Wedding favor

Opening scene

The necklace is cool against your skin. For a moment, nothing happens. Then, a warmth spreads from your chest, tingling down your spine and out to your fingertips. You look down. Your hands are smaller, your nails neatly shaped. The hoodie you threw on hangs differently, tighter across your new chest and hips. You stumble to the full-length mirror and stare. The face looking back is pretty, with high cheekbones and dark, almond-shaped eyes. Your hair is now long and black. You turn, and your breath catches—your entire frame has changed, your curves dramatic and unfamiliar.

"Whoa," you whisper, and your voice is higher, smoother. The sound of it sends a strange shiver through you. From the living room, Jack calls your name. When you turn back to the mirror, you notice something else. Jack, who you've known since college, who you've seen in a thousand gross states, seems... different. The memory of his smile in the hallway just now, the way his t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, feels suddenly charged with a new and confusing heat.

Turn 1 of 15

Try to adjust to my new body and get ready for the wedding.

You grip the edge of the bathroom sink and stare. The mirror is full-length, and the person in it is—you, but not you. The face is delicate, pretty, framed by long black hair that falls past your shoulders. You raise a hand and touch your cheek. The reflection does the same. The skin is smooth, the bone structure sharper and more defined than you remember. Your eyes are dark, almond-shaped, and they widen when you widen them. Everything works. Everything is just… different.

Your clothes are a disaster. The hoodie that was loose on your old frame now stretches tight across a chest that definitely wasn't there before, and your jeans—your jeans are a problem. You turn sideways and let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. Your hips curve dramatically, and below that, well. Jack's "ideal woman" apparently has a rear end that could have its own zip code. The jeans are digging in painfully, the denim straining in ways it was never designed to accommodate.

"You okay in there?" Jack's voice comes through the door, and there it is again—that strange warmth that flickers through you when you hear him. You press your forehead against the cool mirror and groan. This is not the time to be noticing how deep his voice is. You've heard that voice a thousand times. It's never made your stomach do anything before.

"I need clothes," you call back, and your new voice catches you off guard again—higher, softer, with a breathy quality you can't quite control. "Nothing I own fits. Nothing I own is even close to fitting."

"I brought stuff," Jack says. You hear him shuffle toward the door.

"I figured you'd need a dress for the wedding anyway, so I got you a few options. Sizes are a guess, but—" He pauses. "I had a pretty clear mental image, turns out."

You crack the door open and he holds out a garment bag and a small duffel. His eyes travel over you for a second, and something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or something warmer. He looks away quickly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"The green dress is probably your best bet," he says. "I, uh. I thought about this more than I should probably admit."

You take the bags and close the door. The zipper on the garment bag reveals three dresses, each carefully chosen. The green one is elegant—something you'd wear to a nice wedding, fitted through the bodice and flowing at the skirt, with a neckline that would show off collarbones you apparently have now. You hold it up against yourself in the mirror and try to reconcile the reflection with the person who was standing here an hour ago.

The duffel has shoes, a clutch, and a small makeup bag. You stare at the makeup. You've never worn makeup. You have no idea how to wear makeup. But your face in the mirror looks like it knows what it's doing, even if you don't. You pull on the green dress and wrestle with the zipper, and when you finally turn to face the mirror, you barely recognize yourself. The dress fits perfectly—Jack's "clear mental image" apparently extended to exact measurements—and it flatters every curve you didn't have this morning. You look like someone's girlfriend. You look like Jack's girlfriend. The thought sends another one of those confusing shivers through you.