More Than A Maybe (19 page)

Xavier runs a hand through his hair, then pinches the bridge of his nose. “Could be pretty bad, down the road. Worst-case scenario, they could end up invalidating our whole design. Or I might have to go to Chicago and figure out how to re-engineer the system around whatever Randall’s found. Anyway . . . I’m afraid we’re going to have to wrap things up here and head back early. I’m sorry.”

I feel my heart sink. I don’t know why, but some part of me really thought that it could last forever. I’m not sure why.

“I’ll go pack,” I say, with resignation in my voice and in my chest.

Before we know it, I’m next to the window of a NetJets Gulfstream for the second time in my life. It’s a different one this time — a little smaller than the first. I stare out the window as it climbs, my eyes fixed on the sea, until at last the crystalline canvas of blue-green is swallowed by the roll of the clouds . . . but still I keep staring at the endless white, as if the force of sheer want can somehow make them part again.

I look over at Xavier. He’s close to me, but it’s like he’s now miles away, back inside the labyrinth of his own head. He’s poring over a small paper mountain of black and white, printouts spread out all around him — byzantine diagrams, engineering schematics, thick texts of patent descriptions. I watch him work for a long time.

“Xavier?” I say at last. “I’ve been thinking . . .”

“Hm?” he grunts, quite obviously distracted, his eyes still flicking over the mess of papers in front of him.

“Xavier.”

He looks up at me. “Hm? Yes?”

“I’ve been thinking,” I begin . . . and though the words leave my mouth slowly, I realize just how much I actually mean them.

“I think I might be ready to get bigger boobs.”

Xavier’s normally serene eyes grow wide. His eyebrows raise up at least an inch, as his face freezes itself in a mask of pure disbelief.

For a moment there is only the sound of the airplane engines. “I’m sorry?” he asks finally, sounding very unsure of himself. It’s as if he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “You mean like . . . an augmentation? Surgery?”

I realize that the words must have sounded quite unexpected, but I force myself to push past it.

He needs to know what I want.

“Right. I was thinking about it. You know, maybe make the girls a little bigger.”

Xavier’s whole body seems tight somehow, like he’s unsure how to react. The page he’s holding between his fingertips droops a bit. He looks at me, like he’s worried that I’m judging his reaction, testing him . . .

Which, to be honest, I’m pretty sure that I am.

“Well,” he says at last, “First off, I think I’d like to know
why.
”

I look down as I try to think of how to best put it. I notice the nibble mark on my leg — the red is faded now, but just feeling my eyes on it makes it begin to itch. I rub at it a little with my thumb.

“It’s just something I want to do. I always wanted to have some curves, Xavier. That shape, you know? That hourglass. Like Sophia Loren, or . . .”

He frowns. “Marilyn Monroe?” he asks.

I smile a bit at that.
Maybe that’s the only black-and-white actress he can think of.
“Well . . . yeah. Sort of. Maybe I won’t get the blonde hair and the beauty mark, but . . .” I pause, thinking about how it feels to try on those dresses at Bettie’s, the ones built for another type of woman. How I have to keep padding them out.

“I don’t know, Xavier,” I say. “It’s just, sometimes . . . I still feel like a little girl playing dress-up.”

He shakes his head. “But Veronica, that’s just it, you’re not . . .”

“No,” I say, my voice firm. “That’s how I feel. This is important to me. It’s what I want. And if I’m going to do it, I want to know that you’re going to support me.”

Xavier nods, slowly . . . then turns to look out the window.

“I have to know something, Veronica,” he says.

“Of course.”

“I have to know that this is what
you
want. That this isn’t about something someone said to you growing up — anything like that. That this isn’t about comparing yourself to Baby, or those actresses you idolize. Or anyone else, for that matter. That this isn’t about what you think
I
 might want.”

He looks at me, and I see a calm yet stormy gravity behind his eyes. “You want my support? You’ve have to know by now that you have it. Financially, emotionally . . . it’s completely yours. I promise you that.”

He reaches out and takes my hands in his own. “I just need to know that this is about
you.
What you want, and nobody else. Can you truly promise me that?”

His eyes are searching, just a bit wet. I can see how heavy a decision this is. For the both of us.

At last I nod.

“This
is
about me, Xavier. Just me. It really is what I want.”

That seems to be enough for him. In the next moment his arms are around me, and he’s pulling me over to his seat, photocopies scattering as he holds my body close to his chest.

“If you’re sure, Veronica.”

* * *

I’ve just returned to the hotel from some solo shopping in Malibu. I’ve found a white cotton spaghetti top that feels absolutely amazing against my skin, almost like I’m not wearing anything at all. Xavier’s magical metal card has also allowed me to get my very-first-ever pair of Bitchy Boots. Bettie would be proud of me — they go all the way up to mid-thigh, and they have undeniable traffic-stopping potential.

Unfortunately, it’s the most exciting thing that’s happened since we returned. I haven’t seen Xavier for more than a quick lunch since we got back. After Sand House he’d seemed to have a cloud of vacationer’s guilt hanging around him — like all of the responsibilities he’d put on hold so that he could take time off had been biding their time and waiting for revenge. He calls when he can, and he texts his affections, but it’s becoming obvious that Sand House was just another of Xavier’s temporary situations. I feel as though we’re drifting back to where we started; him embroiled in his work crisis of the moment, me waiting around for him to squeeze me in for dinner or sex.

As hard as everything is for me, after the trip and my declaration in the jet I find I’m now even harder on myself. It’s like I feel this gap between deciding to get my new boobs, and actually going and
doing
something about it.

I put my new things in the room’s closet, strip down to my underwear, and stand in front of the full-length mirror, holding up my Book alongside my body.

I look at the pages of my Book, and at my body in the mirror and then back again.

Hm.

The LA city life has improved me, no question . . . over and above the magic they’ve been able to work at Beauty World. I’ve been going to the hotel’s gym with decent regularity, and it shows — my legs are more taut, and showing a bit of muscle tone. I honestly look much healthier these days, and when I move it’s with an animated energy.

Yet I can’t help but compare myself. No matter what my diet and exercise have been able to accomplish, there is still one thing missing.

Two things, actually.

I have to admit it to myself: no matter how many more soup can presses I do at the gym, it will never change reality.

“Hey, SMALL BOOBS!” I shout at my reflection, who shouts the same thing back at me with perfect timing. “Nice TINY BOOBS.” I scowl at my reflection’s cruelty.

Even though I feel like I’ve already made my decision, I still want to talk it over with someone. Jayla is the first person that pops into my mind . . . but for some reason, I don’t really want to ask her opinion about this one. I need to talk with someone who’s already gone through with it.

* * *

Really, there's only person I can ask — and before I know it, she’s seated across from me at Starbucks.

I find I don’t really know how to begin. “So . . . um . . . ”

Baby laughs. “Spit it out, honey.”

“I was wondering if . . . if it hurt,” I stammer. “To have your boobs done.”

Baby gives a far-too-dramatic sigh. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. What makes you think that these aren’t 100% natural?”

“Oh, come on,” I say. “You like showing them off too much for them to be natural.”

Baby looks down, but her lips are making a sly grin. “Wellllll . . . there might be some truth to that.  Okay — you got me. And yeah, it did hurt. For a while after the surgery. They give you pills for the recovery, but not enough of them, really.”

I nod. “But why did you do it?”

She frowns at the question. “I just got tired of people looking at me like a little girl, I guess. I used to get the normal array of helpful comments in high school, telling me how flat I was.”

Sounds familiar,
I think.

“I thought that the teasing would go away once I developed — like maybe God had put my boobs in the mail, but just hadn’t chosen express shipping. But they didn’t come. The comments did stop, finally. My friends in college were a lot more mature about that kind of thing. But the guys still paid way more attention to the bigger girls.”

Baby shrugs, stabbing at the slush at the bottom of her Frappucino cup. “I dunno. Maybe I got tired of being so careful with my life. I felt like there was this person inside my head, maybe, who could get everything she ever wanted, and I was just getting further and further away from that person the longer I waited, you know? Something like that. In the end it wasn’t really a hard decision — I just wanted to feel that confidence in my body that so many other women get for free. And so I went out and got ‘em done.”

“How big were you before?”

“A small B.”

“Are there . . . I dunno, back problems?”

“I might have some kind of back problems if I didn’t exercise. But everyone has back problems if they don’t exercise. And swimming helps during recovery.”

I’m quiet for a while. “Do you think I should do it?” I ask, finally.

Baby just shakes her head. “Sorry, that’s really not something I can answer for you. But if you need to ask me that . . . well, I think you already know what you want to do.”

I nod.

“Can you put me in touch with someone?”

* * *

I stay at the Starbucks for maybe an hour after Baby leaves, just thinking everything over.

Whatever progress I’ve been making with Xavier has been about me. Hasn’t it?

Sand House was no fluke.

I know it.

My decision to dance at Mirages . . . well, that might have been just stresses of the moment, the desire to try something new. It had seemed more like playing pretend than anything else. The makeover at Beauty World, though — that had been so much more. That had been like stepping into the skin of the person I’d actually wanted to be.

It's having an effect on Xavier. He hasn’t said it in so many words, but there’s real commitment growing inside of him somewhere. That vacation, the visit to his secret hideaway — it’s the first tangible piece of permanence I’ve felt from the man. The first sense that he has a desire for a life beyond the temporary and disposable.

So then: Xavier’s responding to my commitment to Veronica Kane, the commitment I’m showing to this person I want to be. If so, then what I’m considering isn’t a boob job — it’s just the next logical step.

There’s a new person inside waiting for me. Still me . . . but a whole new version of me. I think about those Goddesses in my Book again, and I realize that I’m ready to stop playing dress-up.

I’m ready to take my place beside them.

* * *

Dr. Michael Patterson is a handsome man with good young-looking skin and very clean teeth. His office is cool and brightly-lit, with before-and-after posters of boobs of various sizes hung neatly on the walls. He introduces himself, then shakes my hand and sits me down on a sofa.

“Okay, so — what can we do for you today?”

“Well . . . I’m here because I’d like to be bigger,” I say.

He nods, his smile the very definition of professionalism. “I see. And about how big were you looking to be?”

“I don’t know,” I say, considering the question. “I just want them to look natural. Like . . . like a C cup. Maybe.”

He nods. “Okay. Well, we don’t generally talk in terms of cup size. Those terms can mean different things to different people,” he says. “And it’s important to remember that we’re not just sticking
parts
on you. We need to think about this procedure from an artistic standpoint. We’ll talk a lot about what you want today, but it’s better to have some kind of visual goal. Something tangible — like a picture.” He gestures to the posters on his walls. “One of these, for example. Or maybe you brought something of your own?”

I’ve brought my Book, of course — but I’m suddenly frightened a bit, like the request will sound silly once it’s actually out in the open.

Still . . . I’ve come this far, and I find that I don’t
want
to turn back now. I take my Book out of my bag and open it, letting my fingers fall on the photo I’ve marked.

“I’d like mine to look like hers.”

* * *

My appointment is set for a few weeks later — but while I’m waiting for my happy Boobday, something amazing happens. Something I really don’t expect.

It begins on a normal afternoon with a mail on my xPhone: Xavier, messaging me about a dinner that night at his client’s apartment. I’m overjoyed that it’s a proper date, not just another one of his restaurant-and-hotel affairs.

I spend a nervous few hours preparing that day, making certain that my hair and makeup are just-so. Nothing extreme, naturally, as I want to make sure that I leave a decent impression on Xavier’s clients. My clothing selection, on the other hand, is something more of a challenge. I certainly can’t expect all of Xavier’s business associates to have the same fresh-from-the-beach air of laid-back casualness as Randall and Baby. But nothing in my closet seems appropriate, somehow.

I decide that it calls for another shopping trip, and I put a few more miles on Xavier’s credit card. I settle on a look I decide to call Xerox Queen — something between a frustrated librarian and a receptionist gunning for a promotion. Black skirt, white cotton fitted shirt, and a pair of thick-rimmed nonprescription glasses.