by Shey Stahl
“I can’t sit.”
“Well, okay.” He reached for the waistband and smiled, his chest pressed against mine. “You know, this isn’t the first time I’ve taken your pants off,” he teased, trying to lighten the situation.
“Jared?”
“Yes.”
“I’m still holding the scissors.”
“Got it.”
He pulled once more, tugged and pushed. They weren’t budging.
I was beginning to think they were permanently a part of me. They had somehow merged with the epidermis of my skin to create this exoskeleton that would protect me from future cellulite because, let’s face it, I couldn’t breathe wearing these jeans, so eating was out of the question. At least I’d lose some weight.
Unfortunately, I would forever be wearing Big Star jeans that were three sizes too small.
“Okay.” Jared stood once more, sweating and pushing his hair from his sticky forehead. “Maybe we should cut them off.”
I sighed. “Finally some reasoning.”
Jared was hesitant with the scissors. Rightfully so, I guess. He was cutting jeans off someone. I had no idea how it happened so quick in the ER when they cut clothing away, but I guarantee you it wasn’t slicing and dicing jeans as tight as these were. Jared could barely get the scissors between the fabric and my skin.
It took him ten minutes before they were off because he acted as if he was a blind man threading a needle. “And now your pants are off.” Standing, he smiled when the fabric fell away and finally I could breathe.
“Thank you.” I sighed, because I could inhale and exhale, and then I clutched my burning stomach. “Jesus. That hurt.”
“Should I do your shirt too?” He squeezed the scissors in his hand, smirking at me. “It looks tight.”
“Shut the fuck up.” I smacked him with my elbow as I walked back to my room.
“Nice panties!” he yelled after me, chuckling to himself as he sat back down on the couch.
Touching knuckles is how boxers greet each other whether they’re wearing gloves or not. Touching gloves before the opening bell is also part of boxing protocol.
Everyone’s heard that story about the small-town boy moving on to bigger things. They’ve heard it because it was so common. What you didn’t hear about was who they left behind, oftentimes with a broken heart as the only remembrance that they were ever there.
Silas left me behind. And I never heard from him again. I knew why he left. It was the chance of a lifetime. So while I understood in some ways, it still hurt. He wanted to follow his dreams and he had the talent to do so. What I couldn’t understand, and what I wanted to know, was why couldn’t he have those dreams that included me?
Did I mean anything to him?
Five years together and then, one day out of the blue and just days after high school graduation, as we made summer plans, he up and left me. He didn’t even tell me in person. He called when he was in New York, three days after graduation.
What did he say?
“I’m staying in New York. Sam thinks he can get me a record deal so I have to see what it could turn into.”
Classic break up line.
Some four months later, his music was being played on the radio. I never doubted for a minute he could be a success. But was I so disposable that we couldn’t have chased his dreams together?
I moved on, sure, but it still hurt.
Last spring, I graduated from Western Washington University. Since then I’ve been working as a freelance sports journalist for blogs, magazines, newspapers, and anywhere the money was. It paid the bills at least and allowed me the freedom of not having to go to a nine-to-five job. Every girl’s dream, right?
I liked to think so.
The problem was, I had to answer to those particular blogs, magazine, newspapers, and no story was off limits. I didn’t always get the sports articles either. You wanted a story about ice fishing in the Antarctic; jock itch in Zimbabwe; or shearing sheep in Sweden? I wrote about it. Whoever wanted the story, and every time it was someone different too. My specialty? Sports. Grew up loving it and athletes fascinated me. Their strength, dedication, mindset, all of it. I loved digging deep into how their minds worked.
I didn’t always get to work on them though.
Like now. I was working on an article for The Seattle Times on the Seattle Light Rail Project. It wasn’t keeping my interest though and it didn’t help that the editor involved is a total asshole.
Lauren Mitchel—a complete bitch—picked apart everything, and everyone. She was also the type of woman who gave you a deadline and then proceeded to send you reminders for a week about your upcoming due date. Bitch, I knew my fucking deadlines. I was an A-Type personality.
Monday morning, she called to remind me. Again. After sending two emails. “I need your article by two.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. Why would I joke about that?”
“I didn’t know it was due today.” I was joking with her, but she had no sense of humor. She also didn’t appreciate the fact that I had a sense of humor.
“Well, it is.” Her tone was clipped. “Didn’t you get my reminders I sent out?”
Of course I got your fucking reminders, lady.
“Oh, well maybe.”
“Awesome.”
“Cool down, Lauren.” Scrolling down in the document, I checked the word count. “I’ll have it to you soon.”
“By two?”
“By one.”
She seemed satisfied with that. I hung up, no goodbye or anything. I managed to get the article to her by noon and wanted to tell her to un-bunch her panties, but I didn’t say anything. I knew there’d be a ton of changes coming my way later, but damn, it was good to meet deadlines.
Thinking of deadlines had me thinking about Silas and my goal. I skipped lunch, trying my hand at intermediate fasting, but by the time five rolled around, I was starving. All I could think about was tacos and ice cream. I couldn’t understand how people went without eating. Or what the fuck intermediate fasting meant. You were starving yourself. Calling it fasting was just trying to make us feel better.
The fact of the matter remained. There was no doubt in my mind I would need assistance in losing the weight because the starvation diet wasn’t going to cut it for me. The dreaded “exercise” word floated around in my brain, trying to get pushed aside by the hungry neurons that jumped ahead of it, telling me to eat whatever I wanted.
Clearly, I was going to need a professional.
The thought of going to a gym was about as appealing as starving myself. I didn’t want people staring and judging me when I worked out. I didn’t want to sweat in public and I didn’t want to sit on places where people had left sweat outlines of their ass. And I didn’t want to be tortured by the clock as each interminable minute ticked by while doing said sweating.
In college, I wrote a paper for the school newspaper regarding the gym equipment and how unsanitary those machines were. There’d been a recent flu epidemic at the school and students were blaming the gym. That had me in the gym every day for a week doing research. It was awful the way the boys stared at the women when they worked out—disgusted me. Like they were there just for that purpose. And let me tell you, some of the girls were just as bad. Maybe it was because we were in college and sex was constantly on the mind, but still, I didn’t want an experience like that when I was trying to lose weight.
Did I mention the sweat and the germs that made permanent homes in the gym only to relocate to a newer address… specifically on you?
As I moped over my hunger, my phone buzzed with a missed call from Jared. More than likely he was wondering where I was and why I wasn’t home yet. Usually I worked from our apartment, but our internet service had been sketchy lately, so I worked at Starbucks today. And avoided mochas all day. If that wasn’t the true test of my determination to get my ass back in shape, nothing was.
Jared and I had been doing Taco Tuesday for years. It
was our thing since freshman year in college and continued well past the Freshman 15 that I’d accumulated.
Now we lived together so it was kind of a must. No doubt what you’re thinking is: Is this chick fucking her roommate?
It’s never been romantic between Jared and me. We’ve always been just friends.
We did try the romantic part though. Even had the most awkward sex ever our sophomore year. But still—even after that—we remained friends. He was great and always had my back, no matter what, and was the one person I could trust to give me an honest answer.
Like if your jeans were too tight.
And when I needed brutal honesty, Jared was the man. He would even tell me shit I didn’t want to hear at times. For that, I was thankful. If it wasn’t for him, I would still be in those jeans.
My phone beeped again, letting me know I had a message. Jared said he needed cilantro for the tacos, so I walked up 1st Street to Safeway.
When I made my way back to our third-floor apartment on Republic, I was lightheaded from not eating. Jared was in the kitchen chopping cabbage. The smell of spiced chicken and chili powder hit me as soon as I opened the door. I nearly collapsed at his feet in prayer, thanking him for the smells assaulting my food deprived nostrils.
Jared had an amazing recipe handed down from his Mexican mother. The best part wasn’t even the meat. For me, I was a carb girl. I loved it. Bread, flour, pastries, anything made from wheat or corn. Come to Mama! So, what completed the tacos for me, was the corn tortillas he made from scratch in a cast iron pan. Then to top them off, he sprinkled them with Johnny’s Seasoning Salt. They were to die for.
When we were in college, he made them for me the first time. If there had been any chemistry between us, I would have married him based on his ability to make taco shells like that. Any man who could cook in my opinion was worth putting a ring on.
“Welcome home, honey!” he said with a beaming smile, as if he was happy to see me. He probably was, too.
Jared Stevens would be the perfect guy for some girl, some day. He had some commitment phobia, but he was hot. He wasn’t always such a looker. In college, he was kinda awkward, but I think a lot of us were. It was some time after junior year when he started to resemble a man and began to fill out.
Having just graduated from the police academy, Jared was every woman’s dream in a uniform. Now he was starting his four weeks in field training, learning the laws and patrolling Seattle before he started his one-year probation with the precinct.
He wasn’t in uniform now; instead, he was in an old ratty black T-shirt and basketball shorts, usually what he wore at home. When I walked into the kitchen, he smiled and pushed the bowl of salsa in my direction. “Try this.”
Half Mexican, his skin resembled smooth caramel, combined with a pair of rare blue eyes that made his entire face light up. Jared wouldn’t be single for long once he was seen on the streets in a uniform.
Occasionally he had girls over, but not often. I rarely saw them more than once, twice if they made a lot of noise. The walk of shame they did was often more shameful for me when I’d run into them on the way to the bathroom the morning after. Sadly, I knew they wouldn’t be walking these hallowed halls again. Jared was a looker, but he was in no way a keeper of hearts. Settling down wasn’t for him.
“Smells delicious as always.” Looking around the kitchen, I remembered the parts of Taco Tuesday I hated.
This part was another reason why Jared was still single. He never cleaned up after himself and made a complete mess when he cooked anything. Even when pouring himself a glass of milk, he made a mess. I guessed we couldn’t have our cake and eat it too.
Ah, cake, now that was something I could go for right about now, right after the delicious tacos I was about to inhale.
Taking the trash can in hand, I began to clean up the vegetables he didn’t use, and the plastic bags scattered around.
“Did you make that peach pie?” he asked, his eyes intently focused on the chopping.
“Yeah.” I motioned toward the fridge. “It’s in there.” Reaching over him, I grabbed what looked to be garlic.
He slapped my hand away. “I’m not done with that.”
Did I mention Jared makes his own salsa, too?
It didn’t lend well for clean-up, but it was so good he could be forgiven for that part. Sweet with a kick of garlic, lime, and cilantro, it was so delicious you could eat just that for dinner. I had done so before. Throw that together with some corn chips and it was a little slice of heaven straight from Mexico.
The chips were on the counter in a bright blue bowl, so I dug in, taking much larger scoops than necessary. All the while, salsa dribbled down my chin and onto my shirt.
Damn it, that always happens.
And that was probably why I was single, and trying to fit in jeans that should have been retired after my freshman year of college
“How was patrolling today?” I asked with a mouthful of chips, spitting tiny pieces onto the counter. And this was definitely why I was single.
“Good.” Jared nodded, laughing at my impeccable ladylike manners.
Reaching inside the bag, he removed the cilantro, washed it, and then began chopping the green leaves. Adding it to the salsa, he stirred it with his finger, and then placed the rest in the bowl next to the chips to add to our tacos.
Watching him now, I’d marry him for sure if we weren’t best friends. I was jealous of Jared’s cooking abilities. I could bake, but when it came to actually presenting a meal, I couldn’t do it. I was the girl who burned microwave popcorn.
“It’s almost ready. Grab some plates and beer?”
Nodding, I took one more bite of salsa and then retrieved our plates and beer.
Jared put a lime in each Corona as we sat down at the table. Taking another lime, I squeezed it over my tacos, giving them the flavor I loved.
As I sat there looking at my heaping plate of three tacos—and then the beer—I began to wonder if this was a good idea. I knew it wasn’t but still, who could pass up tacos?
In a way, I was beginning to think if I wanted to lose weight, I had to stop living. I imagined skinny people were depressed. I’d heard them say they had more energy when they exercised, but I thought that might be their brain’s way of fooling them into thinking they’re happy. It had to be.
After the second taco, I looked down at my plate with disappointment. Even stuck my bottom lip out. “Ugh! Damn you, delicious bastards!” I pushed aside the last taco, but it seemed wrong to let it go to waste. What if I started dieting tomorrow? Or maybe just made them healthier? “I bet if you didn’t fry the shells, I could still eat them.” I was trying to place the blame on anyone but myself.
Jared looked at me as if I just said I hated them. “You can’t mess with the recipe, T. Maybe if you didn’t put a pound of cheese on each taco.”
“Don’t be rude.” And then I said the least truthful statement of the evening. “You could stand to lose a pound too, donut boy.”
It was such a lie that I couldn’t even look at him when I said it. “Oh, bullshit.” Jared stood, knocking the table a little and lifted his shirt up around his nipples.
Okay. I was wrong. As I eyed his washboard stomach, guilt weighed down on me for eating the tacos. Maybe I should have stopped at one? Rearranging my face, I glared and pointed my finger in his face. “Screw you and those rock-hard abs of absolute heaven you have.”
“That’s what I thought.” Letting go of his shirt, he sat back down and started in on his fifth taco.
I couldn’t even look at him after that. My eyes focused on my plate as I tried to convince myself I didn’t need to eat that last one.
“You don’t need to do this.” Jared’s voice was suddenly tender, easing into the conversation. “You’re not eighteen anymore and you look fine. You’re a woman. They have curves. And news flash, men like women with an ass.”
“Ordinarily I wouldn’t, but Silas was the love of my life. You know
that. And to have a chance to see him again.” I shrugged, a tad sentimental. “I just want to prove to him I still look good.”
“And you do,” he pointed out, staring at me like I’d lost my mind. “So, what’s the problem?”
“I don’t look like I did in high school.”
“And you shouldn’t.” Jared set his taco down and gave me a serious look, his eyebrows raised in question. “You’re twenty-three. There’s a difference between eighteen and twenty-three.”
I sighed, defeated. “Yeah, like twenty pounds.”
He was quiet for a moment, and then sighed, his eyes on mine. “So, you’re meeting him to show him you lost weight?”
“It’s not just that.” I picked at the edge of the table, unable to meet his eyes again. “I want answers. He left me with no explanation as to why and I want to face him in person. I want him to regret leaving me before he ravages my body backstage for all the world to see.”
Jared shook his head, disappointment etched in his creased brow. The more I talked, the worse it got. My reasoning wasn’t good enough. “And you can’t get answers over the phone?”
“No.”
“So, what?” He relaxed and leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He was going into protective mode. “You’re going to talk to him and then fuck him?”
I picked my plate up, set it on the counter, and looked out the kitchen window at the street below. “Don’t be an ass.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to understand.” Turning in his chair, he faced me. “He can get pussy anywhere he wants. Why you?”
My cheeks flushed at his words. “Way to make me feel completely inadequate, Jared.”
“I never said you were inadequate,” he snapped, as if he was offended. “What I asked was why he would call his old girlfriend for pussy? He’s in town for one night. How do you think it’s going to end?”
He had a good point. I knew what Silas wanted, but who was Jared to judge me? So what if he wanted one night? What if he wanted more than one? Was I fooling myself to think there would be anything more than one night?