Gemma
“I can’t do it,Peyton! What the hell was I thinking? I can’t take my clothes off in front of a complete stranger.”
“Babe, you’re overthinking it. These artistic types have seen it all before. Besides, the guy’s in his sixties, right? And he works at the university, so you know he’s not some sketchy perv who wants to check out your penis fly trap for shits ‘n’ giggles.”
“Not helping, Pey. And penis fly trap? I wish!” I glare at her on my phone screen, having video-called her ten minutes ago in a panic as my appointment loomed closer.
“Listen, Gem. We all agreed to this pact. And you’re the one who said, ‘We don’t grow if we stay in our comfort zone,’” she says, quoting me word for word from our group chat.
Why the heck didn’t I just stick with showing my jewelry at the upcoming Art Festival in Crystal Peak?
I lean my head against the pillows on my bed with a groan. “Yeah, but that was when I thought I’d only be displaying my jewelry at the local fair, not flopping out my tits for a lifedrawing. Which was your idea, by the way,” I say with a hint of accusation.
“Because you asked me to come up with suggestions to ‘shed the old Gem and bring forth the new,’” Peyton reminds me, using her most dramatic voice. “You could have taken the skydiving option I came up with. Or the vampire blood facial. Or even the zombie role-play thing at that abandoned shopping mall. But no, I distinctly remember you saying how great it would be to finally embrace your curves with a tasteful life drawing you could hang over your bed. Out with the old Gem and in with the new, blah, blah. You even used big words like ‘caterpillar,’ ‘metamorphosis,’ and ‘butterfly.’”
“Ugh! I did, didn’t I? But in my defense, I was on a sugar high from the lemon bonbons and chocolate liquors when we made our pact.”
“You and your sweet tooth,” Peyton sighs and shakes her head, sending her long, dark hair dancing around her shoulders. “You know sugar is eight times more addictive than cocaine, right?”
I laugh. “Are you suggesting I start snorting a line instead of popping a bonbon?”
Peyton grins. “Never. You stick to your bonbons, and I’ll stick to my wine. I’ll need a vat of the stuff to confront Mr. Property Developer with my conservation report. What was I thinking? Hey, maybe we can swap? I’ll wax my undercarriage and lounge seductively on synthetic fur for Mr. Life Drawing. You can confront Mr. Property Developer about his ridiculous plans to build a five-star resort in virgin forest with zero thought to the ecological impact on the environment and the habitat of endangered species.”
“You know what? The whole life drawing thing is starting to sound a lot more attractive after that epic spiel. You’ve got your work cut out for you, my friend.”
“I know.” Peyton rubs her temples and sighs heavily.
“Seriously, Pey. I’m proud of you. You’re making a real difference. It takes guts to confront the big guns who think they can bulldoze their way through legislation without considering the environmental impact.”
“Thanks, babe. That means a lot,” she says with a warm smile. “Sooooo, are we doing this?”
I take a deep breath and return her smile. “Yes, I do believe we are.”
“Look at us go!” Peyton chuckles. “We’re like … Thelma and Louise.”
I laugh. “Hopefully without the whole driving off a cliff and plunging to our deaths part.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Ah, but did they die?”
I look at Peyton as if she’s crazy. “Of course, they did. They held hands and drove off a cliff at a hundred miles an hour.”
Peyton purses her lips. “Maybe a huge eagle swooped in, plucked them from mid-air, and flew them to safety?”
“Or maybe aliens with huge schlongs and ridged tongues beamed them up into their spaceship and whisked them to a tropical planet and gave them orgasms all day long,” I say, getting into the alternate fantasy ending of the movie.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Peyton sniggers. “Like that would ever happen.”
“Which part? The schlongs, the tongues, or the orgasms?”
“All of it. And, please, for the love of God, never use the word ‘schlong’ again. Jackie Collins has a lot to answer for.”
I smirk. “See? This is what I love about you. We have these wonderfully random conversations.”
“Great, isn’t it?” Peyton says enthusiastically. “Listen, I should let you go. You have”—she checks her watch—“one hour to slip into femme fatale mode. Go get ‘em, tiger. I’ll be waiting to hear all the juicy details.”
An hour later,I’m feeling less like a tiger and more like a kitten that’s lost its way. I check the time on my phone again. 6.55 PM. My appointment is at 7 PM.
I swipe my sweaty palms down my jeans. This seemed like such a good idea when I booked the appointment—all part of my cunning plan to embrace my true self. But now I’m questioning my sanity as I stand outside the inoffensive red brick building in the next town to avoid being seen by anyone who may know me.