“I’d have to see them to know,” Isaac says slyly. Lucia tugs off her light sweater—no bra—and places his hands on her beautiful brown mounds. Isaac cups and squeezes like he’s giving her a breast exam. “I can’t tell the difference at all,” he affirms, shifting in his seat because he probably has a huge boner.
“Told you.” Lucia settles back against him while he continues to feel her up, and I consider her suggestion. I could never have afforded plastic surgery before, but I can now. And isn’t that a good investment to make in my long-term career? Isn’t that the obvious next move? I want to have as many opportunities as possible. I don’t want to give any casting director a reason to turn me down ever again.
“Cassius, what do you think?” I ask.
He frowns as he studies me with an artist’s eye, taking my chin and turning it this way and that. The suspense of it all is killing me until at last, he says, “I think you have to be careful, dove. You know what happened to Jennifer Gray after her surgery, don’t you? She was practically unrecognizable. She went from being the iconic Baby inDirty Dancingto a complete unknown. That nose job ruined her career.”
“It doesn’t have to be anything drastic,” Lucia says and turns to give me a better look at her profile. “I just had a little fine contouring done on mine to even out the ridge. Dr. Flemons is an artist with a scalpel.”
“Your nose does look perfect,” I tell her with some envy while my brother plants kisses up and down her swan-like neck.
“The recovery takes a while,” Cassius says, “Six weeks if I recall. And it’s one of the more painful procedures.”
“But the drugs are soooo good,” Lucia says with a smile. “And Cassius makes such a good nurse.”
“I’ll have some time in December when we break for the winter holidays,” I say to Cassius, hoping he’ll agree to it.
“This isn’t the sort of thing you should rush into, Adam. There are some risks involved.”
“This is ridiculous,” Elliot huffs, setting down his champagne flute and standing with his hands on his hips. “You’re the most attractive man I’ve ever encountered, Adam. The very standard of beauty we artists go seeking. A living, breathing Vitruvian Man. Your face has the sort of symmetry you don’t find in the natural world. Why would you go and ruin absolute perfection? It’s madness.”
I hate it when people lie to me, like I’m stupid or something. Like I can’t see what they see in the mirror. “I’m not perfect, Elliot. Not even close.”
Cassius says, “I was reading a fascinating article recently about how online algorithms are already starting to shape the standards as to what qualifies as ‘attractive.’ It would be an interesting experiment to—”
“I’ve been trying to capture your beauty on my canvases for weeks and I simply cannot,” Elliot interrupts, still shouting at me. “Because you, yourself embody it. To hear now that you want to conform to an impossible standard or even worse, to game some algorithm? It’s a fucking travesty, Adam.”
“Calm your tits, Elliot,” Cassius says because he can see I’m getting upset by how harsh Elliot is being. “You must remember it’s Adam’s body, not yours. He can make whatever improvements he wants. If he wants horns and a tail and to be referred to as Satan, then that’s his decision.”
“So, you think it’s an improvement?” I ask.
He touches my face softly. “Adam, darling, I think you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever met, but I want you to do what makesyoufeel good. And whatever you decide, know I’ll be with you every step of the way.”
He then changes the subject while my brother and Lucia make their way to the hot tub, losing articles of clothing along the way—they’re definitely fucking tonight—but I’m still stuck on our conversation.
Later, while everyone’s saying goodnight, I sneak away to Heather Hunter’s bedroom, to her mirror that does not lie. I stare at my reflection from all angles, turning my head and tilting my chin, trying to see the perfection Elliot speaks of, but I can’t.
Chapter19
Cassius
Our first Christmas together and what does Adam want? Rhinoplasty. I suppose I shouldn’t be so surprised, but I’ve seen cosmetic surgery go terribly wrong, and I’m not talking fatal reactions to anesthesia. I’m talking lips the size of golf balls, chemical peels that leave your dermis looking like bubbling cheese, face lifts where you can pull back the skin like it’s saltwater taffy. I want to be supportive, but like his extreme dieting, Adam’s pursuit of perfection via surgical alterations could be the start of a disturbing trend.
To distract him, I roll out the red carpet for the elder Bailey brother. We doallthe things—the Hollywood Walk of Fame, Santa Monica Pier, a tour of Paramount Pictures, lunch and shopping on Rodeo Drive… We spend an entire day riding roller coasters at Universal Studios even though I abhor theme parks on principle. And then there is Thanksgiving, where Lucia and I wear matching aprons and dutifully cook an entire Thanksgiving spread while the Bailey brothers watch eight straight hours of football and sneak snacks when they think no one is looking. Elliot makes an appearance just before dinner is served, and I give him a choice cut of my very own expertly carved turkey, which is both tenderandjuicy. Isaac leads us in a blessing, and I say my amens with complete piety, feeling more wholesome than I have in perhaps my entire life.
Of course, what happens in the bedroom is a whole other story. Adam is no less enthusiastic in our fucking, even with our house guest, and I’m glad that my walls are so thin. I derive great satisfaction in knowing Isaac can hear his baby brother getting railed by yours truly on the daily. On a few occasions, I hear Isaac’s footsteps just outside our bedroom door while I’m plowing into Adam with the fiery lust of a demon and wonder if he might be curious as to Adam’s true nature.
Despite my diversions, Adam persists in needling me about a nose job. Elliot and I happen to agree that Adam is already the peak of masculine perfection, but to argue with him would only cause him to dig his heels in further. It’s impossible to deter him, especially once he gets his heart set on something, so after we drop his brother off at LAX one bright and smoggy morning, I tell Adam that I took the trouble of making an appointment with Dr. Flemons, and because we’re on a tight schedule, the appointment is for that afternoon. His jubilation at my endorsement is almost worth the risk of a botched job.
In the doctor’s office, Adam is like a kid in a candy shop, ooohing and ahhhing at the catalog of before and after shots, which are mostly photographs of ordinary people whose looks are only marginally improved by surgery.
“I mean, look at this guy. He only had, like, half a face,” Adam marvels at one particularly gruesome example.
“That’s a burn victim, dove. His face was melted off.”
“I know and look at him now. This Dr. Flemons must really be a miracle worker.”
Christ, I have created a monster.
