a few pounds. Everyone sitting on the couch across from me is tall, thin, and elegant.
They are everything that I am not, and probably everything I will never be.
And you know what? That’s okay with me.
I may not have the perfect body, but I’m sick and tired of hating it. Sometimes, you reach the point when you can no longer hate yourself. Sometimes, you realize that maybe you should feel grateful instead.
Instead of focusing on the size of my hips, I should be grateful that I can run and walk and jump. I should be happy that I can do all of those things without any pain and that my body works exactly as it should.
I have been living with my mother’s perception and the world’s perception of me for way too long.
I don’t need to look like anyone else, I just need to look at myself.
Moreover, I don’t need to apologize for what I look like.
* * *
When I get back to the dressing room, I take off my dress and look at my body. The light here isn’t harsh and directly overhead like it usually is.
It’s soft and welcoming and the mirror is tilted to the best possible angle. All of this is done to make the women feel more attractive, more beautiful. And it works.
The stomach that I thought looked so terrible, is relatively slim. There are curves, of course, but even they are alluring.
Is this how Henry sees me? Or rather, is this how he saw me?
He loved my body more than anyone else and more than I ever thought anyone could.
A quiet knock on the door makes me jump.
“Aurora?” the woman on the other side asks in a meek voice.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Karlie,” she says. “Karlie Renton.”
I shake my head no and crack the door open. Then I come face-to-face with a girl I haven’t seen since the ninth grade.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “Is it really you?”
I wrap my arms around her and pull her into the dressing room.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, quickly covering myself up with the silk bathrobe they gave me to wear in between dress fittings.
“I work here now,” she says.
The woman who stands before me now has chestnut hair cut to the shoulders, styled in waves, and a warm tan complexion.
Back when we knew each other, she was a short thirteen-year-old with dyed black hair, powdered white skin, and dark lips. She wasn’t exactly a Goth but well on her way.
“When was the last time we saw each other? I ask.
“Ten years, I guess. Maybe more. I moved away the summer before 10th grade.”
“Florida, right?"
“Miami,” she says. “My parents sold their business and retired. It was always their dream to live there full-time."
“So, what brought you back here?”
“Well, if I were telling the truth, I’d say a break-up.”
“Really?"
“Yeah, okay, don’t take this the wrong way but I’m sort of going through something.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I was in this really unhealthy relationship for about four years and I finally broke out of it and ever since then I’ve decided to be more honest with myself and with those around me. That’s why when you asked, I didn’t just say for a job or whatever other stupid excuse. No, I moved here to get away from life as I knew it.”
I stare into her wide open eyes and her unassuming demeanor.
I don’t think I’ve ever admired anyone more than I admire her in this moment.
There’s nothing to say. Instead I wrap my arms tightly around her.
"Would you like to try on the next dress?” a woman asks through the door, startling me. “Your mother said that she can’t stay much longer.”
12
Aurora
I don't know why Karlie and I ever had a falling out. In fact, we didn't. We were friends in math class because we were both quite good at it and the teacher always paired us up together. When we found out we liked the same boy, we promised that neither of us would go out with him if he asked and we kept that promise.
And then one day, she came over and told me that she was moving during spring break. Her parents weren't even waiting until the end of the year.
We promised to stay in touch but you know how it is, long-distance friendships, just like long-distance relationships, rarely last.
Over lunch after my dress fitting, Karlie tells me that her parents wanted to move there after her father's retirement. At least, that's what her father