Delia Suits Up

by Amanda Aksel

  “Okay, I paged him,” she says, hanging up.

  “Thank you, Tara.” I do my best to muster an appreciative smile.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Not sixty seconds later, Frankie rushes around the corner. His worried expression turns horrified when he lays eyes on me, and he picks up the pace. “Are you all right? What happened?” He grabs me by the shoulders, trying to meet my gaze. “Hey, what’s going on?”

  It’s hard to look at him. Admitting this to Frankie is going to feel a lot worse than confiding in a bartender. The way I flashed my self-important arrogance at lunch makes me feel like an ass. My face starts to flush. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “Yeah, c’mon.” He motions for me to follow him around the front desk, and we walk into a small, dimly lit office. Two computer stations squeeze in close together in an L shape, each with its own desk lamp and computer chair. He takes a seat at one and directs me to the other.

  “Sorry I interrupted your day,” I say, my head feeling as heavy as my heart.

  “It’s okay. I have a little bit of time. What happened?” Concern clouds his brown eyes.

  I let out a long, sorrowful sigh and pick at my fingernails. “They found me out. Fired me.”

  He’s silent, with a face that says, Told you so, but his words are, “That’s rough.”

  “It gets worse.”

  He cocks his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

  “Eric said he has feelings for me. For Delia. But I can’t tell him like this.” I motion to my miracle body.

  Frankie covers his gaped mouth, his eyes glistening with empathy. “Oh, chica. I’m so sorry.”

  I lean forward, holding my head in my hands and rubbing my temples with my big thumbs. “Me too. Turns out, having a dick isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. That’s why I came to see you. You told me we could do some tests. Maybe we can start trying to figure out why this happened to me. Find a way to reverse it.”

  Frankie twists his mouth. “I don’t know if we can figure out how it happened. I can take your blood, do a hormone analysis, and send out a DNA test.” He leans in, lowering his voice. “But . . . the more I think about it, the more I realize that it doesn’t matter what the results are. You’re in this new body. You have to deal with all the things that come with . . . well, havin’ a dick.”

  My chest tightens with his words. “So you don’t think I can be fixed?”

  “You’re not broken, Delia. I know it seems dire, but you’re still a fully functioning human being.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t know how this happened or how long it will last. But if you think about it, there is an upside. You can start over. And think of all the money you’ll save not buying tampons.” Frankie shares a friendly smile. “Things could be a lot worse.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want this. I just want to go back to my old self again.” And I mean it.

  “Well, maybe you will.” It sounds hopeful in the same way a parent placates a child by saying, We’ll see.

  “How?” I ask, now knowing that the notion of magically changing back is as ridiculous as it happening in the first place. “Lightning never strikes twice in the same place. What if miracles are bound by the same laws?”

  Frankie shrugs. “They might be. But just in case, we’ll get drunk and play Truth or Dare tonight, you can say a little birthday wish, and tomorrow maybe you’ll wake up as your old self again.”

  My thick eyebrows meet. “So . . . you think Gina was right? It was Truth or Dare?”

  He rolls his eyes, making a clicking noise with his mouth. “I don’t know what to think anymore. But I do know that until we solve this puzzle, you’re going to have to figure out how to make the best of this . . . pickle.”

  “That’s what I was trying to do—”

  Frankie hushes me with an erect index finger. “I know, but at the same time, growing a big dick didn’t destroy your brain cells or your sense. You knew there were major risks in what you were doing. It wasn’t a small deceit. I don’t even know how the hell you pulled it off.”

  “You think I have a big dick?” Maybe that’s why I brought all that BDE today.

  “Eh.” He shrugs. “It’s above average.”

  For now, I’ll take it.

  “It’s like I’ve got two brains in my head. Yesterday, there’s no way I’d have had the balls to pull a stunt like that. But this morning, with this body, the news from Fairbanks, and a pep talk from Serena Walters”—I snap my fingers—“I had it all and I just fucking went for it. Go big or go home, ya know?”

  “You should’ve gone home,” he says with a patronizing expression. “And who’s Serena Walters?”

  “She’s only my career idol.” I shoot him a wide-eyed glare. “I’m sure you’ve heard me talk about her before.”

  “I can’t keep up with all of the financial rock stars you’re obsessed with. What did she say to you?”

  “She told me her success is rooted in confidence and if you want respect, you have to demand it. So that’s what I did and it worked . . . until it didn’t.”

  “Yeah, but they didn’t fire you for lack of confidence.”

  I shake my head. “No, but if I’d walked in and told them the truth, they either wouldn’t have believed me or they’d have taken the information and left me out of it. I just wanted to be a part of it. Something important. Do something that I love. I don’t know why that’s so fucking hard. And I really don’t know how I convinced myself that being a man would make it easier.”

  Frankie leans back and folds his arms over his chest. “I don’t know either. In my experience, mo’ dick, mo’ problems.”

  I let out a half laugh, half whine. “I should’ve listened to you this morning. Why did you let me go out there? You should have placed me under a 5150.”

  He looks at me like I’m nuts. “How do you know about Section 5150?”

  “I saw it on TV once.”

  “Well, first off, that’s a California law.” He covers a chuckle with his hand. “And the reason I didn’t place you under involuntary confinement is because the more time I spent with you this morning, the more I could see that you’re still you. You’re still Delia. Doesn’t mean I haven’t been worried out of my mind, but I know you can handle this.”

  “Thanks.” I let out a sigh, trying to wrap my head around the whole thing.

  “So listen,” he starts, “why don’t you just go home, get some rest, write the day off as a wild adventure, and start fresh tomorrow? But I’d avoid going back to Monty Fuhrmann if I were you.”

  “Yeah, no kidding.”

  “There are plenty of other firms.” Frankie sounds so freaking positive—he believes I can make something good come from all of this.

  “Yeah, but . . .” I freeze, then grab my Gucci, pulling Serena’s assistant’s card out of the front pocket.

  “What? What were you going to say?” Frankie pesters me.

  I flash him the business card between my fingers. “I completely forgot that Serena Walters told me to call her assistant if I ever wanted to leave Monty Fuhrmann.” It was just enough to push the corners of my mouth back up into a smile. “Maybe I’ll get a second chance after all.”

  Frankie lays his hand on my shoulder. “Anything’s possible.” He pops out of his seat. “C’mon. I vant to draw your blood,” he says in the voice of Dracula.

  I shoot him an unimpressed look. “Please tell me you don’t say it like that to all your patients.”

  His high cheekbones blush a rosy hue. “I don’t, but I’ve always wanted to.”

  Frankie leads me out of the tiny office and down the brightly lit hallway. He peeks his head into one of the exam rooms before venturing inside.

  “Take a seat,” he says, pointing to a pleather patient chair covered with stiff tissue paper. I adjust myself on it, the pa
rchment-like layer crinkling beneath me.

  He slaps on a pair of purple latex gloves. “Take off my jacket.”

  “Huh?” I say with a confused stare.

  Then he gives me one of those get real expressions. “You’re wearing my suit, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, right.” I slide the gray sports coat off my shoulders and unbutton the cuff of the starched salmon shirt, rolling up the sleeve in a careful fashion. He ties a bright orange rubber tourniquet above my elbow and presses against the few visible veins.

  “So how did you find out Eric has feelings for you?” he asks.

  I look ahead, feeling the tip of the needle touch my skin. “He told me, I mean Richard.” The little prick stings the crease of my elbow. I look down, watching the blood fill the teeny tube. Real blood. My blood.

  “What did he say?”

  I let out a dreamy sigh. “Everything I wanted to hear. And more.”

  “I knew it.” He smirks, keeping his focus.

  Seconds later, the tube is full. Frankie tugs the little syringe from my arm and presses a fluffy cotton pad against the minuscule wound, taping it in place. “You okay?” he asks.

  I stretch out my hand. “Yeah, I think I’m good. I’m gonna go home and get some rest like you said. Tomorrow, I’ll call Serena Walters’s assistant.”

  “Good. I’m glad you came by.” Frankie smiles and jiggles the test tube in front of me like a tiny bell. “I’ll order these stat and let you know when I get the results back.”

  I open my arms and bring him in for a hug. His body feels like mine, but in the moment, I imagine I’m my small Delia-self wrapped in the warmth of a big embrace. “Thanks, Frankie. I needed that.”

  He pats my back and pulls away. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

  As we take the stairway down to the ground floor, Frankie’s pager beeps impatiently.

  He stops and grabs it from the waistband of his scrubs, silencing it in midbeep. “I gotta go to the ER.”

  “Ooh, that sounds cool. Can I come?” It’s got to be more exciting than lounging around the apartment.

  “It’s not like TV. It’s boring most of the time,” he says, heading down the stairs again.

  I follow close behind him. “Is that why you’re not rushing to get over there?”

  “Yeah, some kid probably stuck a bead in her ear. It happens a lot.”

  “Oh.” That does sound lame.

  We turn the corner to the emergency area. Empty gurneys line the walls on either side of the wide room. A few are shielded by blue-and-green-striped curtains. Frankie stops at the nurses’ station, and I look ahead at the automatic doors leading outside.

  I nudge Frankie with my elbow. “I think I’m gonna go.”

  The nurse hands him a chart before he turns to me. “Yep, a three-year-old stuck a pea up his nose. Told you it was boring.”

  I laugh. “That kid’s smart. I bet his parents will never feed him peas again.”

  “You got that right.”

  “Anyway,” I say, rocking on my heels. “Thanks again for your help today, letting me borrow your clothes and everything. It means a lot.”

  He pats my shoulder, examining me with his eyes. “I’m just glad you haven’t ruined Michael Kors yet.”

  I glance over the sleek gray fabric, buttoning the jacket then dusting off the sleeves. Despite the disasters of the day, I haven’t even spilled a drop of coffee on the suit. I turn for the exit just as a crowd of paramedics rushes in.

  “Male, forty-eight, having chest pain, BP is one-ninety over one-fifteen,” one of them calls out.

  “He’s having a heart attack!” shouts an oddly familiar voice.

  Watching the horde bustling in, I zero in on the only person who’s wearing a banker’s suit.

  No. Way.

  Is that . . . ?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Oh my god, that’s Owen Campbell!” I blurt out and rush toward the commotion.

  What’s he doing here?

  Frankie’s footsteps are just behind mine. “Who?”

  “One of the guys from Monty Fuhrmann.” I’m merely a few feet from the stretcher when Frankie yanks my arm back, warning me to keep my distance.

  I stand on my tiptoes, peering over the doctors’ heads. Who’s having a heart attack?

  A man stretched out on the gurney clutches an oxygen mask to his face. The skin beneath his heavily receding hairline is pinker than a Miami sunburn.

  I shrug off Frankie’s grip and turn back to face him. “Holy shit . . . it’s him,” I mutter.

  “It’s who?” he asks, in the same low tone.

  I glance back at the scene. Doctors rush their patient over to an enclosed room, their white lab coats catching air behind them like superhero capes. Owen stays on their heels until one of the nurses pushes her way in front of him, holding her hands out. “Sir, you need to stay here,” she commands.

  I return my attention to Frankie and grip his shoulders. “That’s Curtis Becker. The guy who fired me.”

  Frankie stares at me as if he’s trying to add it all up. “Who? The heart attack guy?”

  “Yes.” I release him from my grasp and wander closer to the commotion. The blinds in the room are nearly shut, and the only thing that’s discernible is figures moving about. I tilt my ear toward the window, listening for words like charge and clear, but the voices are too muffled to make anything out.

  Owen is just as entranced by the scene and doesn’t seem to realize that I’m standing right next to him. With the color drained from his face, he looks utterly distraught. Poor guy. This day’s been crazy for him too.

  I tap him on the shoulder. He flinches, then squints as if he can’t see straight. “Richard? What are you doing here?”

  “Was that Becker on the stretcher?” I dart quick glances between him and the ER room.

  “Yeah.” With his eyes focused on the trauma room, he rises on his toes, craning his neck from side to side to no avail.

  “What happened?”

  Owen doesn’t divert his attention. “We had a disagreement and he blew a gasket. The next thing I know, he’s falling to his knees and gripping his chest.”

  “Is he going to be all right?” I ask, not really hiding the fact that I’m only mildly concerned. It’s not like I want the guy dead—but he is at the top of my shit list today.

  “I don’t know.” Owen stuffs his hands in his pockets, turning on his heel. “I should probably call the office and tell them to postpone the Fairbanks meeting.”

  I hurry after him. “No! You can’t do that.”

  He pulls out his phone, cased in aluminum, and probably equipped with the Ezeus operating system. “You’re in no position to tell me what I can and can’t do. I know about you and your lies,” he practically growls, baring his teeth.

  I halt in my tracks, like a little lion cub put in its place. “Okay. You’re right. I’m sorry. But listen, you have to trust me on this. If you cancel this meeting, you will not get another one.”

  “You really are a cocky son of a bitch, you know that?” He comes at me with a confrontational stance, his height rivaling mine.

  He has no idea just how much cockier I am today.

  Owen gets in my face. “How do you know so much about Todd Fairbanks, anyway?”

  I take in a deep breath, but my airway seems to narrow. What can I say? That I’ve followed Ezeus since its early days? Kept up with every market development? Hung on every word from Eric about the IPO over the past few months? And not just because I always hang on his every word. It’s more than that. I know what I heard. I know what Monty Fuhrmann has to do. And I know how to get it done.

  A small, haughty laugh leaves his lips as Owen turns from me, pressing his phone to his ear.

  Then, everything stops.

  The ER goes silent. No
one seems to be moving or even breathing except for me. I take another deep breath and shut my eyes. The day began with the shock of something new but also the promise of something different. Before my superiors broke me down, before society demanded that I be something I’m not, before I lost my voice, I was fearless.

  “I was at Fairbanks’s apartment this morning,” I blurt out.

  Owen whips his head in my direction, furrowing his brow. “I thought you said you didn’t know him.”

  I glance back at Frankie, who gives me an encouraging chin nod.

  “I don’t.” My voice grows stronger.

  His glare shifts away. “I’ll call you back,” he says before hanging up. A bull-like breath blows through his flared nostrils. “You know, I was actually starting to like you until I found out that you’re a complete fraud. How the hell do you expect me to believe anything you say?”

  “Look, I know I wasn’t completely honest about who I am, but I did know that Fairbanks was going to cancel—”

  “And how did you know that?” he barks.

  Ironically, in order for him to believe me, I have to bend the truth again. But just a little this time. “My roommate cleaned his place last night and left her phone. She asked me to pick it up for her this morning. When I showed up, I overheard him on a call telling someone he was planning to drop Monty Fuhrmann.”

  Owen’s not buying it. He shakes his head like a disappointed coach. “You know, I really did think you were onto something. I told Becker that you may have been an imposter but you saved the meeting with Fairbanks and had some valid points. Then I suggested he sit out of the meeting, and he had a fucking heart attack!” He gets in my face again, jabbing his fingers into my chest. “Now what? I’m supposed to go into the meeting tomorrow and do this pitch myself based solely on what you supposedly overheard? I’d be an idiot to still listen to you.”

  “But you’re not an idiot. The only reason you’ve listened to a thing I’ve said is because you know it’s the right call. You told me yourself you thought something was up with Fairbanks.” I roll my shoulders back, standing tall. “And you don’t have to do the pitch alone. Let me come back and do it with you.”