The World Keeps Changing

Chapter 8

Natasha was going through my closet, throwing things on my bed. "Why do you not have a single cocktail dress in here?"

I shouted back at her from the bathroom. "Do I strike you as the kind of person who does a lot of cocktail parties? Parties that I'm not working?" I was a casual dresser at the best of times. My wardrobe largely consisted of tees, hoodies, comfy sweaters, yoga pants and jeans. It hadn't expanded much even though I didn't have to wear a chef uniform most of the time anymore. Mostly, I'd just added a couple of business casual slacks and tops for when I had to make an official appearance downstairs.

"If I'd known the pickings were this slim I'd have bought you something. Next time, I will. You don't even own a skirt?!"

"Bitch, have you seen these thighs? I chafe so bad in a skirt it's practically a fire hazard." I shuddered at the idea of what slinky thing the Widow might try to get me to wear in public. I was highly conscious of my body. Mostly of how other people felt about it. I hadn't been skinny since I was a child. I was one of those girls puberty had hit hard and fast, with the stretch marks and teenage memories of harassment to prove it. But motherhood and then stress and overwork plus my injury making exercise difficult had done its part over the last few years to thicken me from curvy into what polite people generally called full-bodied or plus-size. I wasn't ashamed about my body. In fact, I liked being nude when I was alone and didn't mind people seeing my body if I felt safe around them. I just didn't have patience for people with opinions about it, so I kept opportunities to express those opinions to a minimum. And I liked to dress comfortably.

"Why the hell does it matter, Nat? We're just two friends going out for dinner, who the fuck am I trying to impress?" She'd convinced me to put on some light makeup she'd brought for me, and I was keeping it neutral, though I did spring for a bright, coral lipstick because it was a great color on me and I'd always thought my lips were one of my better features. My hair hung loose and curly, draping lightly over the top of my shoulders

"Maybe you'll meet someone," she said like she actually believed it.

"Nat," I said, coming out of the bathroom in my underwear, and going to the vanity to look for some earrings, "I don't want to meet anyone like that. I don't need to 'get laid', and I don't care to be 'set up', okay?"

"Why?" She watched me, looking me over as I moved across the room. "You deserve to have someone." I hated the way she said it like I did and she didn't.

I saw her in the vanity mirror over my shoulder, catching her eyes as they involuntarily flicked down. "That's why," I said tersely. My size was one thing, my scars were another. They started at my knee and wound up my outer thigh, over the hip and buttock in a gnarled silvery mass and exploded up across my flank and the left side of my back. "I'm not interested enough in getting to know someone as a partner only to get intimate and find out they are either grossed out by or fetishistic about scars." I turned around and leaned against the vanity. "I have wonderful friends. People who can accept me and my limits, who will hold my hand, or cuddle in front of a movie if I need skinship. People I can offer the kind of safety and intimacy most people just substitute with sex."

I saw the microexpression. Just the barest tightening of the lips, a flicker behind her eyes. A full flinch for someone of her training.

My expression softened. I walked over to see what she'd picked. "That's not a judgment, Nat. You are where you are and so am I." I reached my hand out to the side and took hers, giving it a squeeze without looking at her. "Thank you for caring so much about my happiness. I love you, too."

"Just get dressed, you sap," she snarked, but I could see the shadow of a smile at the corner of her mouth. "I'm starving."

I chuckled. "Yes, ma'am."