Page 35 of Again, In Autumn

My hair is straighter than a pin. I add an extra layer of mascara to my lashes and slide small gold hoops into my piercings.

At eighteen, I had a bouncy bob of mushroom brown hair that frizzed and twirled in the summer heat. I didn’t wear a lick of makeup and lived in jean cutoffs, bikini tops, and ratty tee t-shirts. If I can’t avoid Adam, then I might as well look as different from that girl as possible. If he views me as a stranger, then maybe I can breathe.

Francesca stops in front of the bathroom door.

“You look nice,” she notes. “Only you could pull off a short skirt like that.”

I tug the ends of my corduroy mini skirt and fix the sleeves of my scoop neck top. “You’re always looking at my ass.”

“It’s not fair the way that genetics work.”

“You get the top, I get the bottom.” I scowl. “If anyone has the shitty end of body proportions, it’s me. Grandma Opal wouldn’t fit in a chair, her butt got so big. And only her butt.”

She leans against the doorway. The tassels of her new dress sway. “Hey, do you think I should tell David not to invite Adam over anymore? This is supposed to be a family holiday.”

“Yes!” I say, quickly. Too quickly. I drop my mascara wand.

She makes a face. “What is your deal with him?”

“No deal,” I answer, standing up quickly. I zip up my cosmetic bag and hope my heart stops thumping.

Francesca follows me out into the hallway, saying, “No, I remember more and more of that summer. You two barely ever spoke to each other. And when you did speak, it was usually to argue about something.”

“Some people call that banter.”

“Yeah, if you’re fucking or you’re on Love Island.” She pauses, dropping her voice. Her cold hand grabs my wrist. “Were you fucking? Are you going on Love Island?”

We reach the threshold of my door. My cheeks flush, and I turn so she can’t see my face.

This is my opening to tell her, but it’s blocked by Adam’s sudden presence, Francesca’s lack of chill, my lack of self-esteem, and stress baked goods that now feel like a dirty secret. I’ll never get through the narrow passageway unscathed.

“Yes,” I reply calmly. “That’s what was happening all those years ago.” I toss the bag on my bed beside a twenty-year-old butterfly pillow I won at a festival twenty years ago.

Facing her, I add, “And I’m thinking about going on Love Island, but only as a bombshell. So, if you would like to contribute to my boob job, I’d appreciate it. I’ll get up a GoFundMe in the morning.”

“There isn’t enough money in the world to get you the boobs you’d need.”

“Maybe it’s cheaper if they use my ass fat.”

Francesca snorts a laugh and immediately moves sideways as Kate brushes into the room. Her face falls.

Kate breezes, “What are you guys talking about?”

“Love Island,” Francesca grits.

“Boob jobs,” I say at the same time.

Kate’s golden curls bounce as she hikes up the top of her strapless jumpsuit. She only arrived an hour ago, giving David an earful about how that’s not enough time to get ready after a long – three hour – drive. Now fully dressed, she stares at herself in the round mirror above my blue dresser, dragging a finger along her perfectly-shaped mouth and says, “Thanks for the lip liner, Vee.”

Before I can respond, Francesca blurts out, “Isn’t it a little cold to be dressing like you’re waiting for your sugar daddy’s yacht?”

Kate doesn’t respond initially, but we’re waiting for it. She picks up a tube of lotion and delicately deposits some into her palm, missing her long, glossy nails, and rubs her hands over tanned shoulders. They glisten, not dissimilarly to the shimmer around her sharp blue eyes.

I think she’s made from the glitter that shines in the sun on a Mykonos beach.

Even as a little girl, Kate had a capturing, effervescent look. She’d giggle and dance on the dock, those curls flying into the air, and I’d think, as a teenager, she might as well be in a Ralph Lauren photoshoot right now. If that moment ended up on the cover of a catalog, I wouldn’t question how it got there.

Her eyes meet Francesca’s in the mirror. “I love that you’re into shaming people for their sex life, Francesca, how misogynistic of you. Good job. Besides that, we’re not going outside and it’s warm in here.” She tilts her head. “And I don’t need a boob job.”

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