Page 99 of Guy's Girl
Two weeks she spent out of control, eating things she didn’t want to eat. Four weeks she has watched her body grow, thicken, stretch, and pucker. She doesn’t know how to stop it. She repeats over and over that it will be okay, that she will be okay, that there is far more to a person than a size. She pictures her best friends approaching her, telling her they hate their bodies, that they’re fat, disgusting, will never be loved. All the things she repeats to herself hour after hour, day after day. She knows what she would say to them. She would tell them not to be ridiculous, that they’re beautiful no matter what, that their heart, above all, is why she loves them. And to them? She would mean it. But to herself?
Not a chance.
Every twentysomething has asked herself this question at one point or another: Is this it? Is this all there is to adulthood? Day after day, breakfast after breakfast, job after job. Will I be single forever? Because, goodness—marriage sounds awful, but dying alone sounds worse.
***
The boys are out drinking. Ginny lies in bed, listening to the water run in the next room.
Her sister takes baths when she’s stressed. When she told Ginny that she planned to take one here, Ginny called her “institutionalizably mental,” to which Heather responded, “Pot, kettle, darling.”
“But this is anapartment in Manhattan,” Ginny said. “You have no idea what’s gone on in that bathtub before.”
“I’ll spray it down with Lysol.”
***
After ten minutes, the water shuts off. Ginny glances at her phone: ten o’clock. She’s tired. She needs to brush her teeth, but doesn’t want to go into the bathroom while Heather is in there. Which will be ages, knowing her sister.
Eventually, she gives in. She walks into the hallway and squeezes through the bathroom doorway. Heather sits up. Ginny keeps her eyes averted. She walks to the sink and turns on the faucet. She’s wearing only a tank top and shorts, so she knows Heather is watching her shoulder blades undulate beneath thickening layers of flesh as she moves.
“Want to get in?” Heather asks.
Ginny turns in surprise. Heather is propped up on her elbows in a foot of water, completely naked, completely unashamed. Normally, Ginny would laugh and tell her not to be a freak. Despite being six years her senior, Heather dresses like a carefree teenager, in crop tops, teeny dresses, and, of course, bikinis.
Ginny stares at her sister for a long time. Then she wordlessly grabs either side of her tank top and pulls it over her head. Goose bumps rise on her skin.
The water burns as she slides down the side of the tub. She lowers her head onto the porcelain next to Heather’s feet. Their figures, which began in—and were shaped by—the same body of water, form an inverted reflection. Heather’s body all bone, Ginny’s all flesh. The burning heat turns slowly to warmth. Ginny huddles as much of her body underwater as possible. As the goose bumps slowly dissolve, she realizes that she hasn’t been properly warm in almost seven years.
Since the day Heather arrived, Ginny has been thinking about their relationship. About their past, their differences. In their family, along with Male and Female, the five children were furtherdivided into Problems and Not-Problems. Heather and Ginny sat on opposite sides of that line. Ginny, the anxious ten-year-old desperate to please everyone within a hundred-foot radius. Heather, the angry sixteen-year-old who could sweep into the room and not only take it over but become the room itself.
“Heather knows what Heather wants,” said every member of the family, raising their eyes in condescension. “And she’s not afraid to scream.”
Ultimately Ginny sided with the boys, and Heather sided with herself, a move that at the time made her look selfish and petty. It’s only now that Ginny sees her choice for what it was: an act of bravery. The courage to be a woman in a family of men.
Friday morning, Adrian’s boss, Lawrence, puts time on Adrian’s calendar.ADRIAN/LAWRENCE 1:1, the meeting subject reads.10 a.m.—10:30 a.m.
At 10 a.m., Adrian pokes his head through the doorway of the conference room indicated in the meeting invitation. Lawrence looks up from his laptop, where he’s drafting an email. He pulls out an empty rolling chair and gestures for Adrian to sit.
“Adrian,” he says, shutting his laptop halfway and crossing his arms. “You’ve been with us for just over a year now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t know how many times I’ll have to tell you to call me Lawrence before it finally sticks.” He taps the table twice. “That aside—in just a year, you’ve established yourself on your team and played a central role in the launch of a product key to our overseas strategy.”
“That’s true, sir.”
“It’s impressive stuff, Silvas. Unusual for someone of your level.” He pauses. “Which is why you’re no longer going to work on that level.”
Adrian leans forward, hands flat on his knees. “Sir?”
“I’m promoting you. Effective immediately. If you’re to lead content strategy for Disney+ in Eastern Europe, I want your title to reflect your responsibility.”
“I don’t—” Adrian sits back in the rolling chair. He blinks up at the monitor on the wall. “Lead strategy? As in—with my own team?”
“That’s right. You’ll have two direct reports, whom I will help you choose from within the organization. Or from outside, if we can’t find the right talent internally.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
