The Last Everything

"Come on, Liv. I promise you look fine. In fact, 'fine' is an insult to what's happening in that mirror right now." I continue to stare at my reflection, my arms locked tightly over my chest in a defensive posture I've practiced for years. The guest bedroom in Becca's apartment is filled with the scent of hairspray and expensive perfume, a stark contrast to the internal scent of dread pooling in my stomach. "I do not look fine, Becca," I snap, though my voice lacks real conviction. "You shoved me into a knit dress that feels like it's screaming for attention I didn't ask for. It's too tight, it's too short, and I feel like a giant, emerald-green thumb." Becca laughs, a bright, airy sound that makes me want to roll my eyes. She's currently touching up her eyeliner, perfectly unfazed by my burgeoning existential crisis. "You're acting like visibility is a bad thing, Liv. Newsflash: you have curves. Real ones. The kind people pay surgeons thousands of dollars to replicate." She drops the eyeliner, steps closer, and catches my gaze in the mirror, her expression shifting from playful to deadly serious. "You don't have to hide them just because you're uncomfortable owning the space you occupy. Stop apologizing for existing." That hits a nerve I didn't even know was exposed. I turn back to the mirror, forcing myself to actually see the woman standing there. My hair is a long, heavy curtain of obsidian black, framing a face that feels younger than eighteen. My green eyes are wide, reflecting an uncertainty that feels at odds with the silhouette Becca has created. The heels make me taller—dangerous, almost—forcing a posture that suggests strength I don't usually feel. For years, I've perfected the art of the "shrink." I've worn oversized hoodies in mid-July; I've rounded my shoulders to hide my chest; I've walked with my head down, treating my body like a mistake I had to constantly apologize for. I've lived in a world where "thick" was a slur whispered in locker rooms, not a badge of honor. All I've ever seen is weight. All I've ever seen is a body that took up too much room in a world that wants women to be thin enough to vanish. "Let's just go," I say quietly, my voice barely a whisper. "Before I lose my nerve and put my sweatpants back on." The party is exactly the kind of sensory overload I usually avoid. It's a frat house near the university campus, smelling of stale beer, damp wood, and too many bodies pressed together. The bass from the speakers is a physical force, thumping against my ribs. Becca, ever the social butterfly, disappears into the sea of flannel and crop tops almost instantly, leaving me stranded in the entryway. You're allowed to be here, I tell myself, the mantra feeling flimsy. You don't need permission to stand in a room. I navigate toward the kitchen, hoping the mission for a drink will give me a sense of purpose. The crowd is a blur of faces until I collide—literally—with a wall of a human being. "Whoa, easy there," a voice says. I stumble back, my heels catching on the uneven floor. I expect the old instinct to take over—the frantic apology, the averted eyes, the desire to melt into the wallpaper. But when I look up, I find myself staring into a pair of striking green-blue eyes. He's tall, with a sharp jawline and an expression that is far too observant for a college party. I don't shrink. I find my footing and meet his gaze evenly. "Sorry," I say, my voice steady. "High traffic area." He grins, and for a second, there's a spark of something—curiosity, maybe. But before he can speak, a petite blonde girl with perfectly coiffed hair loops her arm through his, marking her territory with a practiced ease. She gives me a once-over that is meant to be intimidating. Usually, that look would send me spiraling into a pit of "I'm not pretty enough" or "I'm too big compared to her." But today, looking at her, I feel... nothing. Not insecurity. Not jealousy. Just a mild irritation at the interruption. I feel relieved to simply turn and walk away. That's new. The lack of a plummeting heart is exhilarating. I make it to the kitchen, grab a cup of something red and questionable, and retreat to the edge of the living room. The music has shifted to something with a heavy, grinding beat. As I watch the crowd, a pair of hands suddenly settle firmly on my waist from behind. "Hey there, beautiful. You look like you're having way too much fun standing here by yourself. Want to dance?" I turn around. He's cute—brown hair, warm cocoa eyes, and a smile that feels genuine. He's maybe five-seven, which puts us at eye level thanks to my heels. "Sure," I say, setting my drink down on a nearby end table. I've seen enough movies to know you never pick a drink back up once it's out of your sight. He leads me into the fray. He pulls my hands up around his neck, and I feel his palms settle confidently on the curve of my hips. We sway together, the heat of the room finally starting to melt the ice around my nerves. "What's your name?" he asks, shouting over a Drake song. "I'm Olivia. What's yours?" "David. Nice to meet you, Olivia." His smile widens. "How have I missed you? I feel like I'd remember seeing you around campus." "I'm still in high school," I admit, deciding honesty is the best policy. "Senior year. My best friend is dating someone who goes here." David's expression tightens immediately, his hands stuttering on my waist. I can't help but laugh. "Relax, David. I'm eighteen. I'm legal. I just haven't graduated yet." The tension bleeds out of him, replaced by a low, simmering heat in his eyes. "Thank God. I didn't think you looked that young." His gaze roams over me, unapologetically taking in the emerald dress and the curves Becca promised were an asset. "You've got a really sexy body, Olivia." I should be flattered. But as I glance over David's shoulder, I spot him—the guy with the green-blue eyes from the kitchen. He's standing across the room, his blonde girlfriend still attached to his arm, but his eyes are locked on me. When he realizes I've seen him, he doesn't look away. He just smirks—a knowing, entitled look that suggests he thinks he's watching a performance put on for his benefit. It pisses me off instantly. He has a girl. He has a life. Yet he's looking at me like I'm a prize he's considering bidding on. I turn my focus back to David, fueled by a sudden, defiant spark. "Kiss me," I command. David blinks, startled. "What?" "I said kiss me, David." I don't wait for him to process it. I reach up, threading my fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and pull him down. My lips press against his with an urgency that surprises even me. It isn't just about the kiss; it's about taking something for myself. David responds immediately, his hands tightening on my hips, pulling me flush against him. When we finally pull apart, we're both breathing hard, the air between us thick and electric. He grins, looking a little dazed. "Wow. Okay. I wasn't expecting that." "Yeah," I say flatly. I look back over my shoulder. Green-blue eyes is now leaning down, his lips pressed to his girlfriend's neck, but his gaze hasn't moved. He is watching me kiss another man while he holds his partner. What is his problem? "Do you want to get out of this crowd?" David murmurs, leaning into my ear. I can feel the physical evidence of his attraction pressed against my thigh. "We could go upstairs. Find somewhere quieter." "Lead the way," I say. David grabs my hand, weaving us through the labyrinth of sweaty bodies. As luck—or some twisted fate—would have it, our path takes us directly past the guy and his blonde girlfriend. As we try to pass, the guy reaches out, placing a hand on David's shoulder, stopping us in our tracks. "Whoa, easy there, Dave," he says, his voice a smooth, low baritone. "Where you headed in such a rush, man?" David smirks, the bravado of a guy who thinks he's about to score. "What does it look like, JP? Mind your business." JP—so that's his name—finally shifts his eyes to me. There's a cruel edge to his smile now. "So, is she your first f**k of the night? Or just the only one who said yes?" The air in the hallway goes cold. I see the blonde girl flinch slightly at his tone, but she doesn't say a word. I feel David tense up beside me, ready to argue, but I don't need him to defend me. I step forward, closing the distance between me and JP until I can see the flecks of blue in his eyes. "So what if I am?" I say, my voice sharp and clear, cutting through the music. "If I am the first, I guarantee I'll be the best one he's ever had. Can your girl say the same for you?" The smirk vanishes from JP's face. The hallway goes silent for a micro-second as the people around us realize a bomb just went off. He looks stunned, silenced by a girl he clearly thought was an easy target for a quip. "Let's go, David," I say, not giving JP the satisfaction of a second glance. Minutes later, we're in a dimly lit bedroom at the end of the hall. The door clicks shut, and for a moment, the muffled thump of the party feels miles away. David turns to me, his hands reaching for the zipper of my dress, his breathing ragged. "You were incredible down there," he whispers. But before he can touch me, a frantic pounding erupts on the door. It's loud, rhythmic, and filled with a specific kind of rage. "David! David, I know you're in there! Open this damn door right now!" a female voice shrieks. My stomach drops. The adrenaline that had been carrying me through the night curdles into a cold, sick weight. I look at David. His face has gone pale, the bravado replaced by a look of sheer, pathetic terror. "Who is that, David?" I ask, my voice deceptively calm. "It's... it's Sarah," he mutters, looking at the floor. "Is Sarah your girlfriend?" "Fiancée," he admits quietly. I don't scream. I don't cry. I don't even feel the urge to hide. A month ago, I would have crawled out a window to avoid the shame. Tonight, I just feel a deep, burning clarity. I reach back, ensuring my dress is perfectly in place. I smooth my hair. Then, I walk to the door and turn the lock. I swing it open to find a girl about my age, her eyes red from crying, her makeup smeared. She looks ready to swing—until she sees me. I don't look like a girl who's been caught; I look like a girl who's just finished a chore. "I'm sorry," I tell her, and I mean it. "I didn't know. He told me he was single." She looks past me at David, who is cowering by the bed. "David, how could you?" I don't stay for the theatrics. I turn back to David. He looks up at me, perhaps expecting sympathy or a quick exit. Instead, I step into his space and punch him square in the face. It isn't a "girl" punch; it's a solid, knuckle-cracking blow fueled by every time I've been lied to by a man who thought I was too "thick" to be anything but a secret. "Do better," I say to his reeling form. I walk out of the room, leaving the door wide open. As I descend the stairs, the party feels different. It feels smaller. Less intimidating. I head for the front door, but a hand catches my elbow near the coat rack. "Olivia, wait." It's JP. He's alone now, the blonde girl nowhere to be seen. He looks different—the smirk is gone, replaced by something that looks almost like respect. "I'm JP," he says, as if I didn't already know. "Look, I should've warned you about Dave. He's a known scumbag. I was just... I was being a prick earlier." "Yeah," I reply coolly, pulling my arm out of his grip. "You were. But I'm done with this party. I'm done with the games." "Wait," he says as I reach for the door handle. "Can I... can I get your number? For real this time? No games." I look at him. He's exactly the kind of drama I used to think I deserved. The kind of guy who watches from the sidelines and waits for a girl to be vulnerable. "No," I say. "Why not? I'm apologizing." "I don't need that kind of drama in my life, JP. I'm eighteen. I'm just starting to figure out who I am. I don't need a guy who only talks to me after he's done being an asshole to his girlfriend." I open the door, but before walking out, I turn back to face him one last time. I stand tall, owning every inch of the height Becca's heels gave me. "If you can figure out who I am without me handing it to you on a silver platter, come find me. Maybe then we can be friends. Maybe." I walk away, the cool night air hitting my skin like a benediction. I pull out my phone and text Becca: Taking an Uber home. Waiting on the curb, I catch my reflection in the dark screen of my phone. I don't look for the "flaws" I used to obsess over. I don't check to see if my stomach is flat enough or if my arms look too big. I just see myself. Same body. Same emerald dress. But the woman inside it feels entirely different. The world hasn't changed. The frat house is still loud, the guys are still jerks, and the air is still thin. But for the first time in my life, I don't feel like I'm taking up too much space. I don't feel like I'm an apology in human form. I feel like I finally fit inside my own skin. And as the Uber pulls up, I realize that the space I occupy is exactly the amount I was meant to have. I'm not "thick," I'm not "heavy," and I'm not "too much." I am Olivia. And that is plenty.