Chapter 2: Cooling Evidence
The door clicked shut behind him, the sound as final as a coffin lid. Silence rushed in, broken only by the frantic hammer of my heart—her heart—against the inside of her ribs. The imprint of Ben’s lips lingered on my forehead, a casual brand. ‘See you around, Sabrina.’ I sat on the rumpled edge of the bed, the lavender fabric cool against my thighs, and looked down at the mess he’d left on me.
It was drying into pale, tacky streaks on my chest, my neck. Each patch felt like a violation, a stain on my very soul.My skin crawled.I had to get it off.
Moving was a strange, underwater ballet. I stood, and my center of gravity, shifted higher in my torso, made me sway.My feet, small and narrow, pressed into the plush carpet. I walked the short distance to Sabrina’s en suite, every step accompanied by a soft, uncontrollable jiggle in my chest and a fuller, rounder sway in my rear. It was like carrying two water balloons on my front and two on my back, each with a mind of their own.I kept my arms crossed in front of me, an inadequate shield.
The bathroom was all marble and soft light. The woman in the mirror stared back, wild-eyed, a stranger painted with the evidence of a stranger’s pleasure. I turned on the faucet, the water loud in the quiet.I grabbed a washcloth, its fabric absurdly soft, and dampened it.
The touch of the wet cloth on my sternum made me flinch. I scrubbed, rough, trying to erase the feeling.The smears came away, but a phantom stickiness remained. I scrubbed my neck, my cheek.My skin there was frighteningly soft, the jawline smooth. I avoided looking directly at my reflection, focusing instead on the marble countertop, a monstera plant thriving in the corner.Clean.I was clean, at least on the outside.
I had to get home.I had to find Andrea.My thoughts were a frantic, looping alarm: Home. Andrea.Explain.Fix this.Clothes.I needed clothes. I stumbled back into the bedroom, my new hips bumping the doorframe with an uncoordinated thud. Sabrina’s walk-in closet was a world of pastels and neutrals, meticulously organized. The smell of cedar and perfume was overwhelming.My hands shook as I yanked open a drawer. A kaleidoscope of lace and silk.Thongs, every color. I grabbed the first one, a simple black scrap of fabric.Putting it on was a lesson in alien anatomy. The fabric settled in a place that felt both vulnerable and strangely correct, a narrow band of pressure between these new, slender thighs. I pulled on a pair of black yoga pants, the material stretching with a soft sigh over her—my—hips and ass. They hugged every curve, the waistband sitting high on a stomach so flat I could feel the faint definition of muscles beneath.A soft grey t-shirt followed. I looked at myself in the full-length mirror.The shirt hung loose, but the yoga pants revealed everything. And the front of the shirt… it draped over the prominent swell of my chest without the structure of a bra.The soft points of my nipples were visibly pressing against the cotton. Every slight movement created a ripple, a bounce.I felt exposed, hyper-visible.No time.No bra. I just had to get across the street.
I found a pair of slip-on sneakers by the door, my feet sliding into them with room to spare. My own feet—Justin’s feet—were size ten and a half.These felt like children’s shoes.
I unlocked her front door, the mechanism smooth and quiet, and stepped onto her porch.The suburban afternoon was blindingly normal. A lawnmower droned two houses down.The air was warm. My house—our house—sat directly across the street, its familiar blue door looking like a portal to another life.
I hurried down her path, my new gait a quick, short-stepped trot. The sensation of unrestricted movement in my chest was profoundly distracting, a heavy, pendulous sensation with each step. I felt eyes on me, though the street was empty. I crossed the asphalt, the heat radiating through the thin soles of the shoes, and reached my own front door.My key. I didn’t have my key. I raised a hand—a small, delicate hand with manicured nails—and knocked.The sound was pitifully soft.The door swung open. Andrea stood there, an expression of mild surprise on her face that quickly melted into friendly concern.“Sabrina?Hey. Everything okay? You look… flushed.” Her eyes flicked over me, noting the yoga pants, the t-shirt, the bare face, the wild hair.
“Andrea,” I said, and my voice cracked on the high, melodic register.“It’s me. It’s Justin.”
She blinked, her head tilting.A faint, confused smile touched her lips. “Okay…?Did Justin put you up to this? Is this some weird prank?” She leaned out, looking past me toward our driveway.“Where is he, anyway? His car’s here.”
“No, listen!” I pleaded, stepping forward. My scent—Sabrina’s perfume, clean sweat—wafted between us. Andrea’s nose wrinkled slightly, not with disgust, but with recognition.It was Sabrina’s signature scent.“Something happened. I was on the couch, and you asked about the gutter, and then there was this… pop, and I woke up… there.” I gestured frantically across the street.“In her bed. With a man. Andrea, I’m inside Sabrina!”
Her smile vanished, replaced by a flat, impatient look. The look she got when a student tried to sell her an outrageous excuse for missing homework. “Sabrina, honey, I think you might have had a little too much to drink this afternoon.Or something. This isn’t funny.”
“It’s not a joke!” My eyes welled up with desperate, frustrating tears. “Your mother’s maiden name is Valerio!Your first pet was a hamster named S’more that I accidentally stepped on! You have a scar on your left knee from falling off your bike in seventh grade, and you hate it because it’s shaped like a tiny star!”
The color drained from Andrea’s face. Her hand went to her knee, a subconscious gesture. She stared at me, really stared, looking past Sabrina’s features, searching the eyes.“Justin…?” she whispered, the name a fragile thing.
Before I could answer, a noise came from inside our house—a heavy, clumsy tread in the hallway. Andrea turned, and I peered over her shoulder.There, stumbling into view, was me. My body. My round face, my glasses slightly askew, my too-tight Star Wars t-shirt stretched over my soft stomach. He—I—was staring down at his hands, turning them over as if he’d never seen them before. He looked up, his gaze landing on Andrea, then on me standing in the doorway.
His eyes—my eyes—widened in a mirror of my own horror.His mouth, my mouth, opened.
The voice that came out was my own familiar baritone, but it was thick with a terror and confusion I knew I wasn’t feeling in this moment.“Andrea?” the voice croaked. Then his eyes locked onto mine, onto Sabrina’s face. A profound, sickening understanding passed between us, a current of shared dread.He pointed a trembling, accusatory finger at me. “You,” he said, my own voice trembling. “What did you do?”