Chapter 2: Shopping for Julia
The wheels of the jet kissed the tarmac with a gentle shudder, and Gabi was already unbuckling her seatbelt before the plane had fully stopped. Marc—still Julia, still devastatingly beautiful, still clutching the neckline of that crimson slip dress like it might evaporate at any moment—looked at her with wide, panicked eyes.
"You're not seriously going to make me walk out there like this."
Gabi grabbed her handbag and slung it over her shoulder, grinning. "You're not seriously going to make us sit on the runway until dark, are you? The villa has a pool, Marc. A pool. And we're wasting precious daylight."
"I can't walk in these," he said, gesturing helplessly at the strappy heels that had been part of Julia's default wardrobe. "I can barely stand in these. How am I supposed to—"
Gabi was already on her feet, extending a hand toward him. "Come on. I'll help you."
He looked at her hand, then at her face, then back at her hand. His jaw worked silently as he wrestled with his pride, and for a moment Gabi thought he might refuse, might sink back into the leather seat and demand they turn the plane around. But then he sighed, a long, defeated exhale that seemed to drain the tension from his shoulders, and he took her hand.
His fingers were cool and slender in hers, and when he stood, he wobbled immediately, his free hand flying out to steady himself against the seatback. The silk dress slid against his new curves, and his cheeks flushed that deep, endearing shade of pink that Gabi was already growing fond of.
"I hate this," he muttered.
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true."
Gabi led him down the aisle, one careful step at a time. The flight attendant—a polished woman with a practiced smile—watched them approach with barely concealed curiosity. Her eyes lingered on Marc, taking in the disheveled hair, the clutched neckline, the awkward, mincing steps.
"Everything alright, miss?" she asked, her tone perfectly neutral.
Marc's face went through a series of contortions—shock, indignation, and finally, a stiff, uncomfortable smile. "Yes.Fine. Just... jet lag."
Gabi snorted, earning her a sharp look from Marc. She covered it with a cough, nodding at the attendant. "Thank you for everything. We'll take the car from here."
The stairs descended into the warm Greek evening, and Marc gripped the handrail like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. The air hit them immediately, thick with salt and wild thyme, carrying the distant sound of music from the town below. Gabi breathed it in, feeling something loosen in her chest that she hadn't realized was clenched tight.
"Smell that?" she said, half-turning toward Marc. "That's freedom."
"That's seaweed," he said flatly.
"It's the same thing."
The car was waiting—a sleek black SUV with tinted windows and a driver who materialized out of nowhere to take their bags. Marc climbed in with the graceless desperation of someone who had forgotten how their own body worked, and Gabi slid in beside him, watching the lights of Mykonos appear as they wound down the coastal road.
"I can't believe you talked me into this," Marc said, staring out the window. His voice was still pitched that feminine, husky register, still foreign, still sending little shocks through Gabi's system every time she heard it.
"I didn't talk you into anything. You agreed under minimal duress."
"Minimal duress. You held my hands and looked at me with those eyes."
"These eyes?" Gabi fluttered her lashes at him innocently.
Marc turned to face her, and despite everything—the absurdity, the terror, the sheer impossibility of their situation—he laughed. It was a short, surprised sound, like a hiccup, and it lit up his whole face. Julia's face. Gabi felt her heart do something complicated.
"Okay," he said, shaking his head."Okay. I'm in. But I'm going to need a drink.A strong one."
"That's the spirit."
The villa was perched on a hillside overlooking the Aegean, all white stone and infinity pool and terraces that seemed to float above the water. The doors swung open into a space that was all open air and cool marble, and Marc stood in the entryway, his bare feet pressing against the stone, and let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for hours.
"This is... this is actually beautiful," he said quietly.
Gabi watched him, watched the way the last of the sunset painted him in shades of gold and rose, and felt a pang of something that was almost tenderness."Told you. Marc knows how to pick a villa."
Marc's lips quirked. "Marc does, does he?"
"I'm starting to think he's got decent taste."
"Decent?"
"Don't push it."
But the lightness faded quickly. Marc looked at himself again, at the dress, at the body, and his expression shuttered. "I need to get out of this. I need—" He gestured vaguely at himself. "I need to be something else. Something that doesn't feel so much like a costume."
Gabi nodded, pulling out her phone."We'll fix that. There's a boutique in town, it's still open, I saw it on the drive in. We'll get you real clothes, stuff you actually want to wear."
Marc looked skeptical. "You think that's going to help?"
"I think feeling like yourself on the outside is the first step to feeling like yourself on the inside." She paused, tilting her head. "I mean, that's what Becca always says, anyway. And she's been through, like, three spiritual awakenings, so she knows what she's talking about."
Marc laughed again, that surprised, disarmed sound, and Gabi felt a small thrill at having caused it."Fine. Let's go buy me a personality."
The boutique was tucked into a narrow alley off the main square, its windows glowing with warm light that spilled onto the cobblestones like honey. Inside, the air was thick with jasmine and something sandalwood-tinged, and racks of silk and linen rustled softly in the breeze from the open door.
A woman with silver-streaked hair and clever eyes looked up as they entered, her gaze sweeping over Marc with an appreciation that made him flush. "Kalosorisate," she said, her voice warm. "Welcome. You have excellent timing—we were about to close."
"We won't be long," Gabi said, already steering Marc toward a rack of sundresses. "We just need to find her something to wear."
Marc shot her a look."Her?"
"Not now," Gabi hissed under her breath.
The boutique owner's eyes crinkled with amusement. "You are on holiday? You have that look." She gestured at Marc. "You need something special. Something that makes you feel like the Aegean herself."
Marc's mouth opened, closed, and opened again."I... yes. Something like that."
Gabi was already pulling things off racks, holding them up, rejecting them with quick, decisive head shakes. "Too casual. Too bohemian. Oh—this one." She held up a slip dress in a deep terracotta, all liquid drape and strategic cutouts. "This one is you."
"It's not me at all," Marc said, but his voice had lost its resistance, gone soft and uncertain.
"Trust me." Gabi pressed the dress into his hands, along with a linen jumpsuit, a white crochet cover-up, and a stack of lace bralettes that made him look like he was holding contraband. "Just try them on. If you hate them, we'll find something else."
From somewhere, she had also procured a string bikini, barely more than a whisper of fabric in a shade of electric coral.
Marc stared at it."Absolutely not."
"It's non-negotiable."
"It's dental floss."
"It's Greece," Gabi said, as if that settled everything. "You're in Greece, and you have this body, and it would be a crime against the gods to not put it in a bikini."
"I'm not putting that body—" Marc sputtered, holding the bikini at arm's length like it might bite him. "This is my body. I am not putting it in—in thread. I refuse."
Gabi stepped closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "Remember the plan? Thirty days of being someone else. Someone who doesn't care what anyone thinks. Someone who dances on tables and skinny-dips at midnight and doesn't apologize for taking up space."
Marc's throat bobbed as he swallowed. "You're evil.You know that, right?"
"I'm persuasive. There's a difference." She took the bikini from his hands and folded it neatly, placing it on top of the growing pile. "Just try the other stuff first. The dress, the jumpsuit. If you still hate everything, we'll burn it all and you can live in that slip dress for the rest of the month."
Marc stared at her for a long moment. Then he turned and walked toward the fitting room, his steps still stilted in the borrowed heels, but steadier than before.
Gabi watched him go, her heart thrumming with an energy she hadn't felt in months. The boutique owner caught her eye and smiled knowingly.
"First holiday together?" she asked.
"Something like that," Gabi said.
The curtain to the fitting room rustled. A moment of silence. Then Marc's voice, muffled and uncertain: "I need help with the strap."
Gabi's eyebrows shot up. She glanced at the owner, who just waved her forward with an amused nod, and made her way to the fitting room, pulling the curtain aside just enough to slip through.
The terracotta dress was pooled around Marc's feet, half on and half off, one strap dangling loose while the other sat crooked on his shoulder. His hair was a mess, tangled from wrestling with the fabric, and his eyes were wide and helpless.
"I can't make it stay," he said, his voice small. "The straps keep slipping. I don't—I've never—"
"Here," Gabi said, her voice gentler than she intended. "Let me."
She stepped closer, her fingers brushing his shoulder as she reached for the straps. His skin was warm and impossibly soft, and she felt the tremor run through him at the contact. She adjusted the strap, then the other, and smoothed the fabric over his hips, her hands lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
"Gabi," Marc whispered."Yeah?"
"I don't know who I am right now." His voice cracked. "I don't know who I'm supposed to be. Every time I look in the mirror, I see her, and I don't—I don't know where I end and she begins."
Gabi swallowed. She looked at him—at the beautiful, terrified, absurdly perfect woman standing in front of her, wearing a dress that made her look like a sunset brought to life—and she felt something shift inside her. Something tectonic.
"You're still you," she said softly. "You're still Marc. The body is just... a costume. A temporary one. But you're still the man I fell in love with. And in thirty days, you'll be back in your own skin, and this will just be a crazy story we tell at parties."
Marc's eyes searched hers, looking for something. "And you'll still love me? When this is over?"
Gabi's throat tightened. "I'll still love you now. I love you now, like this, with the strap messed up and the hair a disaster." She reached up and tucked a strand of dark hair behind his ear. "I love you because you're you. And you're still you. Body swap and all."
Marc's eyes glistened. He blinked rapidly, looking away, and Gabi saw him swallow hard. "I'm going to cry," he said thickly. "And I don't know how to do that without ruining this face."
Gabi laughed, the sound breaking the tension. "I'll get you waterproof," she said."Come on. Let's see the rest."
She stepped back, letting Marc finish adjusting the dress, and when he emerged from the fitting room and caught his reflection in the full-length mirror, he froze. Gabi watched the expressions chase across his face—disbelief, wonder, a flicker of something that might have been pleasure—before settling on something quiet and almost peaceful.
"That's..." he started, then trailed off.
"Gorgeous," Gabi finished. "You're gorgeous."
Marc turned to look at her, his eyes finding hers in the mirror. "I don't know how to be this. I've never—I've never been looked at like that."
Gabi stepped up behind him, meeting his gaze in the glass. "Get used to it," she said. "Because for the next thirty days, you're going to be turning heads everywhere we go. And I'm going to enjoy every second of watching you figure out what to do with all that attention."
Marc shook his head, but he was smiling now, a real smile, one that reached his new eyes and crinkled their corners. "You're impossible."
"I'm your impossible," she said, and she meant it.
The boutique owner appeared, holding up a pair of sandals that glinted like spun gold. "These," she said simply. "Complete the look."
Marc took them, this time without protest, and Gabi paid for everything, adding a few more items to the pile on a whim—a cream linen dress, a wide-brimmed hat, a silk scarf printed with olive branches. By the time they left the shop, the sun had fully set, and the streets of Mykonos had come alive with the glow of lanterns and the sound of laughter.
Marc walked beside her, steadier now in his new sandals, wearing the terracotta dress like a second skin. He was still learning his body, still adjusting to the rhythm of his steps, but there was confidence growing in the way he held his shoulders.
"So," he said, glancing sideways at her."Dinner?"
Gabi looped her arm through his. "Dinner. And then maybe a walk on the beach. And then maybe, if you're feeling brave, one dance at that place by the water."
Marc let out a sound that was half laugh, half groan. "You're going to make me dance?"
"I'm going to make you live," Gabi said. "You can do that, right?"
He was quiet for a moment. Then he squeezed her arm and nodded. "I think I can try."
They walked toward the harbor, toward the lights and the music and the promise of a long, strange, beautiful month ahead. And for the first time since they'd landed, Marc seemed almost at peace.Almost.
But when they sat down at a candlelit table overlooking the water, and the waiter addressed him as "miss" with a respectful nod, Marc's grip on the menu tightened until his knuckles went white. Gabi watched, a flash of guilt cutting through her excitement.
This was going to be harder than she'd thought.
But she was in it now, and she was determined to see it through.
The waiter returned with a second bottle of champagne before they'd even finished the first. Marc had stopped flinching at "miss" by the third glass, his shoulders loosening as the bubbles worked their way through his bloodstream. Gabi watched him—the way he held the flute with new, elegant fingers, the way his lips curved around the rim—and felt something warm and dangerous unfurling in her chest.
"You're staring," Marc said, not looking up from his glass.
"I'm admiring."
"There's a difference?"
"Staring is passive. Admiring is intentional." Gabi leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand. "I'm being very intentional right now."
Marc's cheeks flushed that now-familiar pink, and he ducked his head, hiding a smile. "You're going to be insufferable about this, aren't you?"
"About watching my incredibly gorgeous boyfriend navigate the world in a woman's body? Absolutely insufferable.Get used to it."
The restaurant sat on a cliff's edge, the terrace spilling out over the water like an afterthought of stone and lantern light. Waves lapped against the rocks below, a steady, breathing rhythm that seemed to sync with the pulse of the music drifting from further down the harbor. Marc had ordered the grilled octopus and a salad he'd picked at without enthusiasm, but the champagne had done its work, erasing the tension from his jaw and the worry from his eyes.
"I haven't felt this light in years," Marc said quietly, almost to himself. He looked at his hands—Julia's hands, slender and capable—and turned them over, studying the palms. "I keep expecting to hate this. To feel trapped. But right now, with the wine and the view and the sound of the water, I just feel..."
"Free?" Gabi offered.
"Something like that." He looked up at her, and his eyes were brighter than she'd seen them in months."Is that wrong? Should I feel worse about this?"
Gabi reached across the table and took his hand. "You should feel whatever you feel. That's the whole point."
Music swelled from somewhere nearby, a pulsing, insistent beat that cut through the murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses. Gabi's foot tapped of its own accord, her body swaying slightly in her seat."What's that?" she asked, craning her neck toward the sound.
Marc followed her gaze. "There's a club down by the water. I saw it on the way in."
"A club." Gabi's eyes glittered. "Marc. We should go."
"We should go back to the villa. It's been a long day, and I—"
"You're not tired. You just said you feel light." She squeezed his hand, leaning in. "When's the last time you danced, Marc? Actually danced, not just swaying at a wedding?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it. A flicker of something—embarrassment, maybe, or the ghost of a memory—crossed his features. "I don't really dance. You know that."
"I know you think that. I also think you've never given yourself a reason to try." Gabi stood, tugging at his hand. "Come on. One drink. If you hate it, we leave."
Marc hesitated, but the champagne had made him pliant. "One drink," he said, rising. "And then we go home.
The club was a cave carved into the cliffside, its mouth open to the sea, its interior a cathedral of shadows and violet light. The bass was a physical presence, a heartbeat that traveled up through the soles of Gabi's feet and settled somewhere deep in her bones. Bodies moved everywhere, a tide of flesh and fabric, and the air was thick with perfume and sweat and the salt of the night.
Marc stopped at the threshold, his eyes wide. "I can't do this."You can." Gabi pulled him forward, her hand firm on his. "You're with me. You're safe. And you're about to have the best night of your life."
They pushed through the crowd, Gabi leading, Marc following with hesitance in every step. She found a spot near the edge of the dance floor, where the lights were a little softer and the crush of bodies a little less overwhelming, and turned to face him.
"Just move," she said, already swaying. "Don't think. Just let the music take you."
Marc stood rigid, his arms at his sides, his new body utterly still in the midst of the swirling chaos. "I don't know how to move like this. I don't know how this body moves."
"Then find out."
Gabi reached out and placed her hands on his hips. Marc's breath hitched, his eyes meeting hers, dark in the violet light. She moved him gently, coaxing, guiding, and slowly, hesitantly, he began to sway with her.
"There you go," she breathed. "That's it."
The song shifted, the beat quickening, and something in Marc's posture changed. His shoulders dropped. His spine loosened. He started to move with the music instead of against it, his body finding a rhythm that was entirely new and entirely his. Gabi watched, transfixed, as the last of his resistance melted away.
"You're dancing," she said, wonder in her voice. "You're actually dancing."
"I'm dancing," Marc echoed, and there was awe in his voice, like a discovery he hadn't expected to make. "I'm dancing."People were watching. Gabi noticed it first from the corner of her eye—a pair of women by the bar, heads tilted, eyes tracking Marc's movements. At first they were subtle, these glances, brief and easily dismissed. But as the night wore on and Marc grew bolder, more fluid, the attention became impossible to ignore.
He was gorgeous. That was the simple, undeniable truth of it. The terracotta dress moved with him like water, and the violet lights painted his skin in shades of plum and silver. He laughed at something, threw his head back, and the motion caught the light and turned him into something that belonged on a magazine cover.
A man approached, young and handsome, with a smile that suggested he was used to getting what he wanted. "You're an incredible dancer," he said to Marc, leaning in close to be heard over the music. "Can I buy you a drink?"Marc froze. His eyes darted to Gabi, wide and panicked. "I—I'm with someone."
The man's gaze flicked to Gabi, taking in the honey-blonde hair and the possessive curve of her arm around Marc's waist. His smile didn't waver. "Your friend can come too," he said, the offer generous but the implication clear.
Gabi stepped in, her voice light but her grip on Marc's hip firm. "She's not interested, but thanks for the offer."
The man held up his hands in surrender, a good-natured grin on his face as he backed away. Marc exhaled, a shaky breath that seemed to drain the tension from his body.
"That was—that was weird," he said, his voice barely audible over the music. "He was looking at me. He was actually—he wanted to—"
"Welcome to being a woman," Gabi said, and there was no laughter in her voice now. "It happens a lot."
Marc stared at her, something shifting behind his eyes. "It happens to you?"
"All the time." She ran a hand through her hair, suddenly self-conscious. "I mean, I've learned how to handle it.But yeah. All the time."
Marc was quiet for a moment, processing. Then he reached out and took her hand, threading their fingers together."I'm sorry," he said. "For all the times I didn't notice. For all the times I didn't think about what that must be like."
"You're noticing now," Gabi said, her voice soft. "That's all that matters.
They danced for another hour, until Gabi's feet ached and her lungs burned and the champagne had faded into a pleasant, fuzzy warmth. Marc had grown more confident with every song, his movements less hesitant, more self-assured. He was laughing more, too, that surprised, delighted sound that Gabi was starting to crave.
"I'm exhausted," he said finally, leaning against her. "I need to sit down. Or lie down. Or possibly die."
"Same," Gabi admitted. "Let's get out of here."
They stumbled out of the club together, the night air hitting them like a wall of cool silk. The walk back to the car was a winding path of cobblestones and soft, silver moonlight, and Gabi found herself watching Marc as he moved—more confident now, more grounded, than when they'd arrived.
The car was waiting, the driver silent and professional. They slid into the back seat, and the city fell away behind them, the lights of Mykonos receding into the dark.
Marc leaned his head against the window, his eyes half-closed, a small smile playing on his lips. "I had fun," he said, the words quiet and slightly slurred from the champagne. "I didn't think I would. But I had fun."
"Told you," Gabi said, but her voice was gentle. "I'm always right."
"You're not always right."
"I'm right about the fun things. That's what matters."
The silence stretched between them, comfortable and warm. The driver took a curve at the base of the hillside, and the villa appeared above them, a white beacon against the dark sky.
Gabi turned in her seat, facing Marc fully. A grin spread across her face, slow and wicked.
"So," she said, "not to make you even more uncomfortable than you already are, but did you notice?"
"Notice what?"
"Everyone. Staring." She emphasized the word, letting it hang in the air. "The whole night. Everywhere we went. They were all looking at you."
Marc's brow furrowed. "They were looking at us. At you. You're the one who—"
"No." Gabi shook her head, her grin widening. "They were looking at you, Julia. The women at the bar. The man who tried to buy you a drink. The waiter at dinner who couldn't stop checking on our table. They were all looking at you."
Marc's cheeks flushed, visible even in the dim light of the car. "That's not—I mean, they were being nice. We're tourists. People are friendly to tourists."
"Marc." Gabi reached out and took his hand, his slender, elegant fingers in hers. "You're literally the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. I mean that. And every single person we passed tonight agreed. They weren't being friendly. They were being interested."
Marc stared at her, his mouth slightly open. In the moonlight, with his hair mussed and his eyes shining, he was breathtaking. "I don't know how to process that," he admitted. "I've never been looked at like that. Not like that. I don't know what to do with it."
"You'll learn." Gabi squeezed his hand. "And I'll be right there beside you the whole time, making sure you don't let it go to your head."
"Too late," Marc murmured, and there was a hint of wonder in his voice. "It's already in my head."
The car pulled up to the villa, and they climbed out, the driver wishing them a good night as he disappeared into the dark. The villa stood before them, all white stone and warm light, the infinity pool gleaming like black glass.
Marc stopped at the edge of the terrace, looking out at the sea. The moon had painted a silver path across the water, and the stars were scattered like handfuls of diamonds.
"I didn't know it could feel like this," he said quietly."To be seen. To be desired. I've always been the one doing the looking, you know? The one who notices. The one who chases. I never knew what it felt like on the other side."
"Does it feel good?" Gabi asked, coming to stand beside him.
"It feels..." Marc searched for the word."Exposed. Terrifying. And also maybe the most alive I've felt in years."
Gabi turned to face him, reaching up to cup his cheek. The gesture was tender, intimate, and Marc leaned into her touch without thinking. "You're amazing," she said softly. "You know that? You're handling this so much better than I would. You're not fighting it anymore. You're just... living in it."
"I'm doing my best," Marc said.
"Your best is pretty incredible."
They stood there for a long moment, the sea whispering below them, the stars wheeling overhead. And for the first time since the swap, the fear had fully dissipated, leaving behind something new. Something that felt almost like gratitude.