5. Chapter 2 – Marley
“Are my tits getting bigger?”
My mirrored reflection stared back at me, emerald eyes crinkled into a frown as I palmed my breasts, weighing them with both hands. They felt bigger. Rounder, maybe. The size G bra I’d squeezed them into didn’t seem to be any tighter than usual, and yet …
Heavy breasts and heartburn—the current punishment for eating my feelings. More like the dosage change in my medication. Curse you, side effects.
“What? How should I know? Are you even listening, Marley?”
My cheeks heated to the surface of the sun as my friend’s incredulous voice came down the line.
“Yes, sorry.” I adjusted the phone between my shoulder and ear so I could continue to get dressed while Luisa chattered away. Grabbing the tight navy skirt lying at the foot of my bed, I stepped into it to pull it up over my dimpled thighs. “You were saying?”
“I was saying that Cheryl is really hoping you’ll come to her birthday party this year. You never come out, anymore.”
She emphasized “never” as if we hadn’t just seen each other on a wellness retreat in Costa Rica three months before.
The wellness retreat where she discovered herself through questionable herbs and copious sex with the twenty-two-year-old yoga instructor, while I avoided everyone and everything for as long as she’d let me.
“I work a lot, Luisa.”
I gave up trying to dress myself with all the grace of a newborn giraffe, and set the phone to speaker mode on my bed. Zipping up the ridiculous uniform regulation skirt with a harder yank than I intended, I winced when the sharp metal teeth pinched my skin.
“And I’m not going to be able to make it anyway. I have a bachelor party flight that weekend.”
I pursed my lips for another reason entirely.
Aileron was constantly inventing new ways to offer sub-par service to wealthy travelers and passing it off as luxury.
Between playing pilot to a group of drunken, handsy men and visiting my mother half a world away …
the bachelor party required less patience and more tips.
Reaching for the crisp white blouse hanging in my closet, I continued to dress as Luisa waited out my silence.
We’d been casual friends for a number of years.
Her chaotic energy was so like my twin, Charlie, it was what drew me to her in the first place, when she’d ambushed me at my first and only attempt at a spin class.
We had so little in common, but I had few friends on this side of the world, and Luisa pushed me out of my comfort zone every now and again, while respecting my need for distance.
Apparently, today was the day she’d decided to break our unwritten rule.
The dusty mirror on top of my dresser reflected back puffy skin from disjointed sleep, and a thin layer of powder coating my cheeks and chin doing nothing to hide the exhaustion.
Chestnut hair fell to my shoulders in loose waves, thanks to Brazil’s clinging humidity, lacking the zest it had thirty minutes ago when I’d curled it.
Two minutes of stagnant silence passed, broken only by my irritated huffs as I knotted my tie and tucked in my shirt.
I abandoned the thin, sheer pantyhose laid out on the edge of the bed— much too hot for that nonsense today — and was about to speak when her soft admission broke through the stand-off.
“I wish we saw more of you, Marley. The world isn’t the cold place you think it is.”
I wish it wasn’t.
Regret, burning and bitter, singed my insides like errant wildfire. Drawing a deep breath all the way into my belly, I smothered the broil with a practiced shield of calm.
I was fun once, but it was so long ago I couldn’t even remember the person who laughed for the sake of it. Charlie would remember her, but she wasn’t here to come to my defense. I was on an entirely different continent.
Before I could muster the words, any words, to change the subject, Luisa did it for me.
“Maybe you’re pregnant?” she mused, a knowing smile in her tone. “That’s why your tits are bigger.”
A caustic laugh escaped my chest, choking me with its bite. “I can guarantee you I’m not pregnant.”
My infertility aside, pregnancy required sex with something other than silicone. My vibrator was so well worn from the lack of skin-to-skin human contact these days, I’d probably come on sight from the next decent man who touched me properly.
I’d have to find one first.
Between the long flight paths between South and Latin America’s largest cities, and a general dislike for meeting new people, that wouldn’t be happening anytime soon.
“Next trip, I’m getting you laid.”
Luisa’s determined declaration was as familiar to me as the curve of my identical twin’s smile, a promise she made me every other week. Biting my lip to control my grin, I acquiesced like I always did, knowing it wouldn’t make a lick of difference.
I picked up the medication bottle on my dresser and scrutinized its contents.
Did I need to pack extra for this trip? It was a turnaround — twenty-four hours at most if we didn’t encounter any schedule changes in Mexico City.
I’d had my medications stolen before, and requesting a refill too soon was a massive headache.
I had enough headaches. I counted three pills into my open pillbox and thrust the rest back into my drawer. Three would be more than enough.
“Alright, Luisa,” I said, my tone as soothing as shea butter. “Next trip, you can get me laid. No tech bros, please.”
As I shrugged on my jacket, I glanced at the one piece of my father I still owned: an analog compass watch used in mountaineering.
The masculine relic was worth a small fortune, chunky and clunky against the smooth, tailored lines of my uniform, but just like him, the timepiece continued to haunt me with its presence.
And fuck it, I was late.
“Gotta run, talk to you soon.” Without waiting for her reply, I grabbed my phone from the bed and ended the call, stuffing it into my bag alongside my wallet and keys. I scanned my apartment quickly, seeking out anything missing before I left my home for four days.
The single-room flat was easy to skim: bare beige walls, save for a large crack in the plaster the landlord kept insisting would be fixed “by Friday.” The small kitchen counter was as barren as the day I moved in. Surviving off takeout and airport food, I didn’t even own basic utensils.
Satisfied with my once-over, I shoved my pillbox into the side pocket of my airline-issued carry-on.
I locked the door and pulled the luggage across well-worn carpeting to the ancient elevator.
My scheduled driver would arrive any minute, and we’d face the nightmare of S?o Paulo’s traffic together for the next two hours.
It was a good day to fly.