Turquoise. Holds it up against me. Hums. Back it goes.
Then black.
She pauses on that one.
It’s minimal but architectural—clean lines, wide circular detail at the center, structured triangle top.
“This,” she says decisively. “You don’t need padding. Trust me.”
“I really don’t—” I start.
“You’ll see what I mean.”
The dressing room is narrow and brightly lit, every mirror positioned to be unforgiving. I perch on the little bench, scrolling through emails on my BlackBerry, trying to pretend this is normal.
The curtain rustles.
“Beth?”
I glance up.
And freeze.
Sage steps out without ceremony, adjusting the straps like she’s changing in her own bedroom. She’s completely at ease, chewing gum, inspecting herself in the mirror.
“You can’t tell they’re fake, can you?” she says casually, turning slightly. “I mean—look. They’re really good.”
She gestures, matter-of-fact, like she’s pointing out a new haircut.
“My ex paid a fortune for them,” she continues. “Best silicone. The work is… impressive.”
She lifts the fabric just enough to indicate what she means, then—before I can look away—she reaches over, grabs my wristgently but firmly, and places my hand directly on her breast. The skin is warm, impossibly soft, the weight and give so natural under my palm that my breath catches.
“Feel that,” she murmurs, eyes locked on mine in the mirror, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. “Feels real, right? You can’t even see the surgeon’s incision. It’s hidden right here—” She guides my fingers lower, along the underside curve, tracing a faint, invisible line. “Perfect work. Go ahead, squeeze a little. See for yourself.”
I’m frozen, heat flooding my face, my hand trembling against her like I’ve been caught doing something forbidden. She doesn’t let go of my wrist, just holds it there a second longer than necessary, her gaze steady and amused.
She finally releases me, drops the fabric back into place, unbothered.
I stare. I can’t help it.
Is this what it girls do? Inspect each other’s tits?
She notices my expression and laughs lightly. “Don’t be embarrassed, sweetie. It’s just a body.”
“Yeah,” I say weakly. “They… look nice.”
She grins, pops her gum, clearly satisfied.
“Alright,” she says, turning back toward the curtain. “Enough about me.”
She waves a dismissive hand. “This day is about you.”
She disappears back into the dressing room, voice floating out over the music.
“Besides, I don’t need any more bikinis.”
I sit there, phone forgotten in my hand, heart thudding a little too fast.
