Laurel Melody Parker, October 13th 2018, Laurel, Montana
Fuck. The word hung in the silent room, a puff of air that tasted bitter. Fuck.
She barely slept, by the time morning crept through her curtains she had tossed and turned into every possible position to inhibit sleep, and yet here she was, dreary but awake.
Laurel sat on the floor, the rough wood paneling cold against her back. The contents of the box were a constellation of a forgotten life scattered around her. The letter lay on her lap, her mother’s handwriting a painful, beautiful anchor in the swirling chaos of her mind. The tears had stopped, leaving her hollowed out and strangely calm. The constant, buzzing panic that had been the soundtrack to her life in Laurel, Montana, was gone. In its place was a terrifying, fragile clarity.
She was Laurel. She had been Laurel all along.
Her hand, still trembling, reached for the Polaroids. The one of her at twelve, a skinny kid with too many elbows and a towel wrapped around her chest, staring defiantly at the camera. April’s handwriting along the bottom: Loves the water, hates the goggles. She traced the outline of the girl in the photo, her own face from a lifetime ago. A ghost she had tried to exorcise, who had been patiently waiting for her to remember.
Slowly, she got to her feet and faced the mirror. The reflection was the same one she’d flinched from for months. The messy auburn hair. The faint shadow of stubble on her jaw she’d have to shave away again. The shoulders that felt too broad, the frame that felt like a cage. But for the first time, she didn’t see a stranger. She saw a starting point. She saw the overgrown ruins of a garden she had abandoned. Underneath the weeds and the neglect, she could just make out the shape of herself. Of Laurel. She needed to do something about her changing body, and quickly.
She shaved with precision, careful not to nick any arteries and bleed out after such a revelation. Having brushed out her long auburn hair, she double checked the lock on the door and dressed in her color guard uniform. The one she got from Jess. She stood in front of the mirror once again, examining, searching for the girl inside.
A loud knock on the door makes her flinch and retreat to the closet.
“Monty. Get down here, we need to talk when you're awake.”
Her hands are shaking but she follows up. “I'm getting dressed!”
“Don't be too long.” he says before she hears his footsteps descend and vanish down the stairs.
Laurel stood in front of the mirror, her heart racing and her breath uneven. The uniform hugged her frame, shimmering in the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. It felt both empowering and fragile, like wearing her truth for the first time in years. She traced her hands over the fabric, her fingers trembling as the enormity of the moment settled over her. This was her. This was who she had always been, even when she had tried so hard to forget.
Her father’s voice echoed in her mind, the sharpness of his tone still lingering in the air even after he had gone downstairs. The thought of facing him in this moment, of having to hide herself yet again, made her stomach churn. She had spent so long running, hiding, and pretending—what would it take to finally stop?
She reached for her phone, her hands still shaking, and texted Jess.
ML: He wants to talk. I think he knows something’s up. Can’t do this alone.
CaptainJessSparrow: On my way. Coffee in hand. Don’t do anything stupid.
Laurel exhaled shakily, her fingers tightening around the phone. Jess had always been her lifeline, her anchor in the storm. Knowing she was on her way gave her the smallest sliver of courage. She wasn’t ready for this conversation, but maybe she wouldn’t have to face it entirely alone.
She peeled off the uniform and carefully folded it, tucking it back into her bag like a secret she wasn’t ready to share. She threw on a loose hoodie and jeans, trying to disguise the vulnerability she felt crawling under her skin. She tugged her hair into a low, messy ponytail and took one last look in the mirror before heading downstairs.
Derrick was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee in hand. He glanced up when she entered, his expression unreadable. The air between them was heavy, thick with the weight of unspoken words.
“Morning,” he said gruffly, his eyes scanning her as if searching for something.
Laurel pulled her sleeves down over her hands. “Morning.”
Derrick set the mug down without drinking. The clink sounded too loud in the quiet kitchen. “Ron was at the game,” he said, going for casual and missing by a mile. “He drove over to watch Brett. Said he saw your show.” A beat. “Said you did good.”
The compliment was shaped like a test. Laurel’s jaw tightened. “Thanks.”
Derrick’s eyes slid off her face, found a safe point somewhere near the sink. “He also said… there was talk. About a guard member. One of the—” He fumbled for a word like it was a slippery wrench. “—girls. Riley. Said he’s… not like the others. He's a um…”
Laurel felt the floor open an inch. She kept her voice level. “She’s a girl. That’s all.”
Derrick’s mouth tugged. “That what we’re calling it now?”
There it was. The angle. The wrongness of it made heat climb the back of her neck. “That’s what it is.”
He rubbed his thumb along the coffee mug’s handle, the way he did when he didn’t know which version of himself to be. “Ron said some of the boys were laughing. Said you were—” He gestured, vague. “—looking a certain way. Said it looked like you were part of that crowd a little too much.”
Laurel’s heartbeat stumbled. Images flashed, ugly and fast—Hunter’s look under the bleachers, Erick’s grin, Matt’s voice sticky like blood… “What crowd?”
“The crowd that makes problems where there don’t need to be any.” Derrick’s voice coarsened. “You been wearing makeup?” He said it like a door slamming.
Laurel swallowed. There was a world where she lied, let him feel better, lived another day inside the old crate. But the letter was still echoing behind her ribs.
“Yeah,” she said. Quiet. “Sometimes.”
A muscle jumped in his cheek. “In public?”
“Under stadium lights,” she said. “Only on a field. With my team. They do it too...”
He pushed off the counter. “This town—these people—ain’t gonna be kind to you if you keep… pushing. I’m trying to keep you safe.”
The old anger flared, bright and clean. “By making me small?”
“By keeping a roof over your head.” He lifted his hand, let it fall. “By making sure you graduate. By making sure nobody gives you a reason to get in trouble.”
Laurel’s breath went thin. “Existing isn’t trouble.”
“Being a tranny is.”
Laurel stilled.
“The more you hang out with people like that, doing things like that, people are going to come after you. Just like they did before. And your mother isn't here to blame it on me this time.” Derrick's shouting now. His face turning red as he does so. “This isn't California Monty. You can't run around like a target and expect not to get hit. Maybe I thought you'd have learned a thing or two after what happened. Grow the fuck up and be a man for once son.”
Laurel stood there and took the abuse. She hadn't looked up from the floor, her hands gripped at her sides, wanting to claw through skin. He yelled and yelled. It seemed to stretch on forever, ringing in her ears.
She let the words hit and slide and bruise the places she’d been teaching herself not to feel. Eyes on the line between two floor tiles. Shoulders slouched into the hoodie. Hands flat against the seam of her jeans so she didn’t curl them into fists and give him something else to aim at. The kitchen light hummed. The fridge whirred. His voice rose and fell like weather she had no say in.
“—not California,” he was saying, breath harsh. “You don’t make it out here by painting a target on your back. You wanna do that stuff, you do it where I don’t gotta hear about it. No more… whatever the hell that was on your face. No more prancing around like you’re—”
She swallowed, hard enough it hurt. Don’t look up. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing your eyes. She didn't want to cry, it would only hurt more.
“Do you understand?” Derrick barked.
Her mouth worked before the rest of her could stop it. “Yes.”
“Sir,” he said, a reflex.
She stared at the tile line until it doubled. “Yes, sir.”
He exhaled, long and mean. “We’re done. For now. You got chores. Clean this place up then get lost, I don't want you lazing around here all day.”
The doorbell rang before she could stop her flinch.
Derrick’s head snapped toward the hall. “Who the hell—”
“Jess…” Laurel spoke softly, as if not to reignite the bomb.
“For the love of–” Derrick opened the door to see Jess standing there, bundled up from the cold, holding two drinks out. “Ah, Jess, come in.”
It was like he did a 180. He was completely different from the man who was just yelling at her. Derrick had immediately turned on the charismatic nice guy act on Jess. Too bad for him, she knows he sucks.
“Good morning Jess, to what do we owe the pleasure?” Derrick offers a friendly smile.
“Oh I'm here to take…. Monty back to my house. Don't worry Mr. Payton my parents are home.”
“Is that right?” he says looking over to Laurel and she's still dejected, teary eyed.
“Yes dad, I was planning on going out.” Laurel says quietly.
Jess offers the 2nd coffee to Derrick as a bribe.
Derrick took the cup, the paper squeaking under his grip. “Appreciate it,” he said, all Sunday-church manners now, the kind of smile he saved for neighbors and nosy relatives. “Don’t keep him too late. He’s got chores.”
Jess dipped her head, all polite. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Laurel grabbed her bag, keeping her eyes low as she slipped past him. She felt the weight of his gaze between her shoulder blades, like he was trying to pin her to the floor with it. Jess’s hand found her elbow, light pressure, and steered her out into the cold.
The door shut. The latch clicked. The air outside tasted like frost and freedom.
Jess didn’t speak until they were halfway down the porch steps. “You okay?”
Laurel’s throat worked. “No.”
“Okay,” Jess said softly. “Car. Now.”
They hurried to Jess’s mom's old sedan, breath pluming white. Inside, the heater coughed itself awake. Jess handed over the second coffee—sweet, milky, exactly the way Laurel would’ve asked for it if words weren’t hard.
“Drink,” Jess said.
Laurel wrapped both hands around the cup, letting the heat sink into knuckles still white from gripping the edge of the counter. The first sip seared her tongue. She welcomed it. Felt real.
Gina Perot clicked the door open as they approached.
The inside of Gina's Subaru smelled like vanilla air freshener and the coffee occupying Laurel's hands. Gina kept glancing in the rearview mirror at Laurel, who was pressed against the passenger door in the back, knees drawn up, making herself small.
"Everything okay back there, sweetie?" Gina asked, voice gentle but probing.
"She's fine, Mom," Jess said quickly from the front seat. "Just a rough morning."
Gina's eyes flicked between the road and the mirror. "Well, you know you're always welcome at our place." She turned onto their street. "I'll make sandwiches when we get home. You look like you could use some food."
Laurel managed a small "Thank you" that came out hoarse.
Gina turned a corner a little too sharply. “That man… honestly. I'm half-tempted to go back there and give him a piece of my mind.”
“Please don’t.” Jess said, voice firm but tired. “It'll only make things worse.”
“I know, I know. It's just… you kids deserve to be happy.” Gina sighed.
The rest of the drive passed in a somewhat tense silence broken only by the humming of the car's heater.
Once inside the Perot house, Gina busied herself in the kitchen while Jess led Laurel upstairs. The familiar chaos of Jess's room—the lilac and mint walls, the overflowing bookshelves, the color guard flags propped in the corner—felt like stepping into a different world. A safer one.
Laurel sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders still hunched. Jess closed the door and leaned against it.
"You want to talk about it?"
Laurel's hands twisted in her lap. “He knows about the makeup.” She looked down at her beat up converse. “He heard about me talking to Riley, the Bozeman girl.”
Jess was at her side now, hand on her shoulder, gently giving reassurance. She didn't speak, just let Laurel get it off her chest.
“He blamed me for putting a target on my back. He said things that he shouldn't. I won't repeat them though, I…” her voice wavered.
“You don't have to. I can already tell what he said was wrong. You know that right?” Jess said, leaning closer.
“Do I?” Laurel's voice cracked.
Jess brought her into a hug. “Yes, he's wrong about you.”
Silence enveloped the room. Laurel's tears fell onto Jess’s shoulder in droves.
Mid-sob, Laurel's voice broke out from the silence that had begun to fill the room. “Jess, I…. I'm not Montana, I'm Laurel… I'm a girl. The letter, from my mom, she named me Laurel.” She finally said it, the truth she'd been circling for what feels like forever now. That name she thought of as a ghost, and now it's her homecoming.
Jess’s expression didn't change. There was no shock, nor confusion. Just a deep and quiet understanding that settled over her features like she could finally see Laurel for who she is. “I know.” Jess said softly.
“You knew?” Laurel sniffled and Jess nodded in response.
“I kinda put the pieces together awhile ago, but I thought you'd get there soon, so I didn't want to push you too much Laurel.” The simple affirmation broke something loose in Laurel's chest. Jess wiped her tears away with her sleeve and held her tight. “It's okay.” Jess murmured. “You're okay.”
They spent the rest of the morning in a comfortable quiet. Jess put on a mindless sitcom, keeping the volume low. They ended up lying on the bed, side-by-side, sharing a bag of chips Gina had left for them. Laurel’s exhaustion finally caught up with her. Her head grew heavy, and without thinking, she let it rest on Jess’s shoulder, her body curling instinctively toward the warmth. She was asleep within minutes.
Jess lay perfectly still, Laurel’s soft breathing a steady rhythm against her neck. The warmth of her was both a comfort and a quiet agony. She carefully shifted to grab the remote, and that’s when she saw it. Laurel’s phone, lying on the bedspread, lit up with a new notification.
Blocked Message.
Jess’s heart gave a guilty lurch. She knew she shouldn’t. It was an invasion of privacy, a betrayal of the trust Laurel had just placed in her. But the protective, possessive part of her—the part that Ana Yankowski had forged in fire and betrayal—was screaming. She glanced at Laurel’s sleeping face, peaceful and unguarded, and her resolve crumbled.
With painstaking slowness, she reached over and picked up the phone. Her thumb hovered over the notification before she tapped it open.
Hey, this is Dani. Is this Laurel? I've been looking all over for you, I miss you.
Who the hell was Dani?
Jess stared at the message, mind racing. This person knew Laurel. Knew her as Laurel. Had been looking for her.
Before she could think better of it, Jess copied the number and opened her own phone. She typed quickly:
CaptainJessSparrow: This is Jess, I'm a friend of Laurel's. She's safe but she's going through a lot, who are you?
DaniCalifornia: Oh thank god someone finally answered, I'm Dani Rivera we were close in California. Is she okay? Can I see her?
Jess bit at her lip.
CaptainJessSparrow: It's complicated. She doesn't know I'm texting you. Where are you? Can you be in Laurel, Montana soon?
DaniCalifornia: I'm in Bozeman right now. I can make the drive today.
Jess made a decision that definitely wasn't hers to make.
CaptainJessSparrow: Be at the public library in town by 4 pm.
DaniCalifornia: I'll be there