I pick up the suit and try to make sense of it. “Which is the top and which is the bottom? I can’t tell.”
Katie makes a giant show of taking the suit from me and putting it on the “no” hanger. “Help me shop for a bathing suit, Katie,” she mutters. “It’ll be a blast. I won’t be a total pain in the butt.”
“Hey, unfair!” I wave at the dental-floss thong. “This looks like a pain in the butt.”
“Slam dunk.” Katie makes a grudging rim-shot sound effect.
I pick up another offender. “This, on the other hand, is so high-waisted it looks like a pull-up diaper.”
“But that’s trendy. Isn’t it?”
I hang the monstrosity on the “no” rack—with prejudice. “Not all trends are good trends.”
“Hey, here’s an idea. How about you wear one of those swim dresses from a century ago? That will be très sexy.”
“Hmm . . . maybe with some bloomers to give some shape to a pancake-flat butt. And some ruffles here”—I gesture to my chest area—“to make the most of microscopic breasts. We don’t all have perfectly proportioned bodies like our beautiful friends.”
“Pfft. And some of us don’t have perfect noses, adorable freckles, or dimples, like our friends. So embrace your you-ness.”
“Dimples are irrelevant,” I scoff. “I don’t put my dimples in a bathing suit.”
Katie bursts into laughter. “That sounds like exactly what you would put in a bathing suit.”
I laugh too. Katie’s humor is hard to resist. “Fine. You win.”
She claps her hands. “Yay! Does that mean you’ll actually let me find a bikini to put your dimples in?”
With a groan, I picture myself on a beach wearing a few scraps of Lycra. “Or here’s a thought—I could skip swimming. Skip sunbathing. I could go on a sightseeing tour. No need for bathing suits or spas or beaches or sunset cruises . . .”
“Skyler,” she says, no joking in her gentle reprimand this time. “Remember what this trip represents? You made it through a full year of no romance. You saved your money. This is your reward after all those—”
“Failed relationships where I totally lost sight of myself?”
Soberly, she nods. “Yes. This trip is a celebration of you.”
I fidget, uncomfortable with the tough love, even though I appreciate it.
“Have you got an outfit for the ceremony yet?” she asks, her voice a little kinder, a little gentler.
“Yes,” I reply, because while this trip is a celebration of me, it’s also been timed to coincide with my cousin Trish’s Maui wedding. “Mom says she hopes the wedding will inspire me to tie the knot, but between you and me, I think she wants me to go so she’ll have someone to scam on guys with.”
Katie laughs dryly. “Yeah, there are too many things wrong with that last sentence to count.”
“You’re telling me,” I say, but I smile, because while Mom is man crazy, she’s also my mom, and I love her to pieces.
“But the wedding is only one day. The rest of the trip is about pampering yourself with beachside cabana massages and afternoon daiquiris by the pool. It’s time to treat yourself the way you’ve never had any man treat you—the way you deserve.”
I draw a deep breath, trying to pin down my hesitation. “It still feels strange—and as uncomfortable as a thong bikini.”
“That’s called change,” Katie says. “You need to get out of your comfort zone. Do the hard things, starting with trying on at least one bikini.”
I nod, decisive. I’ve spent the last year making my own happiness, learning to be comfortable in myself. This reward is part of that. “You’re right. Let’s do it.”
“Yes!” She bounces on her toes. “Cue the dressing room montage!”
And here we go. Off, on, off, on with the suits, Katie giving thumbs-ups and thumbs-downs, whisking away rejects and thrusting new contenders over the door.
Just when I’m at my limit, I emerge in one last suit, and she takes a look and exclaims, “And we have a winner!”
“Thank God!” I sag against the dressing room door. “Talk about doing the hard stuff.”
“It was worth it. That suit looks fab.” She gestures to the mirror. “Go ahead. Tell me I’m wrong.”
I glance at my bikini-clad image. I love the sapphire color and the way it looks with my auburn hair, hazel eyes, and the aforementioned dimples . . . aflush from the effort of wiggling into strips of elastic and string.
“You’re not wrong,” I say. “Even if I feel like I just swam across the bay.”
She laughs. “How would you know? You hate the ocean. And swimming. And any physical activity that can’t be done at the gym.”
As soon as she says it, the circuits link up with a flash and a spark.
Bing! Light-bulb moment.
“That’s it! That’s what I need to do.”
Katie blinks. “Go swimming?”
“Yes! Or snorkeling. Or zip-lining. Or anything that’s not my jam. I can pamper myself at the spa here at home. Instead, when I go to Maui, I should give myself an experience I would never ordinarily do.”