“You’ve really blossomed this summer, haven’t you, Genevieve?” The way he says my name has bile creeping up the back of my throat. My mom’s laugh is bitter, full of resentment.
“A perfectly plump flower, no?” she says, looking up at her geriatric husband with the same false charm he always buys.
“She’s becoming a woman, Aurélie,” he says, his eyes greedily roaming over me as he says my mother’s name with no effort at all, and I focus on my breath. “Soon, people might think you’re sisters.”
I catch the way her eyes slant up at him, see the way they sharpen just before they soften, her hand deftly landing on his chest. And I know it bothered her, but she won’t say anything. She never does.
“Ma crevette,” she chirps, so certain he’ll never find out she’s calling him a shrimp, “take my bags upstairs, yes? You can pick out my dress for tonight.”
He hesitates, like he doesn’twantto leave, some sick fantasy no doubt spinning in his age-addled mind. But mother artfully smooths her hand down his shirt, letting her fingers trail, and I’m reminded of the way husband hunting has become a sport for her. The older, the wealthier, thebetter. And after a quick elopement, she’ll take her time either waiting for them to die or for the terms of the prenupsheinsisted on to allow her to divorce with a hefty alimony.
“Of course, cherie,” he says, his lack of an accent making my skin crawl.
She stares at me for a moment, waiting until the coast is clear, her hands flexing as she grips the edge of the island counter.
“How dare you walk around like this, oozing out of this expensivechemise,” she spits, her gaze flicking down to my stomach. “Throwing yourself at him—atmen,” she continues, like she has evidence of this. “You disgust me,” she sneers, her body trembling as she quickly walks toward me and tears away the rest of the shirt, her fist clenching the pink fabric as she takes in my now vulnerable body.
“Grosse.” Her voice is little more than a whisper, but I recognize the French word for fat, an insult that, to her, beats all the rest. I feel my lip wobble, tears clouding my vision as she throws the shirt back in my face. “Couvre-toi,” she snaps, grabbing her handbag off the counter and storming off.
I’m left frozen, gripping the mess of fabric tightly against my body in an attempt to cover up like she demanded. I breathe in through my nose, trying to stop the sob now threatening to rack through me. I slowly make my way back to my room, making myself as silent and small as possible as my feet pad against the hardwood floors. Once inside, I shut the door and pull out an old Columbia sweatshirt that belonged to my dad, wrapping myself inside it, curling up on the large plush bed funded by my mother’s previous husband. My body feels tired and sore andnot mine.
I sit up so that I can see myself in my vanity mirror, observing the angles of my face glistening with my tears. The girlhood seems to have been erased—my cheekbones are more prominent and the pinkness in my expression is less, like all the suppleness has sharpened into the face of a woman.
My mother’s words ring in my ears.Grosse.Grosse. Grosse.
I inhale a deep breath and smell the familiar musky undertones of my father. That scent of burnt coffee beans, cheap cigarettes, and aftershave that takes me home. My thumb traces the frayed hem of the sleeve just as I hear tapping at my window.
I squint towards it, butterflies erupting in my stomach when I see Will crouched on the sparse ledge. I jump up, sniffing back my tears and shove the frame up. He ambles in, so much taller and longer than he was back in May.
“I thought you didn’t get home until next week?” Rain drops fall from the messier than usual ends of his blonde strands, his eyes peering at me with something that makes my heart ache, and I catch the shadows beginning to spread on the skin around his mossy gaze. “Oh my god, what happened?”
He glances away, a mischievous smile on his face. “They kicked me out for fighting.”
Worry falls like a heavy weight in my stomach, and I wonder if he’ll ever stop. It’s the third summer intensive he’s been kicked out of since we met in seventh grade, but it doesn’t seem like he cares. And it’s always for something like this—fighting.
“Is that how you got this?” I reach out and touch the bruise forming, and he winces beneath my touch, his smile forlorn as he avoids my gaze.
“No,” is all he says before looking back at me, but I know.
“So Ben just let it happen?” I ask him incredulously.
“He wasn’t home. It’s not a big deal.” I furrow my brows, my head dipping slightly, because itisa big deal and he knows it. “He only got one hit in before I left. I was worried you wouldn’t be home.” His hands come up to my face, and I feel it heat before I even feel him. Fingers softly brushing at my half dried tears, I see his eyes crinkle with worry. “Why were you crying, Genny?”
I shake my head furiously, more concerned with his abusive father than my narcissistic mother. “Nothing I’m… probably getting my period,” I brush it off. He tilts his head, not taking that for an answer. “She just…called me fat?” I laugh at the absurdity of it, expecting him to play it off like just another crazy thing Aurélie said. Instead, he steps back, searing me with his gaze as he traces the new outline of me.
“She’s crazy,” he murmurs, and a chill spreads down my arms.
“Is she?” I say, shifting to look back in my mirror. “There’s just so much…more of me. Like what is this?” I smooth my hand down my stomach over my sweatshirt, trying hard to remember the way I used to be able to count my ribs.
When he comes up behind me, I finally notice justhow muchhe grew while we were apart. His chin rests firmly on top of my head, the heat from his body radiating through me—that’s how close we are. I steady my breathing, reminding myself that this isWill, that he is just being my best friend, that there is nothing different about the way he’s watching me in the mirror.
“What’s what?” he asks, a subtle smirk on his lips, and itmakes my heart skip a beat. His hands skate over mine, touching me by proxy. “So you don’t look like a choir boy anymore. I’d hardly say that’s a bad thing,” he grins, and I go to swat him just as his fingers dig into the rib cage I was looking for, tickling me with relentless determination. I spin around and press my palms against him, my laugh more of a screech than a howl, and he tumbles back and down on to my bed, pulling me with him.
“I’m going topee,” I plead, trying to wrap my arms around him to tickle that one spot on his back. I shove myself closer to him, everything about him broader than I remember, and I’m acutely aware of the lack of space between us. It seems he is, too, as his gaze flicks down to our chests, pressing into each other.
His eyes flit to my lips, and I feel them part without my permission. And then he’s kissing me, and I’ve never kissed anyone before, but I’m kissing him back, the warmth and pressure of his lips on mine exactly like I’ve always imagined it—perfect, like they belong there.
“I don’t need them. You’re my home, Genny.” His nose grazes mine, his whispered breath skimming my cheek.
