Chapter 3: Saltwater Awakening
The catamaran cut through water the color of hammered silver, and my stomach rolled with a rhythm that had nothing to do with the sea. It was my new center of gravity, a liquid, shifting thing somewhere behind my navel. Every pitch of the hull translated into a deep, internal sway. My hips tilted to compensate, a constant, subtle negotiation with physics that felt obscenely personal.
The bikini was a torture device of strings and triangles. The top, a flimsy arrangement of neon green fabric, did little but cradle and present. The weight of my breasts—her breasts—pulled the cloth taut. The salt air was cool, and it made my nipples, hypersensitive and permanently puckered in this strange flesh, ache and tighten against the material. I could see the outlines clearly, and I kept my arms crossed, which only pushed them up further.
The bottoms were worse. A narrow strip of fabric rode deep between the full, heavy curves of my ass. It was a relentless, invasive pressure. Every shift, every lean against the railing, made me aware of the seam. The tan lines Sabrina had mentioned were stark borders in the late afternoon light: pale skin against bronze, a map of a different life on my stolen body.
“Sabrina, you’re being so weird! Unclench!” Andrea laughed, her voice carried away by the wind. She was radiant, droplets of seawater catching in her eyelashes. She held a sweating bottle of cerveza in one hand.
“Just taking it all in,” I said, my voice thin. The sun felt different on this skin—warmer, penetrating a thinner layer. I was hyper-aware of its touch on my shoulders, my décolletage, the tops of my thighs.
Chloe sidled up, grinning. “She’s just pissed because Miguel the bartender keeps looking at Jess.”
I followed her glance. A handsome, shirtless crew member was coiling a rope, his eyes flicking toward our group. Toward Jess, who was tall and willowy. A sharp, ridiculous pang of jealousy, Justin’s jealousy, twisted in my gut. He wasn’t looking at me. In this body, with its exaggerated curves and pink hair, I was either invisible or a spectacle. There was no in-between.
“I don’t care,” I mumbled, trying to sound nonchalant. The wind whipped my short hair into my eyes. I went to push it back with a hand that felt too delicate, the black polish on the nails a shocking contrast against my skin.
“Okay, group photo! Now, before the light goes!” Andrea announced, setting her beer down. She herded us toward the prow, the boat dipping into a trough. My feet, stuffed into cheap plastic flip-flops, skidded on the wet teak. I grabbed a rail, my grip unexpectedly strong in this smaller hand.
“Sabrina, you’re in the middle. You’re the shortest.” Maria pushed me forward.
I was surrounded. Jess and Chloe pressed in on my left, Maria on my right. Their bodies were warm, their skin slick with sunscreen. The scent of coconut and sweat was overwhelming. Then Andrea stepped in front of me, her back to my front, and leaned back.
“Okay, everyone squeeze!” she commanded.
She reached behind her, her hands finding my bare hips. Her touch was electric, a jolt that bypassed my brain and shot straight into my nervous system. Her fingers curled, firm and familiar, into the soft flesh above the bikini bottom. She pulled me tight against her.
My body reacted before I could stop it.
The full, soft press of my chest against the bare skin of her back. The warm solidity of her ass against the front of my thighs. Her smell, deeper now with a hint of sweat, flooded my senses. A violent, uncontrollable shiver racked me from core to extremities. My skin pebbled everywhere. And beneath the flimsy bikini top, my nipples hardened into points so sharp they felt like bruises. I was dizzy, disintegrated.
“Smile, Sabrina!” Chloe yelled, holding up her phone.
I bared my teeth. The camera flashed.
Andrea didn’t let go. She tilted her head back, her hair tickling my cheek. “See? This is what you’ve been missing, you homebody,” she said, her voice a warm vibration against my sternum. She gave my hip a friendly, familiar shake.
The touch was sisterly. Casual. But firing through the alien circuitry of Sabrina’s body, it was cataclysmic. A low, unwelcome heat kindled in my belly, a biological echo that had nothing to do with me. It was the body’s dumb, mechanical response. It felt like a betrayal.
She finally released me, turning to check the photo. I stumbled back a step, the world tilting. The sensation of her grip lingered on my hips like a brand. The cool air now hit the damp patches where her hands had been, making me shudder.
“Good one!” Andrea declared, oblivious. “My turn with Sabrina. Just us.”
Before I could protest, she had me again. This time she faced me, slinging an arm around my neck, pulling my head toward hers for a selfie. My face was smooshed against her temple. In the frame of her phone, I saw our reflection: Andrea, bright and beautiful and completely at home in her skin. And beside her, a wide-eyed, panicked stranger with smudged eyeliner, her cheekbones flushed, her expression one of pure animal distress.
“God, you’re tense,” Andrea murmured, her cheek against mine. The intimacy was gutting. It was a closeness Justin had been begging for for months, achieved through a horrific parody. “You need a massage. Or three of these.” She released me and handed me her half-finished beer.
I took it, just to have something to do with my hands. The bottle was wet and cold. I drank, the beer tasting sour. The deck moved under my feet. The laughter of the girls splintered around me. The crew member shouted something in Spanish.
I was a ghost haunting a body that kept feeling things. The rough canvas of the sailcloth when I brushed against it. The gritty texture of salt drying on my thighs. The relentless, gentle sway of weight on my chest with every breath. The deep, intimate ache of the bikini bottom, a constant reminder of a topography that was not my own.
Andrea was talking about the tacos we’d have later, her voice full of a joy I used to recognize. I watched her lips move. I felt the phantom press of her hands on Sabrina’s hips. My own body, miles away and asleep in our bed, felt like a forgotten shell. This was the adventure I’d craved. This was the connection.
It was a hall of mirrors, and at the center was not Justin, and not Sabrina, but a raw, screaming knot of sensation, watching the love of his life drift away on a sea of her own happiness, unable to call her name.