Chapter 2: The Bikini Dilemma
The silence that followed Mark’s introduction was a thin, high-pitched scream in my head. I could feel Sabrina’s—my body’s—panic radiating from the lounge chair like heat. Mark stood there, his friendly smile now entirely directed at me, waiting for a response.
My mouth was dry. The new tongue inside it felt smaller, more agile. “Hi,” I said, and the word was too breathy, too soft. I cleared my throat, a dainty sound. “I’m, uh. Sabrina. From next door.”
“Sabrina,” Mark repeated, letting the name roll around in his mouth like he was tasting it. His eyes never left mine. “Nice to meet you. Justin didn’t mention you were visiting.”
From the chair, Sabrina made a choked noise that was supposed to be a cough. I jumped in. “Just popped over! For the… cable. The delivery. All settled now.” I was babbling. I could hear the higher register, the lack of authority in my own voice. It was infuriating.
Mark’s gaze finally broke from mine, sliding down to the whiskey bottle in his hand. He hefted it. “Well, since you’re here, can I offer you a drink? I brought the good stuff.”
“She doesn’t drink,” Sabrina blurted out, using my voice with a clumsy force. We both stared at her. She shrunk back into the chair, my large shoulders hunching. “I mean… I think. Young. Right?”
Mark chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound. “Looks plenty old enough to me.” His eyes came back to me, a playful challenge in them. “Swim first? Water’s perfect.”
My stomach executed a slow, cold somersault. The red push-up bra was a lace-and-wire prison. The thought of it, and the tiny thong underneath, becoming translucent and clinging to… everything… in front of Mark was unthinkable. The jean skirt would be a sodden, heavy wreck.
“I didn’t bring a suit,” I said, the lie coming too fast.
“I might have something inside,” Sabrina offered, her voice gruff. She was trying to help, but she was terrible at this.
“No, it’s okay! I’ll just… I’ll run home and grab mine. It’s right next door.” The words tumbled out. “You guys start. I’ll be quick.”
I didn’t wait for an answer. I turned, my sandals slapping against the hot concrete, and hurried across the lawn toward the hedge that separated my property from Sabrina’s mansion. My new body moved with a different rhythm. My hips had a swing to them, a side-to-side motion that felt both automatic and exaggerated. With every step, the weight on my chest pulled forward and then bounced back, a soft, persistent jostling that the tight bra did little to fully stabilize. I could feel each separate, delicate swing. It was distracting, humiliating.
I could feel Mark watching me go. I knew that look. It was a physical pressure between my shoulder blades.
I pushed through the gap in the hedge, the branches catching at my long hair, and stumbled onto the immaculate, sprawling lawn of the Parker estate. The house loomed, all modern glass and pale stone, silently opulent. I’d never been inside. Sabrina was a ghost, a rumor of a grieving heiress.
I had no key.
Panic, sharp and acidic, rose in my throat. I patted the sides of the jean skirt. There were no pockets. Of course there were no pockets. Where did women put things? My fingers brushed against my own hip bone, startlingly prominent under the soft skin. A small clutch purse was hanging from my shoulder, a fact I’d been too traumatized to notice. I fumbled it open. Inside was a lip gloss, a single credit card, and a key fob.
The front door unlocked with a hushed beep.
The interior was cool, dark, and smelled of lemons and emptiness. Marble floors echoed under my sandals. The ceiling soared. I stood in the vast foyer, utterly lost. I was a stranger in my own neighborhood, a man inside a girl, standing in a museum that was now supposedly my home.
Where would an eighteen-year-old girl keep her swimsuits? A drawer? A closet? A whole dedicated room?
I moved on shaky legs into the main living area. The furniture was expensive, minimalist, and looked untouched. A giant abstract painting dominated one wall, all violent slashes of color. It felt like a hotel. No, a mausoleum.
“Think, Justin,” I whispered to the silent house. My voice was a lonely, feminine flutter in the vast space.
I found a hallway. Opened a door. A half-bathroom. Another door. A pantry. My heart was pounding, a quick, birdlike rhythm in this narrower chest. The physical anxiety was different—it gathered higher, tight under my sternum, and made my hands tremble in a fine, delicate vibration.
I found the staircase and took the steps two at a time, a habit from a longer stride. My body protested instantly. My center of gravity was wrong, and the bouncing in my chest was painfully pronounced without the support of my arms. I had to slow down, gripping the rail, my small hand almost comical on the thick wood.
The upstairs hallway had several doors. I opened the first.
It was a bedroom, but it was clearly a guest room. Sterile. Beige.
The second door was different. It opened into a space that felt lived-in, or at least recently abandoned. The air smelled faintly of vanilla and clean linen. The king-sized bed was unmade, silvery sheets tangled. The walk-in closet door was ajar.
This was it. Her room.
I stepped inside, the plush carpet swallowing the sound of my steps. The sheer scale of the closet was staggering. Racks of clothes, organized by color. Shelves of sweaters. A long island with drawers. It was a boutique.
I went to the drawers, pulling them open. Socks. Lingerie—a dizzying array of lace and silk in blacks, nudes, pastels. I slammed that drawer shut, my face hot. Finally, a drawer with folded Lycra and nylon. Swimsuits.
I pulled them out. String bikinis. Tiny triangles of fabric connected by what looked like dental floss. A one-piece, but it was high-cut and plunging. Nothing resembled my old board shorts. Nothing even provided what I would consider basic coverage.
I held up a black bikini top. The cups were small, designed for display, not containment. A memory of Mark’s appreciative glance flashed, and a fresh wave of nausea hit me. I couldn’t go out there in this. I couldn’t let him see me like that, not when every look from him felt like a violation of a friendship he didn’t even know he was breaking.
But if I didn’t go back, he’d get suspicious. Sabrina, in my body, would crack under five minutes of questioning.
I was trapped.
I sank onto the padded bench in the middle of the closet, the delicate fabrics of the skirt and thong shifting against my skin. I dropped my face into my hands. The sensation was wrong. My palms were smaller, the skin softer. I could feel the subtle architecture of my new cheekbones, the fullness of my lips against my fingers. A wave of pure, claustrophobic despair washed over me. This body was a prison of soft curves and strange sensations. The quiet ache in my feet from the unfamiliar sandals. The constant, low-level awareness of the bra strap and the band around my ribs. The way my hair cascaded over my shoulders and tickled my bare arms. The unsettling, empty feeling between my legs where something was… missing, replaced by a different, more internal landscape I couldn’t begin to navigate.