Usnavys 1 - The Sucia Who Stayed

20 years, 1 year of Ozempic, and a good plastic surgeon later, this is how I envision Usnavys at 49. Don’t worry. We have a new plus-sized sucia. Can you guess who?

Pero, like, Lauren looks so small—in this hospital bed? Not like herself, at all. Not like the woman I’ve known since we was barely more than girls, hijas de nadie y de todos, fresh off our first heartbreaks and dreaming of Pulitzer Prizes or book deals for her, and maybe just a rich man with a yacht and his own golf clubs for me. Were. We were barely more than girls. I know the proper word is were, but like I always said, I code switch: Boricuabonics, baby. And if you can’t hang widit, that’s on you.

It’s the lighting in here, probably. That’s why she looks all tiny and sad. That blueish hospital glare, washing her out like an overexposed selfie. And the enormous bandage on her head. It makes her look like a confused Q-tip. But still, she looks—fragile. Y jovencita. Not physically younger, but in her attitude or something. Old Lauren used to be angry, defensive all the time, with a chip on her shoulder so big it might as well have been the whole damn tree she was carrying around, just to bash you over the head with it. She looks like time rewound her and forgot to press play again.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I don't mean to be rude, but have you been sick, Usnavys?"

I sit beside her in one of them hospital room chairs with the armrests. There was a time, last year in fact, when I would have avoided a chair like that, because I was worried I wouldn't fit. My manicured fingers nervously pick at the FRAME brand jeans I bought to wear in case Trevor Chestnut texts asking for a selfie. Of course he hasn’t. But he will. Mark my words. I’m on a mission with that one.

I call this my Lauren Sanchez phase, not to be confused with the pitiful injured Lauren Fernandez in question now. Lauren Sanchez, you know, the little bowlegged Latina who bagged her a Bezos and became an overnight billionaire? That’s the way to do it, nena. While Trevor Chestnut might not be worth a billion yet, he will be soon enough. He’s this close. And, yes, married, but not happily. And I fully intend for him to be my next and last husband. Don’t tell anyone, though. I’m still in stealth mode. Plotting. I coulda been a spy, except when you look this good everyone notices you’re there, and spies, ya tu sabes. Mejor que son feos.

My Lauren though? My Lauren? She’s another story, honey. My Lauren’s in a hospital bed in Sedona freaking Arizona, and doesn't seem to know who I am or where she is. This scares the shit outta me, but I’m trying not to think too hard about it because I can’t break again. I can’t. So I’m wondering whether I should contour more aggressively before brunch in case my tech bro target wants to video chat. Qué clase de sucia soy, Dios mio. Denial through beauty. No one better at that game than me, okay?

"I have never felt better, Lauren," I tell her. "Other than, you know. This. You. And I am so sorry you’re going through this."

"But you look..." Her voice trails off. "Don't take this the wrong way but, your face. It's like, um, really... How do I say this? You look older. And..."