CHAPTER 20

Dr. Kellan Keita stood before me, six foot one inches of pure medical competency. With degrees on his wall from UCLA and Stanford, his talented hands were well known in our circle for seamless and undetectable work. I should have gotten on his books years ago.

I sat on an exam table, in a thin medical smock that opened in the front, exposing my cleavage and belly through a gap down the middle. I had been unsure whether to keep my bra on, the nurse's initial instructions unclear, and had finally removed it. Now, with my nipples pebbling in the cold room, I regretted that decision.

"Your skin has good elasticity," he said, pulling and prodding at my face. He felt along my nose, then used his penlight to look into each nostril. "Inhale," he instructed, and I obeyed.

"The good news is, the size of your nose is very appropriate for your face. We don't need to reduce it; we just need to adjust the shape of it to build up the nasal tip a little."

He moved around to my other side and studied me, then spoke. "We can graft using cartilage from other parts of your nose. Very easy. You'll have puffiness and bruising, but once you heal, no one should realize that you've had work done. They will just recognize that you look great. It will be very subtle but powerful."

"What if I'm under bright lights? Will the scars show?"

"No. You'll have faint scars in the beginning, but they'll fade completely within six months." He clipped his pen to the front pocket of his lab coat. "Now, you mentioned some upper-body liposuction. Can you remove that for me?" He motioned to the gown, and I took it off, then reluctantly moved the protection of my hair off my neck and over my shoulder.

His gaze immediately found my scar, but he covered it well. "Okay, let's talk through your areas of concern."

I went through an embarrassing tour of the fat pockets that had collected under my chin, encircled my stomach, and sagged over my panty line on my back. All areas that no amount of cardio or weight training had seemed to affect. He recorded them all on his pad of paper, his features quiet and professional, and made no acknowledgment of my bare breasts, which hung between us.

"That's it," I said, once I had mentioned everything.

He took a beat, then tilted his head, meeting my eyes. "Perla, I'd be remiss if I didn't ask you about your scar. Do you mind if I examine it?"

And there it was. I considered rejecting the request, but then nodded. He reached forward and used the pads of his fingers to gently knead across the length of it. The scar was an uneven line, a result of hesitancy during the act. That, paired with the shallowness of the wound, was the only reason I was still here.

"What caused this scar?" he asked mildly.

"I'd rather not talk about it." I pulled away. "It's an old injury."

"The stitch job is ..." He winced. "It's a bit of a hatchet job. I could open up the wound and clean out the scar tissue. Repair the sutures and make it a lot less noticeable."

I touched my own hand to the spot. "I'd rather not. At least, not right now. Thank you for the offer. I know it's ugly."

He shook his head. "Not ugly. No. Our scars are never ugly. They are proof of what we've been through. Truth be told, they can be the most beautiful parts of us, if we learn to love them."

Oh, I understood that. It was why I didn't want him to touch the scar. It was mine, proof that I could withstand anything and proof that those who love you the most can be the ones who hurt you the most.

"Medically speaking, do you have any issues with shortness of breath?" He was still touching me, his fingers resting gently on my shoulder, and I didn't like it. I didn't like any of this.

"No." It wasn't entirely true, but it didn't matter that I felt like I was breathing through a straw whenever I did physical activity. As I told him before, I didn't want him to fix the scar. After the birthday party, once I'd become famous, I could unveil it. It would be part of my story, a bold mark to make me even more of a conversation piece.

I looked into his eyes. "I need this done this month. Really, as soon as possible."

He sighed. "Yes, my wife has me over a barrel with how urgently you want this done."

Not want — need . In two months, I'd be famous. I couldn't— wouldn't —do that with this ugly nose and shit-colored mole. "Any opening you have, I'll take."

"You can talk to my scheduler when you check out. I've let her know to fit you in." His dark lips were set, his jaw tight, but I didn't care if he was annoyed.

I asked about my recovery time.

"The rhinoplasty is more intensive than the liposuction. Both will be performed in our office, and you'll go home the same day as the procedure. Your face will be puffy and swollen for a few weeks. It'll take six months before you will know exactly how it looks, so don't judge my handiwork too early."

"How long before I'll look normal enough to go out in public?"

"Two or three weeks. You might have black eyes and some bruising. Icing it will help. The liposuction is minor; you'll barely notice any pain from that—though you might want to wait a month or so before you go out in a bathing suit. And of course, the mole ... it's nothing. You won't even notice it."

I nodded, pleased with the timeline and how it fit. By the time of the party, I'd look normal. A prettier version of my normal. Ready for the spotlight. The interviews. The sympathy. The attention. It would be perfect.

At least, for me. It wasn't such good news for my daughter.