A Girlfriend's Dare: Ch. 04

It begins the same as every humiliation: with the sick fizz of anticipation, then the bleak certainty of having no out. For Andrew, the morning after Steph's "proposal" is a time for bargaining--coffee first, then a plaintive, half-joking, "You were serious about the mall?" over the top of his mug, as if perhaps she'd reconsider in the daylight. But Steph is never more herself than when the world is watching, and as she stands in his kitchen, pouring herself a thumb of cold-pressed juice, it's clear there's no recusal.

"Did you think I was drunk?" she asks, not looking up from the glass. "Or do you have a magical thinking streak I never noticed?"

"Hope springs eternal," he replies, voice thin.

Steph sets down the glass with a click, then--deliberately, always deliberately--leans against the counter in a way that angles her hips toward him, her long hair curtaining half her face. She's in loungewear again: a men's oxford, sleeves rolled, no pants, bare legs crossed at the ankle. There's nothing accidental about the way she dresses, even for breakfast. "If you back out, I'll respect it," she says. "But I'll also keep the photo. And every time you annoy me, I'll send it to someone new."

It's blackmail, but with an intimacy that makes it worse, as if they're coconspirators in his undoing.

He pretends to consider, stalling. Steph reads him with the same efficiency as always and says, "Good. Because I already booked the salon for noon. You should shower."

Andrew does, standing under the stuttering pressure of his ancient pipes, head pressed against tile. He tries to slow his breathing, but his body isn't interested in negotiation. By the time he dries off, the inside of his skull is a ping-pong match of shame and possibility.

He finds Steph in his bedroom, sitting cross-legged on the bed with her phone, three different bags open beside her like an unholy trousseau. He doesn't want to look, but he does.

"Oh, you're early," she says, as if he's the intrusion. "Close the door, please."

He does, standing by the handle in a towel, a condemned man at the gallows. "You know," he says, "there are easier ways to destroy my reputation."

Steph rolls her eyes. "Your reputation is unsinkable. You're like a public access host in a bunker--too obscure to cancel, too weird to ignore." She pats the bed. "Sit. I want to show you the options."

He sits, the towel bunched at his waist.

She holds up a package--opaque plastic, stamped with a logo he recognizes from Steph's many late-night delivery monologues. "Option one," she says, and shakes out a dress that is less a garment and more a series of engineering challenges. It's sky blue, bandage-tight, with cutouts at the waist and a plunging neckline. "This one's classic," she says. "Very Real Housewife on a bender."

Andrew tries to picture himself in it and fails.

She doesn't wait for comment. "Option two," she says, with a flick of her wrist: a crop top and skirt, the fabric metallic and nearly reflective. "Disco slut. On trend, actually." She holds it against his chest, considering. "Not sure about the color, though."

"Is there an option three?"

Steph grins, teeth bared. "Always." She unearths a pair of shorts--denim, frayed, distress so severe they're half lint--paired with a tank top that would barely cover a ribcage. "Total bimbo whore. I even got accessories." She digs out a string of fake pearls, a pair of oversized sunglasses, and something in the shape of a choker.

He wants to die. Instead, he says, "You're thorough."

"I'm a scientist," Steph says, deadpan. She surveys him for a moment. "What's your poison?"

There is no good answer. He selects option one, the dress, because it seems least likely to result in an arrest. Steph doesn't gloat, just lays it out on the sheets with the precision of a mortician.

Next: the underpinnings. Steph presents a flesh-toned bra ("I stuffed it myself, don't say I never do anything for you"), a pair of padded hip briefs ("Trust me, they help the silhouette"), and--last, worst--a set of heels.

"You expect me to walk in those?" he asks, voice almost shrill.

Steph shrugs. "I expect you to try. But if you break your ankle, you can wear the backup flats." She produces them: gold, sequined, the kind of thing a drag queen might wear to the DMV.

Andrew dresses in stages, each step a new affront to his dignity. The padded panties are suffocating, the bra both foreign and perversely intimate. The dress is a wrestling match--he nearly calls for help twice, but Steph just watches, smiling like a cat watching a fish tank.

When he's finally assembled, Steph circles him, phone raised. "Not bad," she says. "Your ass is actually passable."

He looks in the mirror. For a split second, the image almost works--a stranger in a dress, an alternate-universe version of himself, as seen through a fogged lens. But then he registers the Adam's apple, the bony wrists, the expression of terminal despair. He looks away.

Steph's transformation is less dramatic but even more deliberate. She sheds the oxford for a sheath dress in deep plum, her hair straightened to a blade-sharp gloss. Her makeup is immaculate, lips lacquered to match the dress, eyes winged and severe. She looks like she's about to ruin a senator's career.

"You clean up nice," he says, because it's safer than saying nothing.

Steph laughs. "You're sweet." She reaches up, tugs a strand of his hair behind his ear. "I want to try something with your makeup. Sit."

He obeys. The process is tactile, relentless: primer, foundation, a cyclone of powders and brushes. She works quickly, talking as she goes, sometimes stopping to angle his chin or pull down his eyelid. He hates every second, and yet--

"There," she says, stepping back. "Not bad for a first attempt."

He looks again. The face is strange, yes, but the eyes are different--less desperate, more blank, like an actor trying out a role. The illusion is better than he'd feared, worse than he'd hoped.

"Ready?" she asks.

He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

The drive to the mall is mostly silence, interrupted only by Steph's playlist (pop, all with female vocals, none over four minutes) and her periodic glances at his legs, as if checking for spontaneous modesty. Andrew keeps his knees together and his hands folded in his lap, counting down the minutes like a convict.

When they pull into the lot, Steph kills the engine, turns to him, and says, "Last chance to back out."

He wants to. But the memory of her phone, the photo waiting in its gallery, is a phantom hand at his throat. "Let's get it over with," he says.

The mall is at capacity. Andrew's first sensation, stepping out of the car, is the air--thicker, somehow, with the knowledge that any one of a thousand strangers might see him like this. The heels wobble him, but Steph holds his arm as they walk, steadying him in the most humiliating way possible: like an overgrown flower girl.

Inside, the temperature shifts, the crowd thickens, and Andrew's senses white out.

Every shop, every corridor, is a hazard. The dress clings to him, synthetic and insistent, while the makeup itches as it dries. He wants to blend in, but the sightlines are impossible, the mirrored store fronts catching his reflection at cruel angles.

Steph, meanwhile, is in her element. She walks with purpose, heels clicking, her eyes raking over the crowd like she's judging a pageant only she knows about. The looks they get are a taxonomy: bored, curious, amused, aroused, appalled. Some people pretend not to see, others stare with open-mouthed delight or horror. Steph seems to collect their stares, adding them to her arsenal.

They make it to the salon. The interior is white and glassy, staffed by young women with high ponytails and the kind of smiles that say "I know all your secrets." Steph checks them in and, without waiting, launches into a monologue about their "girls' day out."

"My friend here," she says, arm looped through his, "just got out of a toxic relationship. We're doing a makeover as an act of spiritual cleansing."

The staff nods, all sympathy and complicity. Andrew is ushered into a chair, offered a glossy magazine, and then surrounded by a trio of stylists. The next hour is a fever dream: hair styled, nails painted, eyebrows trimmed within a micron of their life. Steph orchestrates the whole thing, approving colors, vetoing suggestions, her hand always somewhere near Andrew's shoulder or neck.

At one point, Steph leans in, voice low. "You're doing great," she says. "But you should uncross your arms. It looks defensive."

He wants to say, "That's because I'm defending myself," but the words won't come. He does as instructed, letting his hands rest, limp, in his lap.

When it's done, he looks like an ad for some European gender clinic: hair shiny, nails glossy, lips pillowed in a pink he's never seen before. He feels unreal, a cardboard cutout parading as a human being.

Steph pays for everything, signing the receipt with a flourish. "Ready for the second act?" she asks.

He isn't, but there's no alternative. They walk the concourse, stopping at shops--Victoria's Secret, Sephora, H&M. At each, Steph pulls him along, making him try on clothes, test fragrances, pose for selfies. She never buys anything, but makes a show of browsing, holding garments up to his body, asking the salesgirls for their "expert opinion."

The humiliation is total. Every laugh, every whispered comment, is a dagger. Andrew considers, for one wild second, running out the doors and never looking back. But Steph's grip is constant, her presence a gravity that keeps him orbiting the sun of her intention.

Lunch is at a café in the food court, open seating, all plastic trays and echoing conversations. Steph orders for both of them--salads and Diet Cokes--and sits across from him, phone propped up for "candids."

"You're a natural," she says, snapping a photo mid-bite.

He almost chokes. "You have enough blackmail yet?"

"Not even close," she says. Her smile is radiant. "But it's not really about the pictures. It's about the experience.