Page 50 of What Goes Around

In my first life, comments like that had worked.

They had stayed with me. Dug in. Shaped me.

I had starved myself because of them.

I’d always been tall for my age, but by the time I hit 5'10, my body was all long limbs and sharp lines. Later, in college, when I finally started eating properly again, I filled out more. Softer in places. Fuller.

And still, I walked with my shoulders curled inward.

Trying to take up less space.

Trying to be easier to look at.

More acceptable.

I could still hear my mother’s “helpful” comments, clear as day.

“You’d be pretty if you were just… smaller. More delicate. Like a real girl.”

“Your height makes everything look inappropriate on you.”

“You should wear plain clothes so you don’t stand out so much.”

Mother and Apple were both 5´3, the “proper feminine height,” as she liked to say. Shorter, softer, easy to fuss over.

I apparently “took after my father,” who stood at 6´2.

In high school, Apple was a little insecure, a little chubby. But in the future, with time and some strategically purchased plastic surgery, she’d reinvent herself into a fitness influencer with big boobs, a tiny waist, and a sculpted butt. Millions would gush over her “hard work”.

This time, I wasn’t going to shrink myself to make anyone else comfortable.

I lifted a shoulder.

“I’ve always had one of those ‘eat whatever and never gain a pound’ metabolisms,” I said. “You wouldn’t know what that’s like.”

Color rose up Apple’s neck. She forced a smile through clenched teeth.

“You seem different today… distant.” Her smile stayed soft, but something tightened at the corners of her eyes. “Is everything okay?”

Endless humiliation and torture changed people.

Of course I was different.

“I didn’t sleep much,” I said.

She nodded quickly, too quickly. “You always get a little… off when you’re tired.” A beat. Then, carefully, “Are you sure you’re not mad at me?”

“No,” I said. “I’m not mad.”

She reached out, touched my hand gently. “I really did worry. And I’m so glad you’re not upset about Anton. I’d feel awful. And you know, you can talk to me. About anything.”

I slid my hand out of hers.

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

Her smile reappeared, bright and sweet, but her eyes didn’t match it.

I rose from the table, chair scraping lightly against the floor, and headed for the stairs.