kind of idea?” he asked, setting the Coke down, wary. She grinned, scooting closer, the book open to a page of bold eyeshadow looks. “Let me make you up—fully. Not just the gloss and earrings. The whole thing. Amanda deserves it, don’t you think?” His stomach flipped, a mix of dread and curiosity sparking. “Makeup?” he echoed, voice tight. “Like… what, lipstick and stuff?”
“More than that,” she said, undeterred, hopping up to grab a small zippered pouch from her desk. She dumped it out on the coffee table—tubes and compacts clattered, a mess of drugstore finds: foundation, blush, eyeliner, a palette of shimmery shadows. “I’ve got everything. I used to play with this stuff all the time in high school. Come on, let me do it. It’ll be fun.” He hesitated, glancing from the pile to her eager face. “I don’t know, Em. That’s… a lot. What if I look stupid?”
“You won’t,” she insisted, kneeling in front of him, her hands on his knees. “You’ll look like Amanda—just more her. I’ve seen how you light up in that dress. This is the next step. Trust me, okay?” Her voice softened, coaxing. “I want to see her—all of her. And I think you do too.” Emily’s heart raced as she spoke, a mix of excitement and nerves bubbling up. She’d been thinking about this for days, ever since she’d sketched Amanda in that dress, ever since Connor’s confession had laid him bare. She wanted to help him take this step, to see Amanda fully realized—not just for him, but for herself, too. She needed to know if she could love this part of him, if she could bridge the gap between the Connor she’d fallen for and the Amanda she was just beginning to understand.
It was the last part that hooked him—the quiet truth he couldn’t deny. He’d been inching toward Amanda, but this felt like a leap, and Emily’s certainty was the push he needed. “Fine,” he muttered, cheeks burning. “But if it’s awful, you’re wiping it off.”
“Deal,” she said, beaming, already pulling him to the bathroom where the light was better. She sat him on the edge of the tub, the dress swapped on first—he’d gotten quicker at changing—and started with foundation, her fingers cool against his skin. “Close your eyes,” she murmured, brushing shadow across his lids, a soft taupe that deepened to plum. He flinched at the eyeliner, liquid and sharp, but she steadied him with a “Hold still,” her breath close. Mascara next, then blush, a dusting of pink that made her hum approvingly. She saved lipstick for last—a deep rose she swiped from her own stash—painting it on with a precision that made his heart race.
As she worked, Emily’s mind wandered. She thought about that first night, the shock of seeing him in the dress, the hurt of his secrecy. She’d been so afraid then—of losing him, of not knowing how to be with Amanda—but now, as she brushed blush across his cheeks, she felt a quiet awe. He was letting her in, trusting her with this, and it made her want to try harder, to be the safe place he needed. She still had doubts—could she really do this, be with both Connor and Amanda?—but seeing him like this, vulnerable and brave, made her believe they could figure it out together.
When she was done, she stepped back, hands clasped, and said, “Okay, look.” Connor turned to the mirror, and Amanda stared back—not just a hint, but her, fully formed. His eyes were huge, framed in black and shimmer; his cheeks glowed, lips full and bold. The dress fit into it all, and for once, he didn’t see Connor pretending—he saw her, real and alive. Tears pricked, but he blinked them back, stunned. “Holy shit,” he breathed, and Emily laughed, soft and triumphant.
“Told you,” she said, resting her chin on his shoulder, meeting his eyes in the reflection. “She’s gorgeous. You’re gorgeous.” Her voice caught slightly, a mix of pride and emotion she hadn’t expected. She thought about her parents, how they’d taught her to see people for who they were, and felt a surge of gratitude for Connor’s courage. She wasn’t there yet—not fully—but this moment, seeing Amanda so clearly, made her believe she could get there.
Connor didn’t argue, just sat there, letting it sink in, Amanda no longer a fragment but a presence Emily had brought to life. She grabbed her Polaroid, snapped a shot before he could protest, and handed it to him as it developed—a keepsake, a proof. “Keep going,” she whispered, her voice thick with meaning, and he nodded, shaky but sure, the makeup a door he’d finally walked through. Emily watched him, her heart swelling with a mix of love and uncertainty, knowing this was just one step in a longer journey—but one they were taking together.
Chapter 12: The Strut of Confidence
June 2000 settled over Atlanta, the heat rising with the sun, turning the city into a shimmering haze. Connor was twenty, out of classes for the summer, and splitting his days between a part-time gig at the hardware store and Emily’s apartment, where Amanda had been blooming. The makeup session in May had shifted something—Emily’s Polaroid, Amanda in full color, sat tucked in his wallet, a secret talisman he touched when doubt crept in. With Emily’s steady push, he’d let Amanda out more—nights in her living room, the dress and makeup a ritual they’d refined. He was still cautious, still split, but the shame was quieter, drowned out by Emily’s unwavering “You’re enough,” a promise she’d made after his tear-soaked confession, one she’d kept through every shaky step since.
Emily felt the change, too. She’d spent the past few months navigating Amanda’s presence, wrestling with the hurt of Connor’s secrecy and her own uncertainty about what it meant for them. But seeing him in that dress, watching him light up during the makeup session, had started to shift something in her. She’d thought she knew Connor—the shy Southern boy who’d charmed her at a Georgia Tech party, who’d held her hand at the Fox Theatre—but Amanda had revealed a side of him she’d never glimpsed. It had scared her at first, the way it changed everything, but it had also made her want to know more. She thought about her cousin Mark, how her family had given him a safe place after he came out, and knew she wanted to do the same for Connor. She wasn’t there yet—not fully—but every moment with Amanda brought her closer, made her see Connor more clearly, more wholly.
One muggy Saturday afternoon, they were sprawled in her place, fans whirring against the stickiness. Emily was in a sundress of her own, flipping through a thrift-store haul—scarves, a pair of heels, a gauzy blouse—while Connor lounged in jeans, sipping iced tea. She held up the heels, black and strappy, a size too big for her. “These’d look killer on Amanda,” she said, casual but pointed, her grin daring him. Connor froze, glass halfway to his lips. “You serious?” he asked, though her ideas didn’t surprise him anymore. She nodded, tossing them his way. “Try ‘em. We’ve got time.”
Emily watched his hesitation, her heart giving a small twist. She knew what he was feeling—the old fears, the whispers from his past in Darien—but she also knew how far he’d come. She thought about that first night, the shock of seeing him in the yellow sundress, the hurt of his secrecy. She’d been so afraid then, but now, as she looked at him, she felt a surge of pride. He was trying, letting her in, and she wanted to keep pushing him past those fears, to help him see Amanda the way she was starting to—bold, beautiful, real.
He hesitated, the old reflex kicking in—Darien’s whispers, the fear of going too far—but Emily was already digging out the makeup pouch, her energy infectious. “Come on,” she coaxed, “let’s do the whole thing again. Dress, face, heels. I want to see her strut.” It was the “strut” that got him, a challenge wrapped in play, and he caved, grabbing the sundress from his backpack. In her bedroom, he changed, the routine smoother now—dress, Mary Janes swapped for the new heels, wobbly but thrilling. Emily took over with the makeup, her hands deft from practice: foundation, shadow, liner, that rose lipstick he’d started to love. She added a scarf this time, tying it loose around his neck, stepping back with a whistle. “Damn, Amanda,” she said, “you’re a knockout.”
Connor stood, teetering in the heels, and caught himself in her full-length mirror. Amanda was there, taller, bolder, the scarf a flourish he didn’t know he needed. His breath caught—not shame, but awe—and Emily was behind him, hands on his hips. “Walk,” she urged, nudging him toward the living room. He did, clumsy at first, the heels clicking unevenly on the hardwood, but she cheered him on, “There you go, work it!” He laughed, a real one, and found a rhythm, swaying past her couch, feeling Amanda settle into his bones.
Emily watched him, her chest swelling with a mix of joy and wonder. She thought about her parents, how they’d taught her to see people for who they were, and felt a quiet gratitude for Connor’s courage. She still had moments of doubt—could she really do this, be with both Connor and Amanda?—but seeing him like this, laughing and swaying in those heels, made her believe they could. She was starting to love this part of him, too, the way Amanda brought out a lightness in him she’d never seen before.
They spent the afternoon like that—her playing DJ with her CD stack, spinning Tori Amos and Garbage, him pacing the room, heels steadier with each lap. She joined in, barefoot, twirling him until they were dizzy, collapsing in a heap on the rug. “You’re getting good at this,” she panted, grinning, and he nodded, winded but alive. “You’re insane,” he said, but it was gratitude, not complaint. She was pushing him past fear, past the boy who hid in Darien’s shadows, and he was letting her.
Later, as dusk painted the sky orange, they sat on her balcony, Amanda still out—heels off, makeup smudged, but there. Emily leaned against him, quiet now, her mind turning over the day. She thought about how far they’d come since that first night, how much she’d learned about him—about herself. “You’re happier like this,” she murmured, not a question, her voice soft with realization. He didn’t answer right away, just watched the city glow, feeling the truth of it. “Yeah,” he said finally, soft. “I think I am.” She squeezed his hand, and they stayed there, the summer night wrapping around them, Amanda no longer a guest but a part of the story they were writing together.
Chapter 13: The Night of Surrender
The June 2000 dusk deepened over Atlanta, the balcony air cooling as the city lights flickered on below. Connor—still Amanda, in the sundress, scarf loose, makeup smudged from their afternoon of laughter and heels—leaned into Emily, her warmth a steady anchor. They’d been out there a while, the quiet settling after their dizzy dance, Garbage still faintly looping from the living room stereo. Emily’s hand rested in his, her thumb tracing lazy circles, and there was a shift in her—a spark that had been building all day, now crackling to life.
Emily felt it, too, a heat rising in her chest as she watched the city glow, Connor beside her as Amanda. She thought about the past few months—the shock of that first night, the hurt of his secrecy, the slow steps they’d taken since. She’d been afraid then, unsure if she could love this part of him, but today, seeing him strut in those heels, laughing and alive, had changed something. Amanda wasn’t a separate entity, not anymore—she was Connor, a part of him she’d come to love just as fiercely. The realization hit her like a wave, and with it came a desire she couldn’t ignore, a need to show him just how much she accepted him, all of him.
She turned to him, green eyes catching the last of the light, and there was something new there, something hungry. “Come inside,” she said, voice low, tugging his hand. He followed, heart kicking up, the heels left behind as she led him through the living room, past the scattered thrift finds, straight to her bedroom. The door clicked shut, and before he could ask, she was on him—hands framing his face, lips crashing into his with a heat that was different from their usual kisses. It wasn’t Connor she was kissing, not entirely; it was Amanda, and he felt it in the way she pressed closer, urgent, claiming.
“Em—” he started, breathless, but she shushed him, fingers sliding to the dress’s straps, easing them down. “Let me,” she whispered, and there was no room for doubt, only want. He nodded, shaky, and she took over, peeling the dress off slow, deliberate, letting it pool on the floor. His skin prickled under her gaze—boxers and bare, Amanda still clinging in the makeup, the scarf dangling—and she stepped back, stripping her own sundress with a grin that was half-tease, half-promise. “You’re mine tonight,” she said, and it wasn’t a question.
Emily’s heart raced as she looked at him, a mix of love and desire flooding her. She thought about her cousin Mark, how her family had given him a safe place, and knew this was her way of doing the same—loving Connor, loving Amanda, without reservation. She’d been afraid once, unsure if she could bridge the gap, but now, as she pulled him to the bed, she felt only certainty. This was Connor, this was Amanda, and she wanted them both, fully, completely.
She pulled him to the bed, her hands everywhere—his shoulders, his chest, tracing the lines of a body she knew but felt new under Amanda’s shadow. He was nervous, exposed, but her touch was sure, guiding him down, her mouth following where her fingers led. It was messy, raw—her way with him was all heat and instinct, no script, just the two of them tangled in sheets that smelled of her lavender shampoo. She was in charge, and he let her, surrendering to the rhythm she set, Amanda alive in every gasp, every shudder. It wasn’t about shame or fear; it was about her seeing him—her—and wanting it all.
After, they lay there, sweat-slick and spent, her head on his chest, the city humming beyond the walls. The makeup was smeared, the scarf lost somewhere in the tangle, but Amanda was still there, softer now, held in Emily’s quiet breathing. “You okay?” she murmured, tracing a lazy line on his skin. He nodded, voice gone, feeling the weight lift—not gone, but shared. She’d had her way, and he was still whole, maybe more than before.
Emily lifted her head, looking at him, her green eyes soft in the dim light. She thought about that first night, the fear and confusion, and how far they’d come. She’d been unsure then, but now, lying here with him—with Amanda—she felt a quiet certainty. She loved him, all of him, and this moment had sealed it. “I’m with you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, “both of you.” It was a promise, one she knew she’d keep, even as they faced whatever came next—New York, the world beyond her apartment, a future they’d build together. The night stretched on, and they didn’t move, wrapped in the afterglow of something neither could name yet, but both knew was real.
Chapter 14: The Road to New York
Summer 2000 faded into a transformative year for Connor and Emily, their bond deepening through the heat and haze of Atlanta. After that June night—Emily taking Amanda to bed, her whispered promise of “I’m with you, both of you”—the lines between Connor and Amanda blurred more, not into confusion but clarity. Emily’s unrelenting acceptance became a catalyst; Amanda wasn’t just a bedroom secret anymore. Through fall 2000, Connor’s senior year at Georgia Tech, they experimented—weekends at thrift stores picking out skirts and blouses, Emily teaching him to blend eyeshadow, nights where Amanda danced to Fiona Apple in her apartment while Connor’s engineering textbooks gathered dust. It wasn’t always smooth; he still flinched at his own reflection sometimes, Darien’s ghosts whispering, but Emily was there, steady, pulling him forward.
Emily felt the shift, too, a quiet joy growing in her as she watched Amanda bloom. She’d spent months grappling with Connor’s secret, wrestling with her own fears, but that night in June had sealed her acceptance. Amanda wasn’t a separate entity—she was Connor, a part of him she’d come to love just as fiercely. She thought about her cousin Mark, how her family had given him a safe place, and knew she was doing the same for Connor, creating a space where he could be both. It wasn’t always easy—there were moments when she wondered what it meant for their future, how far this would go—but seeing him dance in her living room, a skirt flaring as he spun, made her believe they could figure it out together.
By spring 2001, Connor was twenty-one, nearing graduation, and Amanda was a quiet constant. He wasn’t out—not to Vijay, not to his cohort—but with Emily, he was free. They were a unit now, her design projects and his circuits overlapping in late-night talks about the future. She’d graduated a semester early, in December 2000, her degree from a ticket to new possibilities. By March 2001, she landed a job offer—an assistant role at a small industrial design firm in New York City, starting post-graduation. It was a dream for her—big city, big opportunities—and she was buzzing, showing Connor sketches of furniture she’d pitch, imagining lofts and subway rides. But it was a jolt for him; New York wasn’t Atlanta, not a safe bubble. He still had finals, a degree to clinch, and no plan beyond May.
Emily felt the jolt, too, a mix of excitement and fear as she thought about leaving Atlanta. She’d always dreamed of New York—the galleries, the design scene, the chance to make her mark—but now, her dreams included Connor, included Amanda. She imagined them there together, walking through Greenwich Village, Amanda in a skirt she’d picked out, no one batting an eye. It scared her a little, the idea of him being more open, more public, but it also thrilled her. She wanted that for him, for them—a place where he could figure out who he was, where they could build a life without the shadows of Darien.
Graduation loomed, May 2001, and Connor walked the stage at Tech, B.S. in Mechanical Engineering in hand, cap tassel swinging. Mom was there, proud and teary, oblivious to Amanda; Jake and Tanner sent a raucous “Congrats, bro!” from the stands. Emily was in the crowd too, her own degree framed back at her place, her move to New York set for July. After the ceremony, they were at her apartment, splitting a cheap bottle of wine, and she laid it out. “Come with me,” she said, direct, her hand on his. “New York’s huge—nobody cares who you are, what you wear. You could figure out Amanda there, maybe even… I don’t know, be her more. And us—we’d be together.”
Emily’s heart raced as she spoke, a mix of hope and nerves. She thought about that first night, the shock of seeing him in the yellow sundress, and how far they’d come. She’d been afraid then, unsure if she could love this part of him, but now, she couldn’t imagine their future without Amanda. New York felt like the perfect place for them—a fresh start, a city where they could be whoever they wanted. She just hoped he’d see it the same way.
Connor was floored, torn. The hardware store had offered him a full-time gig, safe and local, but it was a tether to the old Connor—Darien’s shadow, Mom’s expectations. Engineering jobs were an option too; he had interviews lined up in Atlanta, steady pay, a life he could map out. But New York was a wild card—Emily, Amanda, a chance to break free. “What would I do there?” he asked, voice rough. “I’m not ready to… you know, be her all the time.” She shrugged, practical. “Get a job—engineering, whatever. Start small. We’ll figure it out. I just know I don’t want to leave you behind.”
Summer 2001 was a wrestle. Connor worked the hardware store, mulling, while Emily prepped—subletting her place, packing her sketches. He tried Amanda in public once, late June, just a skirt and mascara at a quiet Midtown café with Emily. No one stared, but his pulse raced, fear and thrill colliding. It was a taste of what New York could be—anonymous, open—and it hooked him. Emily watched him that day, her chest swelling with pride. She thought about her parents, how they’d taught her to see people for who they were, and felt a quiet gratitude for Connor’s courage. She knew he was scared, but she also knew he was ready—more than he realized.
By July, Mom was asking why he was distracted, and he dodged, guilt gnawing. Emily’s lease ended; she was set to drive north with a U-Haul, and he had a week to decide. The night before she left, July 20, 2001, he was at her near-empty apartment, Amanda’s things—dress, heels, makeup—packed in his duffel, not hers. “I’m coming,” he said, abrupt, heart pounding. “Not tomorrow, but soon. I’ll find a job, save up, meet you there by September.” Her face lit up, relief and joy, and she kissed him hard, Amanda’s lipstick still faint on his lips from earlier. “September,” she said, firm. “Be there by September 1.” He nodded, a pact sealed.
Emily drove off, her heart lighter than it had been in weeks. She thought about New York, about the life they’d build there—her at the design firm, him finding his place, Amanda maybe walking the streets with her one day. It wouldn’t be easy, but she knew they could do it together. She’d accepted him, all of him, and now she wanted the world to see what she saw—a man brave enough to be himself, a woman brave enough to exist.
Connor spent August in Atlanta, temping at an engineering firm, socking away cash. Mom thought he was chasing a career; he let her. September 1, 2001, he was on a Greyhound, duffel stuffed with Connor’s flannels and Amanda’s wardrobe, bound for New York. Emily was waiting at Port Authority, green eyes bright, and when he stepped off, she pulled him into a hug that felt like home. He wasn’t sure who he’d be here—Connor, Amanda, both—but with her, he was ready to find out.
Chapter 15: The Village Night
Connor stepped off the Greyhound at Port Authority on the evening of September 1, 2001, the chaos of the terminal—honking taxis, shouting vendors—hitting him like a wave. Emily was there, green eyes shining under the fluorescent lights, and she threw her arms around him, her laugh cutting through the noise. “You’re early,” she said, kissing him quick, and he shrugged, grinning, “Couldn’t wait.” She was subletting a shoebox in the East Village—peeling paint, fifth-floor walk-up—but it was theirs for now. He crashed on her futon, jet-lagged from nerves, Amanda’s things still zipped up in his duffel, waiting.
Emily felt a surge of relief as she held him, the weight of the past month—waiting, wondering if he’d really come—lifting off her shoulders. She’d spent the drive to New York imagining this moment, picturing them together in the city she’d dreamed of, a place where Connor could be whoever he wanted, where Amanda could breathe freely. She thought about that June night in Atlanta, the way she’d kissed Amanda, claimed her, and knew this was the next step. New York was their chance, and she was determined to make it work.
The next few days were a whirlwind. New York was a beast—louder, faster than Atlanta, subway rumbles shaking Connor awake in their tiny sublet. Emily was at her design firm by day, sketching furniture for a trendy startup, leaving Connor to adjust. He wandered, dazed—Times Square’s lights blinding, Central Park’s greenery a shock after endless concrete. Job hunting was brutal; he pounded pavement with résumés, hitting engineering firms and temp agencies, but it was slow—interviews scheduled, no offers yet. Amanda stayed packed away; the city was too raw, too public, and he wasn’t ready. Emily saw it, the way he’d glance at his duffel and then look away, and didn’t push, just stocked the fridge with bodega finds and kept him sane.
By Saturday, September 8, Connor was restless, the city sinking into his bones. Emily had been watching him all week, seeing the tension in his shoulders, the way he’d fidget when they passed eclectic crowds in the Village on their walks home. She knew he was ready, even if he didn’t, and she’d been waiting for the right moment. That afternoon, she pulled him off the futon, her voice firm but warm. “We’re going out,” she declared. “Greenwich Village. You, as Amanda. It’s time.” His stomach lurched—out, as her, in New York?—but her grin was unyielding. “It’s the Village,” she said, “no one cares. You’ll blend right in.”
Emily’s heart raced as she spoke, a mix of excitement and nerves bubbling up. She thought about her hopes from back in Atlanta, how she’d imagined New York as a place where Connor could “be her more,” where Amanda could walk the streets without fear. She’d seen him take steps—dancing in her apartment, strutting in heels, that quiet moment in the Midtown café—but this was different, bigger. She wanted this for him, wanted him to feel the freedom she’d felt when she first arrived in the city, but she also felt a flicker of worry. What if it was too much, too soon? Still, she trusted the Village, trusted New York, and most of all, trusted them.
Connor protested, half-hearted—“What if someone sees?”—but she was already digging out the sundress, the heels, her makeup pouch. “They won’t know you from anyone,” she insisted. “Trust me.” She took charge, like always—helped him into the dress, tied a scarf around his neck, did his face with practiced hands: foundation, shadow, liner, that rose lipstick he loved. The heels wobbled, but he was steadier now, months of practice paying off. In her cracked mirror, Amanda was there—nervous, alive, New York-ready. Emily stepped back, her breath catching. “Hot,” she said, smirking, and he blushed, Amanda’s blush, a shy smile breaking through.
They hit the Village as night fell, the streets alive—neon signs glowing, laughter spilling from bars, a guy strumming a guitar on a corner. Connor—Amanda—clung to Emily’s arm at first, heels clicking on cobblestones, pulse racing. No one stared, though; a drag queen in sequins strutted by, a couple in leather nodded hello, and Amanda was just another face in the crowd. Emily squeezed his arm, her own tension easing as she watched him relax. She thought about her cousin Mark, how he’d found a home in spaces like this after coming out, and felt a quiet gratitude for the Village’s embrace. This was what she’d wanted for Connor—a place where Amanda could just be.
They ducked into a dive bar on Bleecker Street, dim and smoky, The Velvet Underground crackling from a jukebox. Emily ordered beers, and they sat, knees touching, the crowd a shield and a stage. “See?” she whispered, leaning close. “You’re fine. You’re her.” He nodded, sipping, feeling the weight lift—not gone, but lighter. A guy at the bar glanced over, smiled, and Amanda smiled back, tentative, real. Emily watched, her chest swelling with pride. She thought about that first night in Atlanta, the shock and fear, and how far they’d come. She’d been unsure then, but now, seeing Amanda smile, she knew she’d made the right choice—bringing him here, pushing him to take this step.
They danced later, clumsy in the cramped space, Emily spinning her until they were laughing, breathless. It was huge—his first night out as her, not hiding, not breaking—and Emily felt a joy she hadn’t expected, a lightness that made her believe they could do this, really do this, in New York. As they stumbled home past midnight, Amanda still there, lipstick faded but firm, the city hummed around them, alive with possibility. But there was a faint edge in the air, a tension Emily couldn’t place—maybe the city’s usual buzz, maybe something more. She pushed it aside, focusing on Connor, on Amanda, on the night they’d just shared. New York was his now, hers, and with Emily, he was starting to believe it.
Chapter 16: The Embrace of Self
Sunday, September 9, 2001, dawned soft in New York City, a rare coolness cutting through the late-summer haze. Connor woke in Emily’s East Village sublet, the futon creaking under him, her arm slung across his chest. He was still Amanda from the night before—sundress wrinkled, makeup smudged, heels kicked off by the door—and for the first time, he didn’t rush to shed her. The Village outing had cracked something open; no stares, no shame, just him—or her—fitting into the city’s wild pulse. Emily stirred, blinking awake, and grinned. “Morning, gorgeous,” she murmured, kissing his shoulder, and he didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. “Morning,” he said, Amanda’s voice soft but steady.
Emily felt a quiet joy as she looked at him, seeing Amanda so at ease, a stark contrast to the nervous tension of their first days in New York. She thought about the Village, the way Amanda had smiled at that guy in the bar, the way they’d danced, and felt a surge of pride. She’d hoped for this when she’d asked him to come to New York—a place where he could be himself, where Amanda could exist without fear. But there was a faint edge of worry, too, a tension she couldn’t shake, maybe the city’s buzz or something deeper. She pushed it aside, focusing on the moment, on him.
They stayed in that mode all day, a quiet, deliberate choice. Emily brewed coffee, black and strong, and they sat on the fire escape, legs dangling, the dress fluttering in the breeze. She painted his nails—deep red, chipped polish from her stash—laughing when he smeared it, and he let her fix it, her touch a tether. “You’re keeping her out,” she noted, not a question, and he nodded, feeling it settle. “Yeah. Feels right.” They wandered later, barefoot in the apartment, then out to a bodega for sandwiches, Amanda in sneakers now, scarf loose. No one blinked—New York’s indifference was a gift—and he wasn’t hiding, not pretending. It was acceptance, slow and real, blooming in his chest.
Emily watched him at the bodega, the way he moved with a new ease, and thought about Atlanta—those first tentative steps in her apartment, the night she’d taken Amanda to bed. She’d been afraid then, unsure if she could love this part of him, but now, seeing him like this, she knew she did. She loved Amanda, loved Connor, loved the way they were one, and it made her believe in the future they were building, even if the city’s hum felt heavier today, a distant rumble she couldn’t place.
Back home, they sprawled on the futon, NPR droning in the background, and he talked—really talked. “I’ve been scared of her forever,” he admitted, head on her lap, her fingers in his hair. “Darien, Mom, the guys—they’d kill me for this. But here, with you… I’m not scared anymore. She’s me, Em. All of me.” Tears pricked, but they were light, not heavy, and she leaned down, kissing his forehead. “I know,” she whispered. “I see her. I love her.” It was the first time she’d said it that way, and it landed—Connor and Amanda, whole, embraced. He wasn’t split anymore; he was one, and he was hers.
Emily’s heart swelled as she spoke, a mix of love and bittersweet ache. She thought about her cousin Mark, how she’d wanted to give Connor the same safe space her family had given him, and knew she had. But there was a shadow in her mind, a flicker of unease she couldn’t name, as if the city itself was holding its breath. She held him closer, pushing the feeling away, wanting to freeze this moment—him, whole, at peace.
Monday was practical—job prep, résumés—but Amanda lingered in his mind, a quiet joy. He had an interview Tuesday, September 11, 8:30 a.m., an engineering temp gig at the World Trade Center, North Tower, 78th floor. It was a shot at stability, a foothold in this new life. He ironed a shirt—Connor’s armor—but packed Amanda’s lipstick in his bag, a talisman. That night, he was Amanda again, just for them, dancing slow in Emily’s kitchen to Billie Holiday, her arms around him. “You’ll kill it tomorrow,” she said, and he believed her, feeling full, free.
Tuesday morning, he was up early, the city waking with him. Emily was still asleep as he dressed—slacks, tie, but Amanda was in his stride, his quiet hum. He kissed her goodbye, headed to the subway, and rode downtown, the Towers gleaming against a crisp blue sky. At 8:46 a.m., he was in the lobby, résumé in hand, when the first plane hit. Chaos erupted—screams, smoke, a world collapsing—and Connor was caught, Amanda with him. He didn’t make it out; the end came fast, final. But in that last breath, he wasn’t afraid. He was Connor, he was Amanda, accepted, whole—a boy from Darien who found himself in New York, loved by Emily, at peace with the girl he’d fought so long to be. The towers fell, and he was gone, but he died as himself, fully, finally her.
Chapter 17: The Echoes of Today
It was March 2025, in Darien, Connecticut—a quaint, affluent New York City suburb far from the Georgia coast where Emily’s story began. She was forty-six now, married since 2005 to David, a kind, steady architect she’d met in New York a year after the towers fell. They’d built a life here—two kids, a colonial with a wraparound porch, a dog named Scout—and she was a designer still, her furniture pieces in boutique catalogs. But tonight, she was in the living room, the glow of a single lamp casting shadows, sitting across from her sixteen-year-old son, Liam, who was hunched on the couch, picking at his nails. He’d just confessed his own tangle of gender questions—shame, fear, a sense of being wrong despite the progressive bubble of Darien, Connecticut, being a far cry from the cultural conservatism of Darien, Georgia.
Emily had been telling him Connor’s story—Amanda’s story—for hours, her voice steady until the end. She started back in 1994, Georgia’s salty air, and traced it through Atlanta, New York, that last dance in her kitchen, the morning of September 11, 2001. Liam listened, wide-eyed, clutching a throw pillow, seeing echoes of himself in Connor’s quiet turmoil. Now, as she finished—“He died as himself, Amanda, finally free, even if it was just for a moment”—her voice broke, tears spilling down her cheeks. She wiped them with the back of her hand, a shaky laugh escaping. “God, I haven’t told that story out loud in… forever.”
Emily’s mind drifted as she spoke, the weight of the past settling over her. She thought about David, how he’d been a safe harbor after the towers fell, how they’d built this life together—Liam, their daughter Sophie, this home. But Connor was always there, a quiet ache in her chest, a love that had never fully faded. She’d spent years after his death trying to move on, throwing herself into her design work, into motherhood, but telling Liam this story brought it all back—the joy of those last days, the horror of that morning, the grief that had nearly broken her.
Liam shifted, his dark hair—her hair—falling into his eyes. “You loved him,” he said, soft, not a question. She nodded, swallowing hard. “I did. Still do, in a way. When those planes hit… I was at work, sketching, waiting for him to call after his interview. Then the news came, and I just… I fell apart. Lost him, lost Amanda, lost what we could’ve been.” Her fingers twisted the wedding band on her left hand, a habit, but her eyes were distant, back in that East Village sublet. “I was a mess for years—moved here with your father to start over, had you and your sister—but Connor’s still here.” She tapped her chest, tears welling again. “Always will be.”
She thought about the years since, how Connor’s story had shaped her—her marriage to David, her fierce love for her children, her determination to create a home where they could be themselves. She’d learned from Connor, from Amanda, how to love without conditions, and now, sitting here with Liam, she knew that was her greatest gift to him.
She leaned forward, reaching for Liam’s hand, her grip firm despite the tremble. “But listen, sweetheart—he fought so hard to be himself, even when the world wasn’t ready. You’ve got it easier now—me, your dad, this place—but I know it’s still scary. The shame? That’s not yours to carry. Connor felt it too, and he didn’t deserve it. Neither do you.” Liam’s eyes glistened, his voice small. “What if I’m… wrong, though? Like, what if I’m not a guy, or a girl, or… I don’t know?”
Emily squeezed his hand, steady now. “You’re not wrong. You’re you—figuring it out, just like he did. And I’m here, Liam, like I was for him. You don’t have to hide—not from me, not from anyone.” She pulled him into a hug, fierce and protective, and he clung back, the pillow forgotten. “Connor didn’t get long enough to live as Amanda,” she murmured into his hair, “but he got there, in the end. You’ve got time, and I’ve got you.”
The room quieted, Scout snoring by the fireplace, the present wrapping around them. Emily’s tears dried, but Connor lingered—his laugh, Amanda’s sway in that dress—a bittersweet ache she’d never shake. She thought about her life now, how David had understood her grief, how he’d supported her through it, how they’d built this family together. But Connor’s story, Amanda’s story, was a part of her, a thread that had woven through her marriage, her motherhood, her love for Liam. She was telling Liam his story, yes, but it was hers too, and now it was his—a thread from 1994 to 2025, tying them all together. “Let’s figure you out together,” she said, pulling back to meet his eyes, and he nodded, a fragile hope mirroring the one she’d once seen in Amanda, all those years ago.
