I had so many. “Not that I can think of,” I said. I hadn’t known I was too small or asymmetrical, and now I did. The truth was a comfort when I knew how to fix it.

“Alrighty,” she said. “Karen will take care of you.” She left just as Jake came back. Karen came next and led us to a room with a desk and a computer. She passed me a printed-out sheet of prices. Certain brands of implants were more expensive than others. Jake took the sheet, passed it back. He removed a credit card from his back pocket and paid $9,000 in fees to secure a surgery in four days’ time. He said the cheaper implants were fine for my “first set.” He said I could get him back when I confirmed the Blaze Cannabis job, became a Blazed Bud, became famous. He said I could live with him at least until then. “We’ll see how it goes,” he said and I thought of my mother, how I’d get famous and send her a check like a good daughter, a whole, perfected daughter. Once I was fixed, I’d be better all around.

TOGETHER, JAKE AND I went to a lab and had my blood drawn, then to the Airbnb to clean out my stuff. We went next to Target. Aisles opened up for me in every color, a packaged, painted landscape: tubs of a protein powder called Fit Girl with 110 calories per serving; and sixty calorie pudding cups and zero calorie Gatorade and extra strength Tylenol and laxative tea; sports bras with front closures, and wet wipes and scar gel. I piled it all, like the rest of my stuff, in a corner of Jake’s walk-in closet.

That night, sleepless again, I lay in bed and sifted through the comments on my latest post—

@coomelapapi: #GOALS

@vfgallardo1790: Te amo

@animerulz202: Are you OK

@lyfeof_myah: @jelianna did she get her lips done?

@ansh.singh.man7311: love you

@hoola_party: more pleaseeeee

—I sifted through my DMs, turning lately, as my following grew, toward violence. You disgust me. Cunt. Ima turn that ass inside out. Choke on this cock. Make you bleed. One by one, I blocked the senders. I looked for Leah’s name among them. It wasn’t there.