Page 14 of Hearts of Stone

“Fuck’s sake, Danny! I’m not dressed.”

“No, you’re not.” He took in the way my shirt was hanging open and then grinned. “Looks like someone had a goood night’s sleep. First time you could play fishy fingers…” He held up his hands and flickered his fingers through the air. “Without the risk of Pencil Dick walking in on you? Girl, I get it, but we need to get you dressed.”

He let go of my wrist to stride over to the wardrobe and fling the doors open.

“There’s not going to be anything in there for me to wear,” I said from between gritted teeth. I yanked my dirty clothes off the floor and started pulling them on. “The last ‘master’ was a guy—”

“With 44FF tits?” He spun around, holding a very nice lacy bra against his chest.

Damn. I froze in place, my eyes widening.

Only women who’d been overly blessed by the Boob Fairy could appreciate the majesty of this undergarment. While people relentlessly sexualised big breasts, the reality was most bras for larger sizes looked like some kind of beige support garment your granny might’ve worn. But this? It was sheer, was made from exquisitely pretty lace, the champagne colour relieved by tiny stitched roses. The cups had enough coverage that the bands wouldn’t cut across the breast to give you the dreaded four boob, and the straps were wide so they wouldn’t slowly burrow into my shoulder muscles as the day wore on.

“Gimme that,” I said, snatching it from his grip. I felt like Arthur must’ve felt when he pulled the sword from the stone, destiny throbbing through me as I eased it on. “Oh my god…”

“OK, whatever else happens today, you’re keeping that,” Daniel said, with a definite nod. “Like, you actually have two tits,rather than just one squishy uniboob. Whoever makes that bra, you need to buy like ten of them.”

“Bras like this probably cost $150 a pop,” I groaned. It fitted perfectly. Danny was indeed correct that it gave me the kind of definition I needed. The band was firm, but not tight, the straps barely even noticeable. It was the Cadillac of bras and I never wanted to let it go. “But these aren’t my clothes.”

“I think they were bought for you.” Daniel leaned forward and yanked a tag, showing me it hadn’t been worn. “It’s not like Master Ashley was into drag.” He turned back to the wardrobe. “Not unless…” He flicked through the racks faster and faster, then pulled out a garment with a frown. “Like, you know I love you.”

“Yess…” I sighed, knowing somehow I was gonna hate what was coming.

“And you’re amazing, so amazing, and way too smart to be an assistant manager at a supermarket.”

“That’s not a problem anymore,” I replied, with a wince. “Jackie’s not gonna give me a reference any time soon.”

“But I think we can both agree that a style icon you are not. Like, usually, you’ve got that whole ‘just became homeless’ vibe going on.”

“Thanks?”

“So, explain this.” He tossed the piece of clothing he had in his hand onto the bed, then another and another, until I started to see a pattern. My fingers twitched as I stepped closer, because somehow the clothes of my dreams lay across the bed.

Silky soft vegan cashmere jumpers and well broken-in jeans that somehow I just knew would hug my form. Babydoll tops made from gossamer light fabric, that would nip in at the waist, then flare out over my ample arse. Then there were the t-shirts. Made of cotton that felt like it’d been washed many times toeradicate all stiff scratchiness, I was pulling one over my head before I could even think about it.

“Of course.” Daniel crossed his arms. “You have a massive wardrobe full of clothes that are apparently made to your exact size, and you choose the ratty old band t-shirt.”

“It’s not ratty,” I said, smoothing my hands down the sides of the shirt and loving the way the cotton felt.

“Oh, it’s ratty. But if we’re going for the rock chick look, again, let's make it bougie.”

He flicked through the rest of the wardrobes (yes, there were a few) and tossed me a pair of jeans, boots, underwear and even some bangles, until every trace of Jade Barlow, assistant manager, was gone. I stepped towards the full length mirror, my appearance drawing me closer.

I was plus sized, something I’d since accepted, even if Trevor hadn’t. I’d fought this reality hard in high school, using incredibly restrictive eating patterns and that’s when we’d first got together. But it had been hard to look at myself in the mirror, see the body that so many people seemed to like better, and feel that endless roil of hunger in my stomach. I’d been hollow, empty of food, but filled with people’s expectations, until the stress of year 12 exams resulted in me throwing in the towel and just eating three meals a day, like the majority of my classmates.

Weight had seemed to rush back on, like a tide that had been held at bay, my body swelling, swelling, but Trevor… I’d hated him and loved him in turns. Loving him for the way he was a constant supportive presence at my side, but also hating him for only having been drawn there due to my thinness. I’d pushed him away, anticipating his rejection as my jeans size increased, but, contrary to what I’d expected, he’d held my hand, squeezed it tight and told me he wasn’t going anywhere.

Of course, some years later, he bought me a gym membership for Christmas and told me to get my act together.That was the first death rattle of our relationship, because I’d left shame and disgust about my body back with my senior year study guides.

I blinked, bringing myself back to look in the mirror, and as I did, I realised the freaking genius of whoever had made these clothes. The t-shirt fitted my shoulders and my bust perfectly, then it flared out slightly from the waist, skimming over my stomach and hips, but not ballooning out, which would have created even more mass. The jeans were bootcut, tight around the thighs, as this was a comparably narrow part of me, then flaring out slightly, helping balance out the weight around my middle. But the sight of me wearing my rock chick regalia, against the reflection of the posh bedroom behind me? It seemed an incongruous juxtaposition.

“How’re we feeling?” Daniel asked me, appearing at my shoulder. Those keen eyes were practised at taking in everything. I could reply, spill out the complex mess of fear, relief, incredulity and… unworthiness that I was feeling, all at the same time, or I could just smile and brush it off.

“Like I could murder a coffee right now.”

“Oh my god, me too,” he said, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “Do you think they have any painkillers in this fancy-arse house of yours? I don’t need the hard stuff, just something to take the damn edge off because, fuck… I’m never drinking tequila shots again.”

“If I lined up a row of them on the kitchen bench downstairs, you’d be knocking them back before I’d finished pouring,” I said.

---