The Making of Us

by Debbie McGowan

  “Come on!” Leigh said and hurried away, in the opposite direction to the tea rooms.

  “Where are you… You’re not supposed to shelter under a tree in a storm.” Nonetheless, I joined them, under the tree.

  “It’s not here yet, and anyway, that only applies in an open space. The tea rooms are more likely to get hit than this little tree.” Leigh peered up into the leafy canopy, continuing undaunted with demolishing their ice cream.

  I wasn’t sure this was the safest move, but I couldn’t deny I was loving every second. There was something very romantic about sheltering under a tree as the rain started to fall around us. By ‘started to fall’, I mean absolutely pelt down. We both edged closer to the tree’s thick trunk.

  “Is this an oak?” Leigh asked.

  I shook my head. “Sycamore.” And contrary to Leigh’s claim, it was far from little, but the leaves were proving to be very effective umbrellas.

  “Lightning! One, two, three…” Leigh continued to count with eyes unfocused, reaching twenty before the thunder sounded. Maybe the storm would roll straight past us, although the rain said otherwise. The leaves towards the end of the branches began to flap as the wind picked up.

  “Brrrr….” Leigh lifted their arm to examine the goosebumps. Another roll of thunder sounded. We’d missed the lightning again. Leigh shivered. I put my arm around them and pulled them close. No thinking, no worrying. It felt natural, even if their closeness sparked the kind of physical reaction I’d have normally worked harder to hide. My ice cream was becoming a bit of a burden, and Leigh had all but finished theirs.

  “Do you want this?” I asked. They nodded and shoved the pointed end of their cone in their mouth to take my ice cream. “That’s your thing, is it?”

  “Yeah,” Leigh admitted with a greedy breathlessness, which made me a little breathless, too.

  With both hands free, I looped my other arm around them, putting us pretty much in the same position as we’d been last night outside the pub, except I was leaning against a tree rather than a wall. The same scent filled my nose. “Do you use a citrusy shampoo?”

  “Nope, it’s a body spritz. Green tea and lemon.”

  I ducked my head to get a bit closer and inhaled. “It smells fantastic.”

  “Thanks.” I got the impression Leigh was going to say more but got cut off by the bright flash of lightning followed a second later by thunder. “D’you think it’s as dangerous as they say? Standing under a tree?”

  “Not sure. Like you said, though, the building’s more likely to be struck because it’s taller.” I was having something of an internal war; on the one hand, I was a bit worried about how close the storm was; on the other, we were cuddling under a tree in a thunderstorm.

  Whatever the potential danger, it lost all significance when Leigh reached the end of my ice cream and turned around, bringing our faces within an inch of each other. A half-smile played on their lips, their eyes wide open, looking up into mine, and then down to my mouth. We were going to kiss…I thought…and then…we were kissing. Cold, sweet ice cream lips lightly touched mine, and I forgot everything—the storm, the rain, my fat belly I’d worried would get in the way, being too tall, Leigh being too short, how to breathe…

  That first kiss ignited my senses, and I needed Leigh all at once, to taste their lips, with or without ice cream, to smell their body, lemon spritz or not, to touch and feel their skin, maybe even against mine. Using the tree trunk for balance, I bent my knees and slid my feet outwards along the ground, bringing me closer to Leigh’s level, with them between my legs, and brushed my hand up their back to their hair—“Still purple?”—stroking and pulling them closer—“Uh-huh…” Another kiss, not so light this time, Leigh’s tongue tickled my lips, and I parted them uncertainly. I’d never done this before—had they?

  The tickly contact created a mini sensory overload in my mouth that seemed to short-circuit my novice brain, and my tongue just did its own thing, pushing back until I was in Leigh’s mouth, and…agh, I couldn’t pull away, nowhere to go. Leigh’s thighs were sandwiched between mine, maintaining a few inches of space between our lower bodies, a safety zone that I welcomed and despised equally.

  I lost count of the kisses, and Leigh lost count of the lightning–thunder seconds, until we emerged, panting, flushed…and no, the piercing hadn’t got in the way. I caught it between my lips, didn’t tug, just held it there. Leigh’s sigh washed warm breath over my nose.

  I let my hands rest, clasped against the small of their back, and whispered shakily, “Feel like I’m dreaming.”

  “Me, too.” A little line formed between Leigh’s eyebrows, and their gaze briefly became distant.

  “What’s wrong?”

  With another tug of their lip stud, Leigh wriggled to loosen my grip slightly and reached behind, seeking out one of my hands. They lifted it to their face. “Can you feel that?”

  I nodded dumbly, and possibly with my mouth hanging open, as Leigh brushed my hand over their cheek and chin.

  “Skin,” I managed to utter.

  Leigh laughed. “Is that all?”

  I shrugged, aware only of Leigh’s eyes locked on mine and the smoothness of their chin against my big clumsy hand. I could’ve kissed them again, but this was intimate in a different way.

  “Use your fingertips,” they suggested and manoeuvred my hand into position. My fingers bounced a couple of times before I increased the pressure to steady the shaking.

  “Can you feel it now?” Leigh asked.

  “Yeah.” Soft hair along Leigh’s jawline, extending up in front of their ear to meet their hair. It was light in colour and not noticeable at a distance, but up close it was copious, and my fingers seemed to have developed minds of their own. I forced my errant hand down, clasping it with the other, and leaned forward to kiss their chin, surprised by the really strong urge I had to suck it, nibble at it…

  “Hormones,” they said with a somewhat bemused smile.

  We were too close for me to hide my blush, so I didn’t try. “Hormones?” I repeated.

  “Uh-huh. I’m like, really hairy. I had to wax to wear that dress on Friday.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah. I try not to do it unless I have to, because you never get used to it.”

  “That’s what Matty says. He waxed his armpits for the show they did last summer.”

  “But he’s so blonde you can’t even see the hair on his body!”

  “He was being lifted by someone, and he didn’t want them getting a handful of sweaty hair.”

  “Ew.” Leigh’s nose wrinkled. My throat made a weird croaking sound as I swallowed what I was certain would’ve been a sexual moan. I coughed to cover it; Leigh’s grin told me I’d failed. I didn’t care.

  “I don’t mind handfuls of sweaty hair,” I said and then screwed my eyes shut. That sounded…I don’t know what it sounded like, but it was not what I wanted to say. “All I mean is, hairy is OK by me.” Fuckety-fuck. Shut up, Jesse, you balloon.

  “OK,” Leigh spluttered. They’d have been doubled up with laughter if I wasn’t in the way, of that I was quite sure.

  “I’m glad I’m not a dancer,” I said, because I so needed a change of subject right now, and that was all I’d got.

  “Can you dance?” Leigh asked, still giggling a little. Well, a lot.

  “Nah.” I’d never tried. I’d never considered trying, because…fat bloke on a dance floor? Hell, no.

  “I bet I could get you up dancing,” Leigh said confidently, though still amused.

  “I bet you could.” I was almost certain Leigh could get me to do anything—apart from talk sense—and not because of my infatuation, which, actually, was more than infatuation by this point. “I’ve got the grace of a baby elephant taking its first steps.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see about that.”

  “Next Pride social,” I suggested bravely. “I’ll dance with you.”

  “Promise?”

  I nodded
. “Promise.”

  “Cool.” Leigh kissed me again, just once, and leaned their cheek against mine. “So you don’t fancy Jazz, then?”

  “Nope. She’s a good mate, though.”

  “OK.” Leigh’s eyelashes fluttered and then flickered in a harsh blink as we both startled at the simultaneous thunder and lightning. “Whoa!” They pointed past me and the tree. “Did you see that?”

  “No?” I leaned to the side to look around the trunk.

  “It touched down, over there.”

  That was a bit too close for comfort. “I think we should wait inside,” I said.

  Leigh stepped back so I could stand up straight. My shirt was bunched up, and my jeans were not as baggy as I’d have liked them to be just at that moment. I wasn’t sure if Leigh noticed the state I was in before I had a chance to hide it, but they didn’t say anything other than, “Ready?” as they grabbed my hand.

  We dashed out from under our leafy umbrella, both gasping and shivering and cursing at the cold, hard rain thrashing our shoulders and backs. The tea rooms seemed so far away, and by the time we reached them, we were like drowned rats.

  “Oh my god!” Leigh stuttered through chattering teeth as we virtually threw ourselves through the door. They swiped water from their cheeks. “Is my face purple—oh. No point asking you, is there?”

  I used my sleeve to dry my eyes and took a closer look. “I think it might be, you know.”

  “Damn. It’s wash-out dye.”

  I grimaced on Leigh’s behalf.

  They shrugged. “Oh, well. It means I can change it again soon. You can help me decide what colour.”

  I chuckled. “OK.” I wasn’t sure how that would work out. I noticed the woman behind the counter eyeing us suspiciously. “Shall we get a hot drink while we’re here?” I suggested.

  “Yeah. Hot chocolate?”

  “Perfect.” And pure madness, when not half an hour ago we’d been relishing the coldness of our ice creams.

  We went to order our drinks; apparently, the tree had cast some kind of spell that meant we were now joined together, and we’d moved past hand-holding to snuggling. I was pretty sure I would never, ever grow tired of this feeling, even if that wet purple dye was right now transferring to my beard. Could be an interesting look for me.

  The woman behind the counter was far less taciturn as she handed our drinks over. In fact, she almost smiled. We both thanked her and headed for the throw-covered sofas rather than the table where we’d been sitting earlier. I ended up in the corner again, but it worked well; my size worried me less and less each time we did this just-kind-of-fitting-together thing, and it was a really comfy sofa. I could see this becoming a regular haunt for us.

  Outside, the rain was starting to ease off, and it would probably pass soon, which made me sad, because once it did, we’d have to walk back to the farmhouse.

  “What’re you thinking about?” Leigh asked. They were tracing circles on my palm, and it had sent me into a dopey trance.

  “How much I’m going to miss you over the next three weeks,” I replied honestly.

  Leigh met my gaze. “Uni work?”

  “Yeah.” I had so much coursework to get through between now and Cornwall, it was going to be a killer, and I guessed Leigh’s workload was much the same.

  They smiled and laced our fingers together. “It’s only three weeks.” They finished off with a mock-horrified face, which made me laugh.

  It wasn’t so long, really. Not in the grander scheme of things. Our magical day—weekend—together might’ve almost been at an end, but it was only the beginning of us.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Eleven

  Eight o’clock Monday morning, my phone alarm pinged at me repeatedly, while I tried to divest myself of the duvet, grunting in annoyance. Unless I had a meeting with my diss supervisor, I wasn’t even in uni on a Monday this year, and I was sure I’d remembered to turn the thing off.

  Ah, but that wasn’t my alarm. It was a calendar reminder. I squinted at the screen and threw my phone down in dismay.

  “Crap.” Weight management clinic. Sod’s law that was today, after a brilliant Saturday night and the utter bliss of Sunday kisses in the rain. I’d planned to sleep in and have a bath, which I never did because…OK, I was fairly sure the floor wasn’t going to fall through, but there was always that niggling doubt. But it had dwindled to bearable in the afterglow of spending the weekend with Leigh. So, a bath, then I’d planned to vacuum for Mum—or not for Mum, as it was my mess, too, but she usually did it before I thought to, being a mother and all. Then I was going to chill out on my bed—music, studying, chat to Leigh and Noah online… awesome day, happy Jesse.

  But that was not to be.

  It was nearly two years ago that I’d gone to my GP in a state of desperation, although I need to backtrack a little further. Three years ago, I’d slipped on wet leaves and badly twisted my knee. The X-ray showed nothing, and the doctor at the hospital concluded it was soft tissue damage. Rest, take ibuprofen, and ‘losing some weight will help’. I bloody know, thanks. Don’t they think it’s ever occurred to me? Oh, hey, you fell and twisted your knee. You know if you weren’t morbidly obese, you probably wouldn’t have slipped. I’d lost count of how many times people had said stuff like that to me in the past.

  I’ve got a really bad toothache.

  – Serves you right for eating all that chocolate.

  My hay fever’s bad this year.

  – That doesn’t mean you can’t exercise.

  I burnt my hand on the oven.

  – In a hurry to get the pizza out, were you?

  Back to the knee…

  By January, there had been no change, so I went to my GP, who basically ran an action replay of what the hospital had said. My weight was putting extra strain on the weakened joint, and if I wanted it to get better…on and on it went. Or it would’ve done if my mum hadn’t exploded with rage in the waiting room. I was embarrassed and proud all at once, but then, my mum knew my battle, because it was hers, too.

  Next stop: a new GP, and she was a million times better from the get-go. No wisecracks about my weight, or interrogation of what I’d done to address it; she gave me a full check-up and sent an urgent referral for physiotherapy for my knee, and the appointment came through really quickly, which was great. Not so great was the advice I got with my knee exercises. If you lost a bit of weight, maybe cut back on…

  The exercises did help a bit, but it was still swollen and painful, and it seized if I walked for more than ten minutes. I went back to my GP, and this time, I thought…that’s it. I can’t do this on my own. I asked for help, fully expecting the usual ‘here’s a high-fibre, low-calorie, impossible-to-stick-to diet sheet and exercise regime’. I was so done with those.

  “I could refer you to the weight management clinic,” she suggested.

  “What’s that?”

  “They monitor your weight, give you realistic advice about healthy eating and exercise, talk through the available treatments.”

  It sounded doable.

  “There’s a waiting list, though.”

  “How long?”

  “Six months.”

  “I’ll have a think about it.” It was too long, not because I was impatient, but…I don’t know. It felt like cheating, and maybe I could have another try? After all, what was a few more months when I’d been Big Jesse for nineteen years already? OK, that wasn’t strictly true. I’d been a normal-sized baby, but for all of my life that I could remember, I’d been chubby, carrying puppy fat, big for my age, overweight, obese, a little on the tubby side, or simply…fat.

  “Matty, will you write me up a diet and exercise programme?” He hadn’t looked happy when I’d asked him, but he knew this stuff. He studied it as part of his degree.

  “Sure. What exercise do you enjoy?”

  Stumped. None of it? Eventually, I offered, “Swimming, but…” Nope. I wasn’t baring my flab for anyone.

 
“OK, so you’re not an exercise person. That’s all right. You just need to control your calorie intake.”

  Wasn’t that what I’d already been doing?

  He continued, “Like…three hundred calories less a day. That’ll give you slow, steady weight loss. Just drop two slices of bread.”

  “That all?” I doubted it were that simple.

  Matty had loaded an app on his phone, keyed in my height and a guess at my weight, which was close enough for rock and roll, and I wasn’t telling. “Yeah, look.” He’d shown me the info onscreen. “2,400 to maintain your current weight, 2,096 to lose weight.”

  “How many?!” If I’d eaten that many calories a day, I’d have been the size of a house. I told Matty as much. His expression called me a liar, and he refused to play any part in my ‘starvation diets’ from that point on.

  I tried. I had to record everything I ate, and discovered it’s surprisingly easy to tot up 2,000 calories over the course of a day. But I hated having to think about it. It was just so exhausting and boring. Why couldn’t I be like normal people and eat when I was hungry, stop when I’d had enough?

  And my knee was still busted. So…I grabbed the bull by the horns: I went back to my GP.

  “Sign me up,” I said.

  My appointment came through a couple of months later, for a couple of months after that. Finally, there was my chance to get specialist help….except going to the clinic was more stressful than it was helpful.

  Today was my fourth appointment, and in the year I’d been going, I’d lost a grand total of…zero kilos! Actually, that was a lie; I’d lost six and put them back on, but the weight management clinic was not taking any of the credit for that.

  I didn’t feel like I’d achieved anything, but still. I was feeling upbeat. It was a Fat Pride day, and I was tempted to call and cancel the appointment whilst at the same time realising that tomorrow I might not feel so good about myself.

  I fished out the appointment letter, noted the warning that if I didn’t turn up, the clinic would cancel my referral and I’d have to go back to my GP and start over. I was going, whether I liked it or not. My appointment wasn’t until ten-thirty, but for whatever reason—I guessed there wasn’t a clinic closer—it was thirty miles and an hour away on the bus, so I needed to get a move on.