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“No.” I wince as I realize how loud the word came out of me. “I don’t like skirts. I’m good with another four pairs of these, please. All black is fine.”
Her nod is fast. “Sure. Yeah, okay. Um, here’s a few different sizes and styles in blouses.”
I take the clothes she practically thrusts at me before she turns and walks quickly away. God, I’m such a freak. I close the door and let my head fall against it. It isn’t her fault I’m…broken—a fucking mess. Squeezing my eyes shut, I fight against the memories. Not here and now.
Pushing away from the door, I sigh with relief at how plain the blouses are. They’re all button-down in varying colors and fabric. A few are a soft cotton and the others are some kind of polyester with stretch. She was right, I’m a larger size on top. The size twenty are uncomfortable across my stomach and shoulders, while the size twenty-two looks and feels better.
I turn to look at myself in the mirror. Huh, I barely recognize myself. It wasn’t just that I don’t look in the mirror often, it’s that I had a different picture in my head. This isn’t who I saw. Blinking fast, I refuse to let the tears fall. That picture—it’s from the years before Ray disappeared. When I wasn’t so…fat.
A knock pulls me out of my thoughts. “Are you good?” she asks.
“Yes, thank you. I’m a size twenty. Could you please bring me a few more colors in that size, in both fabrics?”
“Gotcha, be right back.”
Not all of the colors look good on me. While I have light blonde hair and blue eyes, I am not pale. I’m able to get a light golden tan. It’s from my mother who was born in Barcelona, Spain. She’s also where I got my blonde hair and blue eyes. Both Ray and my bio dad had brown hair and brown eyes. Ray thought it was hilarious a woman from Spain is why I’m blonde.
Another knock on the door. I open it and accept the hangers from her as I hand her back the ones that didn’t fit.
I try on more until I’m happy with eight shirts which I think will be good enough with the five pairs of pants.
When I open the door, she’s waiting. “I um, I hate to say this. Please don’t take offense but the bra you’re wearing doesn’t look great with the blouses. Do you want to get sized so you…”
I’m blushing. I had noticed it but refused to think about it. The sports bras I started wearing when the few bras I purchased after I gained weight didn’t fit were what I felt more comfortable in.
“I—” My throat is so tight I can barely get the word out. “How do I get sized?”
“It’s super easy. I promise, I’ll be quick.” Does she notice I go pale at the thought of her touching me? “Or I can talk you through doing it?”
I nod. Throat tight. “I can do it, please.”
Her smile is forced as she hands me measuring tape. “Sure, it’s easy.”
Back in the changing room, I take off the shirt and hoodie again. I can’t look in the mirror and turn toward the door. The bra is harder to take off, I hate the moment it’s off that I find it hard to even glance down at my own breasts. Frustration wells up in me. This is bullshit, ridiculous. I blink back tears, as I gasp at the foreign touch of my own hands against my breasts. Aside from cleaning in the shower, I never touch my own body in the light—only in the dark, only with my eyes closed.
I work to keep my voice from betraying the strain as I call out the numbers she asks for.
“Okay, you’re a 46DD. I’m going to grab a few styles in your size, be back in a few.”
My knees give out as I remove the measuring tape from around me. I stumble onto the covered stool. Crossing my arms over my breasts, I do my best to cover them up. I lean against the wall. This isn’t right. This is so unfair. Why has it been more than a decade and I’m still trapped in those thoughts he burned into me? That my breasts were bad, dirty? That my body was dirty?
Pushing it down, I refuse to let the thoughts out. No, damn it. I will not freak out in public. I grasp my hoodie and cover my breasts with it.
I’m lost in thought until she knocks at the door. I grip the hoodie tight against me as I open the door to her.
She hands me five different bras. “I got you a few, they might not all feel the same and comfy enough to wear all day.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
I don’t freak out as badly as I did the first time I brushed against my breasts. Yet it still isn’t easy to look in the mirror to see how the bra fits. It doesn’t feel great, too tight in the shoulders. I adjust the straps then put it back on.
The sight in the mirror is another shock. It’s the body of a woman. I flinch as the memory hits:I was too big now. I couldn’t be his little girl, his doll anymore. A new daddy would take care of me and love me.
No, no, don’t. Don’t.
“Are you okay?” the woman calls out.
“Yes, yes. Just a minute.” I hate I can hear the tears in my eyes. I put the crappy sports bra on again, then hurry to get dressed as I dry my eyes.
