After I’d peeled myself out of bed this morning, my head throbbing from one too many vodka somethings at the reunion, and drowsily made my way toward the bathroom, I was in a state of euphoria despite the headache. Somehow, the hangover gods had aligned, and not only was the baby sleeping in, but neither of the girls had called for me! I practically floated to the toilet as I basked in the silence. I was dreamily washing my hands, wondering when the three-piece orchestra was going to start playing, when I’d first seen Casey’s face in the mirror over the sink.
I’d turned off the light and closed the door and it almost didn’t register that it was her face, not mine, that I’d just seen. I was so fixated on getting back into my bed—I didn’t remember ever being so comfortable (had I used a new fabric softener on the sheets?)—that I was about to slide back under the comforter when it hit me. It had not been me that I’d seen in that mirror—my brown hair hadn’t been matted to my head, the dark circles that had taken permanent residence under my eyes had vanished, and was I naked? And that had not been my bathroom—I don’t have a heated toilet seat, my sink is a far cry from marble, and I’d most definitely never had an official hand soap dispenser!
I’d crept back to the bathroom, my heart pounding in my ears as I turned the knob on the door. When I’d seen her face again, I’d screamed—that bloodcurdling horror movie kind—and sprinted out of the bathroom toward the floor-to-ceiling mirrored wall in Casey’s closet, praying it was all just a bad dream.
I’d spun around, studying the body in front of me from every angle, my terror slowly turning to adoration as I’d analyzed my new reflection, amazed that Casey’s thighs didn’t rub together, her butt didn’t jiggle, and her breasts still stood up on their own! Feeling creepy gawking at my best friend’s body, I surveyed the closet for something to put on. Bigger than Charlotte’s nursery and rivaling anything I’d seen on one of those celebrity reality TV shows, the closet was lined with shoes in every style, shelves were stacked high with jeans, hangers were draped with suits, skirts, dresses, and evening gowns—most with price tags still on them. There was an article of clothing for every occasion. So what do you wear when you’ve just taken over your best friend’s body?
I grabbed a pair of jeans and held them up, musing that they could probably fit Sophie! I slowly slid one leg in and then the other. I prepared to do my usual deep inhale so I could suck in my stomach, but the zipper went up effortlessly. And even though I was struck by an intense fear of being trapped in Casey’s body forever, I never wanted to forget the way it felt to be able to fit into a tiny pair of jeans.
I take the elevator up to the ballroom remembering last night all over again. How John grabbed my hand before we walked in. When was the last time he didn’t hold my hand for show? When did our marriage take a nosedive? When did I become the woman who clicked on those online articles about how to reignite the flame in your marriage? Just the other day, I actually took one of those quizzes on the Yahoo! home page to find out if I was still attracted to my husband. I clicked the screen closed before the results appeared.
The ballroom is empty, so I ask a janitor where I can find Brian, the bartender who worked a party last night. He shrugs his shoulders and suggests the front desk.
“Miss Lee. So nice to have you back.” A woman behind the desk wearing a badge that reads MANAGER gives me a toothy grin. “How can I help you?”
I smile back at her. “Well, I’m looking for an employee who worked at the high school reunion last night.”
“What’s wrong? Do you know the person’s name? I can speak with him or her right away.”
“Oh no, it was . . . nothing like that,” I stammer. “His name was Brian and I wanted to personally thank him for his good service,” I reply. Although I’m not sure if thanking him is exactly what I want to do.
“Was he young and blond?”
I nod. Don’t forget those brown eyes.
The manager, probably in her early forties, smiles to herself and I wonder if she’s also thinking about how handsome Brian is. As she clicks through her computer, her gold wedding band resembling my own, her brown hair also falling straight around her shoulders, her upper arms in need of Shake Weights, I wonder if she also has a husband who doesn’t look at her the same way anymore.
“Here it is. Brian’s schedule. You’re in luck. He’s in our meeting room downstairs setting up for another event.”
“Thank you so much,” I say and head toward the elevator.
“Oh, Miss Lee,” the manager calls after me. “Can I trouble you for one more thing?”
“Of course. What is it?”
“May I have an autograph for my thirteen-year-old daughter? She’ll be so excited. She watches your show all the time.”
Just like my daughter Sophie. Does yours also think you’re a bitch? “Sure,” I say as I sign Casey’s name on a piece of hotel stationery, realizing I have no idea what her work signature looks like. This could be the first of many things I’m going to have to fake.
I find Brian setting up glasses on the bar. He looks up and smiles, revealing just the hint of a dimple. Is this how all men look at Casey? I could get used to this.
“Hi. I’m—”
“I know who you are, Casey, from the reunion last night. Double Belvedere and sodas, right?”