Preface
Libby
My mind is churning, a thousand thoughts all trying to happen at once. I can barely sort it all out.
As I close the door behind me, I finally catch sight of myself in the mirror. It takes my breath away.
Mascara is caked below my eyes in uneven smudges, speckled with flakes like ash. My hair is an absolute fright, sticking out all over the place, tangled in blonde patches, totally unkempt.
But what really gets me is the mark on my left cheek. It’s not huge. It probably even looks like a birthmark or even a line from the pillow I was sleeping on. But I know it wasn’t there yesterday. I know what happened.
No, I’m not going to think about that. There are nine hundred and ninety-nine other thoughts that I could be savoring right now. Why should I focus on just that one?
The shower controls are basically the same as every other, and with just a little bit of fiddling I manage to get the water spray to a tolerable temperature. On second thought, I crank it up little bit. It’s too hot when I get in, but I make myself stand there, bracing against the heat, forcing myself to tolerate it.
There aren’t a lot of frills to the shower. No girlie poofs. No shampoo at all—just soap. But the soap is strong and rough, and it feels unbelievably good to get myself really clean. Scrubbed. Renewed. It feels like a million years since the last time I gave myself a good, thorough going-over.
But in reality, it was just yesterday.
Still, that feels a million miles away. Back when the only thing I was worried about was my next shift at the convenience store. Back when the only prospects I had for romance were the phony, exaggerated videos I saw on the internet.
Yesterday I thought I knew exactly what I would be doing today, and every day for the foreseeable future. It was all laid out in front of me, neat and tidy and predictably boring.
I’m not even the kind of person who takes big, sweeping chances. I have my wild side… well, I think I do. But mostly I am a good girl. The colonel’s daughter. The one who keeps the house clean and tidy for the big boss. The one who can be counted on to do the right thing all the time.
Everything is different now.
There’s no shampoo, so I guess soap will have to do. People probably manage without shampoo all over the world, after all. And soldiers are known for their adaptability, their uncomplaining dedication to only the barest essentials. No frills.
Washing my hair with the bar, I love the feeling of my fingers against my scalp. I feel so turned up, like a knob that’s been edging closer and closer to ten. It’s thrilling. I’m full of bees. I never really dared before, but now I think I’d like to get all the way up there, see how high this is all going to go.
Yesterday was just the start, I know. There is so much more to come. So much more I haven’t done yet. And now, it’s a dream come true. Everything I ever wished for magically dropped into my lap.
Finally clean, I step back out of the shower and unfold the towel without looking at myself too hard in the mirror again. I know who I am, after all. My reflection doesn’t change that.
Somehow, these borrowed boxer briefs actually fit. Not perfectly, of course. They’re not made for girl hips and there’s all this extra fabric in the front. But I kind of like the way they wrap around my thighs. They almost look like shorts, if you don’t notice the button crotch.
And just before I slide the T-shirt over my head, I get a whiff of the scent. It cracks open in my mind like an egg. This hungry, feral craving. This strangely thorough desire. I never knew that I could feel this way… A deep void has split open within me, and I have to fill it with something. I can’t just let it howl with emptiness. I need to find order in there.
Dressed in these borrowed clothes, my hair wet and hanging around my cheeks, I open the door to the bathroom again and step back into the living room, greeted by their direct, meaningful, truthful stares.
This is it. This is the connection I have always denied myself. This is the moment where I take the steps I can’t retreat from. I’ll never be able to go back to where I was.
I don’t want to.
Chapter 2
Libby
The sliding screen door opens, and I hear Mona’s bare feet slapping on the concrete patio as she walks toward the lawn chair next to me. With my eyes closed, I can totally picture her taking careful steps as she lines herself up with the recliner. She cautiously settles in the middle of the beach towel she spread out earlier, pinching a Diet Coke bottle between her thumb and forefinger with her other fingers jutting out at the perfect angle to keep her manicure from getting chipped.