My Best Friend Paid for My Surgery and Collected the Favor

My name is Marina, and for twenty-six years I carried an insecurity that nobody saw, but that occupied my whole head. My breasts were small, almost flat, and every summer, every fitting room, every night with someone new turned into a little torture. I learned to dress to hide them, to cross my arms without realizing it, to turn off the lights before anyone looked too closely.

For my birthday I gathered the courage to ask my mother for the one thing I had wanted for years: to help me pay for breast augmentation surgery. I told her in the kitchen, almost without looking at her, stirring a coffee that was already cold. Her answer was a flat no, the kind that leaves no room for a second conversation. You’re perfect as you are, she said, not understanding that the problem had never been how I looked to her.

What she didn’t know was that Bruno had heard everything from the living room.

Bruno had been my best friend since college. The kind of friend you tell things to that you tell nobody else, the one you stay up until four in the morning with talking about nonsense and fears. We had flirted a thousand times, always as a joke, always with that invisible line neither of us dared cross. I had long ago decided it was better to have him as a friend than to risk everything for one night.

That afternoon, when my mother left, he sat down beside me on the sofa and said, without drama, like he was commenting on the weather:

—I’ll pay for it.

—What? —I thought it was one of his jokes.

—The surgery. I’ve got savings sitting there and you’ve been carrying this in your head for years. Consider it my birthday gift.

I told him absolutely not, that it was too much money, that I couldn’t accept it. We argued for an hour. In the end he took my hands, looked me in the eyes with that rare seriousness of his and told me he was doing it because he wanted to see me happy, with no conditions. I believed him. Or I wanted to believe him.

Ten days later I went into the operating room with him waiting for me in the recovery area. When I woke up, dizzy and sore, the first thing I saw was his face. He had brought me a ridiculous bouquet of gas station flowers and a bag of my favorite gummy candies. I laughed through tears and a sharp stab of pain in my chest.

***

A week later, recovered, I wanted to thank him the way he deserved. I invited him to dinner at a downtown restaurant, one of those places he would never go to on his own. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get myself dressed up thinking about how he would look at me.

I chose a red lace dress I had bought for the occasion, fitted, with a neckline I was finally daring to show off for the first time in my life. I looked at myself in the mirror and hardly recognized myself. The woman staring back was confident, on fire. I decided not to wear anything underneath, neither bra nor panties. I told myself it was for comfort, for the scars that still ached. That wasn’t entirely true.

When Bruno rang the bell and saw me in the doorway, he fell silent for a second too long. I know him too well: I saw his gaze drop and rise again, saw him swallow.

—You’re… —he started, and didn’t finish the sentence.

—I know —I said, and winked to break the tension.

At the restaurant we tried to behave as always. We talked, laughed, toasted. But something had changed in the air between us, a current neither of us mentioned. And no matter how hard he tried, his gaze kept drifting back to my neckline, as if drawn by a magnet. Every time I caught him, I felt heat rising from my stomach, a mix of power and vertigo.

He likes what he sees. He really likes it.

The dinner felt at once endless and too short. I barely touched dessert. When we stepped out into the cold street, I realized I had spent the whole night crossing and uncrossing my legs under the table, restless, wet beyond help.

We got into his car. He didn’t start the engine. He stayed with his hands on the wheel, staring ahead, then turned to me.

—Marina, can I ask you something without you getting mad?

—Depends —I said, though I already knew where he was going.

—Can I touch them?

My heart skipped a beat. I could have laughed, made a joke of it, gotten out of the car. Instead, I heard myself say yes with a calm I didn’t feel. It seemed fair to me, I told myself, almost like an excuse I needed to let go. But the truth was different: I had spent years wanting him to touch me.

His hand moved slowly, as if asking permission with every inch. He slid the strap of the dress down and exposed one breast. My skin prickled with the air and with his gaze. He brushed me with the pads of his fingers, first the curve, then the nipple, which hardened instantly. I let out the breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding.

—They’re beautiful —he murmured, his voice sounding different, rougher—. Will you let me…?

He didn’t need to finish. I brought my breast to his mouth myself.

***

The inside of the car filled with breathing. Bruno licked me slowly, tracing circles, and I dug my fingers into his hair and pressed him against me, wanting more. Each touch sent heat straight down to my belly. When his free hand began sliding up my thigh, under the dress, I spread my legs without thinking. He found I wasn’t wearing anything and stopped for half a second, as if he couldn’t believe it.

—You’ve been like this all night? —he asked against my skin.

—All night —I admitted.

His fingers stroked me exactly where I needed it and a moan slipped from my throat. The window was starting to fog up. I shifted in the seat, caught between pleasure and the tightness of the space. He noticed.

—Let’s go to my place —he said, pulling away with effort—. Not here.

He started the car with his hands still trembling. The drive was short, but it felt endless, with his hand resting on my thigh and mine over his, feeling through the fabric how hard he was.

As soon as we crossed the door to his apartment, all the control we had been pretending to have during dinner came crashing down. He pressed me against the hallway wall and kissed me for the first time, a long, hungry kiss that tasted of wine and all the years we had spent dodging each other. He unzipped my dress and the garment fell to the floor. I stood naked in front of him, and for once I didn’t feel the urge to cover myself.

—You have no idea how many times I imagined this —he said, running his eyes over me.

—Me too —I confessed.

He took me to the bedroom. While he took off his shirt, I unbuckled his belt and yanked his pants down. When I had him in front of me, I took him in my hand and guided him between my breasts, those new breasts that in a way were his too. I leaned forward and started moving slowly, looking him in the eyes. He threw his head back and let out a deep groan, my name barely recognizable on his lips.

I kept increasing the pace, alternating the movement with my tongue, until I felt him tense all over. He warned me with a broken whisper. I didn’t pull away. I let him finish on me and, without taking my eyes off him, caught what spilled down, enjoying the way pleasure disarmed his face.

—You’re incredible —he panted, dropping to his knees at my height.

***

I thought it was over, but Bruno had other plans. He kissed my neck, my breasts, my stomach, going lower without hurry, and when he reached between my legs and started using his tongue I thought I was melting. I clutched the sheets. I had been on the edge all night and it didn’t take long before I felt the orgasm building inside me, dense, inevitable. Just when I was about to come, he stopped.

—Turn around —he asked in a low voice.

I did as I was told without protest. I got on all fours on the bed, trembling with pure anticipation. I felt him position himself behind me, his hands firm on my hips. The first thrust tore a cry from me that I tried to muffle against the pillow. He filled me completely, slowly at first and then with a rhythm that kept building, one of his hands rising to hold my breast while the other held me steady.

With every movement I moaned louder, not caring about anything anymore, not the neighbors or sanity or the years of friendship we were burning through in that bed. He kept saying my name like a prayer, over and over. I felt pleasure gather again, climbing inside me to a point of no return.

—I’m going to come —I said, barely able to breathe.

—Me too —he answered, squeezing me harder.

One last thrust unraveled us both at once. I came with a shudder that ran from my neck to my toes, and I felt him come at the same time, spilling with a groan that got stuck in his throat. We stayed still for a moment, joined together, before collapsing onto the mattress, panting, sweaty, laughing without quite knowing why.

***

Later, the two of us on our backs staring at the ceiling, I asked him if this changed things. He turned toward me, brushed a strand of hair off my face and told me he hoped it did, that he had spent too long pretending we were only friends.

I still have a hard time believing how that thank-you dinner ended. I started the night convinced I was going to thank him for a gift. I ended up discovering that the real gift hadn’t been the surgery, but daring at last to stop hiding. From him, and from myself.

That was a few months ago. Bruno is still my best friend. Only now, he also sleeps on my side of the bed.