Page 115 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
Or burned and freckled, like mine did.
No one ever told me it was okay to be me. All my friends were on diets throughout our teenage years. All of us were drowning in self-loathing.
I wish I was as fat now as I thought I was back then. It makes me sad to think of how long and how hard I tried to be something I wasn’t.
The ghost of my reflection gazes back at me from the window. She’s pale, unsmiling, her hair a dark cloud around her head. She looks like she’s seen things she wishes she hadn’t.
Suddenly I’m filled with anger. “You know what? A wise woman once said, ‘Fuck this shit’ and lived happily ever after.”
Ghost me looks impressed. And a little frightened.
With renewed determination, I head into the bathroom to get ready for the party.
Two hours later, my determination has wilted, and I’m wringing my hands in panic inside the closed bedroom door.
“Any day now, lassie. We could be dead by the time you come out!”
Cam and Mrs. Dinwiddle have gathered in the living room for my big reveal. They must’ve made arrangements between themselves, because I never invited them, but here they are. I’m regretting giving Mrs. Dinwiddle that spare key.
I take one last deep breath, smooth my hands down my waist, and open the door. When I step into the living room, Mrs. Dinwiddle leaps to her feet with a theatrical gasp.
“Heavens, Ducky! You’re beautiful!”
I know I should be flattered, but she doesn’t have to sound so dang shocked. “How’s the hair?” I pat it nervously. “I used your hot oil treatment.”
Mrs. Dinwiddle floats over to me, little sounds of astonishment falling from her lips as she ogles me up and down. “Oh, my dear, it’s simply perfect. Perfect! How did you get it up like that? What a lovely, chic twist!”
“YouTube,” I admit sheepishly. “They have really good tutorials.”
Sitting on the sofa with a beer, Cam isn’t saying anything. He’s just looking at me. Really looking at me.
While Mrs. Dinwiddle hovers over me, plucking at nonexistent bits of lint on my dress and sighing in rapture like some hysterical fairy godmother, I let Cam stare until I can’t take it anymore. “Well?”
His voice low and husky, he says, “Let’s just say I’m glad I’m already sittin’ down.”
Pleased, I look down at myself. “I’m taking that as a compliment.”
“Aye. It’s a compliment. But if you knew what I was really thinkin’, lass, you’d run back into that bedroom and bolt the door behind you.”
When I glance back up at him, he isn’t smiling. He lifts his beer in a salute, then guzzles the whole thing in one go. My face flushes with heat.
“But we need to take it in a bit, Ducky. It’s a little loose here!”
Mrs. Dinwiddle is frowning at my waist, pinching an inch of fabric between her fingers.
“You’re right. I’ve lost weight since I bought this. Shoot.”
“No worries, my dear, just take it off for a minute, and I’ll fix it up for you! I’m an expert seamstress, of course. All those years on the stage, I accumulated more than just men, let me tell you. My skills with a needle and thread are legendary. Tut, tut, in you go, take it off, put on a robe, and I’ll bring it right back!”
She waves me off into the bedroom like she’s shooing a flock of pigeons away from her lunch. I remove the dress, careful not to mess my hair or makeup, put on my fluffy white bathrobe, and reemerge into the living room with the dress in my arms.
“Back in a jiff!”
Mrs. Dinwiddle sweeps out of the apartment, leaving me and Cam alone.
“You’re not wearin’ your glasses.”
It sounds like an accusation, so instantly I’m on the defense. “I’ve got my contacts in. I decided to go whole hog with the transformation thing. I want everyone to not recognize me when I walk into the party. I want to slay.”
