Runaway Girl (Girl 2)

“Depends what you’re talking about. Drugs, Chick-Fil-A…”

“Running away when something scares you.”

He sits back on his heels. “That’s a tough one. But in my inexpert opinion, I would say that particular habit forms pretty fast. It’s like instant gratification.”

I hum in my throat, once again thinking of Jason standing in the driveway, watching me walk away. Is he on the boat with Birdie right now? Are they connecting? An unexpected wave of yearning rolls through me, so dense I have to breathe thought it.

“Um, can you unclench, ma’am?”

My forehead hits the wall. “Finally found something worse than another woman seeing the pee spot on the front of my underwear.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” I mutter.

Fifteen minutes later, the soft whirr of the airbrush machine cuts out and the artist stands, wiping his hands on paint-stained jeans. “This might be my favorite ever. Come on.” He jerks his chin toward the changing area. “Let’s take a look in the mirror.”

“Okay,” I say, letting a pent-up breath leave my lungs. The college girls smile at me as I cross the room and I send them the universal how do I look face. They send me thumbs ups in return, so I’m feeling confident when I step in front of the full-length mirror. I’m not prepared for the intricate beauty of the design, though. “Oh. Oh, this is amazing. I had no idea…” I asked for butterflies in various shades of pink, but I didn’t expect to be transformed into this moving piece of artwork. I look like a patch taken straight out of the most beautiful garden. “How will I stand washing this off?”

The artist laughs. “Just come back to me next year. Starting with a blank canvas is half the fun.”

“If I get through today, I’ll consider it. Thank you,” I breathe as he walks away to clean his station. Unfortunately, the confidence wanes as I consider the front door.

In the end, it takes me almost an hour to leave the shop once the artist finishes. I hang out in the back with the staff under the guise of drying far longer than necessary, and by the time I get the nerve to walk out into the parade, it’s in full swing and the sun is setting.

My heart drums in my ears as I take my first step onto the pavement. In no clothes, save a camouflaged pair of panties. Yes, from a distance it looks like I’m wearing a colorful costume, but up close I know my nipples are visible through the pink paint. Thanks to the design extending to every inch of me, my underwear is weighed down with paint and molded to my core, leaving nothing to the imagination. For all intents and purposes, I’m in public wearing nothing but flip-flops.

And I feel exactly how I used to feel walking in a pageant. Isn’t that a kicker? My heartbeat is rollicking and my lips won’t stay wet. I’m positive I’m sticking out like a sore thumb—and I’ve done this hundreds of times in my life. Been on display. The difference is I’m in control of this. I chose this and…there’s no one judging me this time. Yes, that’s the major game changer here. I can walk from one end of this parade to the other and I’m in competition with no one. Not even myself.

A smile tickles my lips as I move to the center of the street and walk straight down the dotted white line, the sound of Caribbean music floating on the warm wind around me. I reach up and let out my ponytail, shaking it loose. I’m glad I waited until the sun was dipping, because the atmosphere of the parade is enthralling, electric. Most everyone has a drink in their hand and I don’t hesitate to join them, untucking the twenty I stowed in the hip of my panties and buying something fruity and green off a street vendor. Alcohol burns down my throat and sugar sweetens my lips. It’s terrible and way too strong, but I drink the whole thing just because I can.

I don’t want to stray too far from the shop—it’s where I left my clothes. So after about ten blocks, I hook around and find a group of women in butterfly wings to walk with. Taking me under their wing, so to speak, they convince me to have another awful green drink, but it must be an acquired taste. This one goes down much smoother…until I start to think of Jason. That’s when the alcohol’s heat turns inconvenient, seeming to fan down from my belly, making me hyperaware when my thighs brush together. Might as well admit it. I like my boobs. Looking down and seeing them decorated in pink makes me want to touch and cup them. Squeeze.

No. No, that’s not true. I want bigger hands on them. Demanding ones.