Chapter 1

Presley Duval had a nickname for me all through high school. Two-Twenty.

Because at sixteen I weighed 220 pounds.

Thirteen years later she rented out a private beach in Cabo for our class reunion. One rule. Every woman had to show up in a bikini.

She made a point of sending me one.

By the time I got there her phone was already up on a tripod, live. 370,000 people watching.

"She's actually gonna show?" someone asked.

"Why wouldn't she?" Presley smiled into the camera. "I had the hotel set aside an extra-large changing tent just for her. Wouldn't want her scaring the other guests when she takes her clothes off."

Everyone around her cracked up.

"I got her a gift, too."

She lifted a pink bag off her chair and pulled out a neon pink bikini. It took two people, one on each end, just to hold it stretched out.

"3XL. I called the company. That's the biggest they make. If it still snaps, that's not on me."

A row of phones went up.

"Don't laugh." She hung the bikini over the back of the chair. "Two-Twenty's had it rough. If I hadn't stayed on her about her weight back then, who knows if she'd even be able to walk through that door today."

"Oh, and I invited someone from Meridian." She lifted her chin. "So certain people can see what a real body looks like. Instead of copying models online and embarrassing themselves."

What she didn't know was that the big shot she kept name-dropping worked for me.

I walked down the boardwalk and stopped right in front of her.

"Where's the tent?"

Nobody said a word.

The speakers were still going. Everything else went dead quiet.

The guy holding Presley's umbrella let it tip sideways into the sand and didn't bother straightening it. The girl filming dropped her phone by her feet and left it there.

Presley stared at me for a good three seconds.

"What tent?"

"The one you set aside for me." I took off my sunglasses. "The extra-large."

The comments stalled for a second, then started flying.

[who is this]

[wait is this the 220 pound girl she was talking about]

Presley handed her champagne to the guy next to her. He missed it. The glass hit the sand.

She didn't look down.

She pulled the phone off the tripod and ran the camera over me, head to toe.

"Well."

Then she smiled.

"You came. Everybody, get a good look. This is the Two-Twenty I've been telling you about for three years."

She circled halfway around me with her eyes on my stomach the whole time.

Looking for scars.

"Turn around."

I didn't move.

"Come on, turn around." She pushed the camera closer. "You paid good money for that. Let people see it. Don't get shy on me now, you weren't shy before. You used to change in the locker room and the whole class got to watch the rolls on your back hang down."

[I'm dying]

[make her turn]

[girl, stop, anyone can tell that's lipo]

Someone in the back muttered, "It does look fake."

Presley spun toward him. "What was that? Say it louder."

He said it again, louder. "I said there's no way that's real."

"Right?" Presley turned back to me. "See. It's not just me."

She reached for the wrap over my shoulders.

I caught her wrist.

"Ooh." She shook her hand loose and laughed harder. "Touchy. What are you so worried about? Nobody's ashamed of lipo scars. Everyone gets it done now."

She held up her fingers for the camera and started counting.

"Full-body lipo. Gastric sleeve. Nose redone. Filler in the chin. That whole package runs way past six figures. So be honest with me, Two-Twenty. Where'd the money come from?"

I didn't answer.

"Your mom still cleaning other people's kitchens?"

My hand stopped on my sunglasses for half a second.

"What's she pull in, twenty an hour?" Presley counted it off. "She could scrub till she's sixty and still not cover what's on your face. So either you financed it, or somebody else paid for it."

She leaned in and dropped her voice. The camera stayed on me.

"Sugar daddies don't last, sweetie. He gets bored, he drops you, and you're the one stuck with the bill. When that happens and you come asking me for a loan, I promise I won't laugh."

The girl who'd been handing her towels snorted and covered her mouth.

"You should've seen her eat in high school." Presley turned to face everyone. "She needed two chairs. She'd sit down and the legs would slide out sideways."

A few people laughed.

"We had to run the mile in PE and the whole class stood at the finish line waiting on her. Coach finally gave up and told her to walk it. And she did. Seventeen minutes. Her shirt buttons popped three times, too. One of them hit a guy in the back of the head."

I looked around at them. Twenty-nine years old, standing on a beach, doing the same thing they did thirteen years ago. Pick somebody and pile on.

Off to the side, one woman kept her head down. She wasn't laughing. She didn't look up either.

Thirteen years ago she sat exactly like that.

"Don't take it the wrong way." Presley put a hand on my shoulder. "I'm not making fun of you. I feel bad for you. If you'd listened to me sooner you wouldn't have wasted your whole youth hauling all that around."

I moved her hand off my shoulder.

"You done?"

"Not even close." Her eyes lit up. "You in a hurry?"

"No." I put my sunglasses in my bag. "I came to pick something up."

I held out my hand.

"Where's mine?"

Presley stopped.

"Where's what?"

I looked at the back of the chair.

The neon pink one was still hanging there with the tag facing out.

"The bikini you brought for me. The 3XL."

Nobody said anything.

All of a sudden the waves were the loudest thing on that beach.

"Go on. Take it out."