He shook his head, touched my nose, called me cute. So subtle, Shonda had promised. And she’d been right. That night I slept on my back to keep the toxin from pooling. In the morning I woke, ready for more. More of the change, the instant growth I’d seen when I looked in the mirror and met my swollen mouth, new smile. I hadn’t known it was so easy to fill up, hydrate. If other women knew how easy it was, they’d all do it. Why didn’t they know? I asked Jake and he shrugged. Women were always looking to tear each other down, he said. “No offense, but y’all like, don’t want each other to be hot.” I wanted to be hot. And fuck other women if they couldn’t support my choice to be hot. I told Jake I was “boob job curious,” and he furrowed his face and said, “You sure?” like he was concerned, like it hadn’t been his idea in the first place. “I’m curious,” I said, and he made a call, a receptionist squeezed us in. We sat side by side in a room made for keeping wealthy people waiting. A white baby grand piano and crystal chandelier. On the coffee table by our knees, a scented candle and several binders of photographs—evidence of Dr. Marilyn Holle’s impressive work—A-cups to C-cups, double chins to single chins, hooked noses to smooth, upturned buttons. On the wall, a framed 90210 Magazine, Dr. Holle on the cover, a stethoscope around her neck. The words, “Beverly Hills’ Best Plastic Surgeons” laced with her long, windblown hair.

“Anna?” The sound of my name called me out of the image, back to the room, then to the frame of a door that led me further back. Down a long hall of treatment suites, each door affixed with a gold number, a crystal knob. I followed Karen, Dr. Holle’s nurse, watching the neatly trimmed ends of her flat-ironed hair sway against the back of her pink scrubs. Jake followed me, texting. We passed other nurses, all women, who turned and smiled. Here they were, the women who supported other women, #sisterhood. I had found them.

In a suite marked Number 7, I changed into a robe, then sat on an exam chair. Jake sat in a smaller chair, eyes on his screen. Karen the nurse took notes about my medical history on a pink clipboard.

“Alright honey, ever had surgery before?”

“No.”

“History of diabetes, heart attack, stroke?”

“No.”

“Cancer?”

“Not personally.”

She took photos of my body in front of a blue screen—“A little to the left, hon, okay good, now turn to face me? Perfect”—shooting my breasts at every angle. “You’re an excellent candidate,” she said when she was finished. Who isn’t? I wondered but didn’t ask. Addicts, maybe, women who came in already implanted, already filled, and still wanting more.