Big Man

by Matthew J. Metzger

THERE WAS NO training session that evening. Lewis had taken some of the advanced fighters to Birmingham for a competition with another gym, and Cian was at something with the cadets. Max should have been relieved.

  But he was antsy instead.

  He felt like he had too much energy. He twitched all the way through dinner, and then when he went upstairs with his customary six-pack of Pepsi and packet of biscuits, he found he didn’t really want them.

  His brain was just too damn loud.

  University. Mr Ryhill didn’t like him, and Mr Fraser didn’t like anyone. But they both thought he ought to go to university. Something his dad had never done. Something no Farrier had ever done. Because they thought he could be even more than his dad, or his Uncle George, or—or Grandpa.

  But then—

  Yeah. Because Grandpa was ever going to be proud of his grandson who let short boys in Timberlands piss on his head.

  Like a degree would ever make up for that.

  The thoughts churned and twisted around each other, too loud and too disturbing, and Max found himself changing into his tank top and gym shorts anyway. He couldn’t think when he was tired. He couldn’t think when his body was screaming at him to stop with the stupid boxing already.

  He glanced at himself in the mirror—and paused.

  The shorts were…baggy.

  His thighs were still swollen balloons of fat. His gut still jutted out like a flabby pregnancy. But—

  He could look down and see his enormous feet. And the ankles.

  And Cian was right—Aunt Donna was right. He had big feet. Massive feet. The size twelves weren’t just fatty size twelves. He could see the arches and the knuckles in his toes. He had big feet.

  Squinting at his reflection, thinking of the enormous wall of a man hugging Mum in the old photograph, Max could suddenly see his father looking back at him. His shoulders were obscenely wide, but it wasn’t just the fat doing that. He did have enormous hands and feet. Hadn’t his hand completely covered Cian’s—

  Um, okay. Maybe not think of that, if he was going to exercise.

  But…there was someone huge under the rolls. The tank top didn’t show boobs anymore. The shorts weren’t cutting a groove into his belly. But he was still huge.

  He was going to be tall. Okay, he was already tall, but—taller.

  Big.

  Big man, Lewis had called him. He was a big man.

  “Fatso Farrier,” he said to the reflection, and it didn’t sting like it had before.

  He turned away and found his water bottle. Walked downstairs. Heard Mum and Aunt Donna talking colour schemes—“I am sick to death of pastel, Lucy!”—and let himself out.

  Broke into a jog.

  The night was hot, the sun only just sinking below the horizon, and Max kept his head down, staring at those enormous feet as they thumped and thudded on the stinking tarmac. His calves were hard. Hard. They weren’t shaking and shuddering like his stomach, they were shifting rocks under skin. The body kicks had done that. The push kicks had done that. And there was something bulging and tough in the way his arms bracketed his chest, something like biceps beginning to peek out from under the rolls.

  Why had—

  Why had this guy, this guy who was a big man and going to be super tall soon, why had this guy let Tom Fallowfield piss on his head?

  Max pounded the pavement until his head hurt, his chest ached, his muscles twinged, and his skin was slick with sweat.

  But he didn’t find the answer.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “NO EXAMS, HONEY?”

  Max shook his head, busy shovelling breakfast. Aunt Donna had gone to work early, which meant a sneaky fry-up with Mum. And after last night’s run, he was really appreciating it.

  “No training either?”

  Another head shake. Lewis had gone to Birmingham with the advanced class for some competition or other.

  “Well, then.” Her tone made him look up, and she was giving him that hopeful look. “It’s about time we got you measured for your suit.”

  Shit. “Uh. I should—”

  Too late.

  Max hated buying clothes at the best of times—having to shop in the triple XL range when you were a teenager was just humiliating—but Mum was having things tailor-made. And have a measuring tape applied around his gut? No way. It would take, like, a year’s more running to make that acceptable.

  But…Mum did that thing where she made her eyes wide and looked at him all hurt and hopeful, and it always felt really shitty to say no when she did that. So Max sucked it up and grumbled an agreement.

  Still—

  It wasn’t all bad. He rarely got Mum to himself these days, and Aunt Donna had taken the car, so walking down to the harbour in the morning sun with Mum was not only necessary but a bit of a treat. She was pretty, Max’s mum. She still turned heads, and it felt nice to walk down to the seafront without thinking the heads were turning to goggle at him for once. And she was giggly and happy, just the way Max loved her the most, as they made fun of his Uncle George’s RSVP for the wedding, insisting he needed a plus-one space but not being able to so much as name the girl he’d be bringing with him.

  “I’m glad he’s coming, though,” Mum admitted as they reached the boutique bridal store, tucked away in a narrow side street, the cobbles gleaming in the sunlight. “John’s given some weak excuse.”

  The shop bell jingled over their heads. Movement rustled in the back, and then a plump woman with a big smile and bigger hair swept in, and beamed.

  “Lucy! There you are, my love—and this must be Max.”

  Max squirmed.

  “A full tuxedo is it? Let’s have a look—oh, men’s section for you, dear, definitely, look at these shoulders! Lucy, dear, I think we’ll make him a size too large. He’ll never still be this height by the big day.” One minute Max was at the door, and the next, he was on a stool in a back room, with Ada and a skinny little rake of an assistant putting tape measures everywhere. Why the hell did he need his wrists measured for a suit? And she talked a mile a minute about give and seams and silk linings and the colour blue—

  “Aunt Donna’s right,” he told Mum. “This is way too complicated. I’m never going to get married.”

  Mum laughed. “Well, I didn’t get a proper wedding the first time, so you can both like it or lump it.”

  “Why not?” Max asked curiously.

  She waved a hand airily. “I was a pregnant teenager living in my boyfriend’s parents’ house because mine were so angry with me over the whole thing. We got married in a registry office, and my white dress was an off-the-rail summer dress from Debenhams.”

  Ada tittered. “Ooh, could have been worse, dear. My old mum got married in her funeral skirt!”

  Max stared as the women swapped wedding horror stories, and a whole book of numbers were taken off him. When he was finally allowed to step down, he was made to stand at a wall and have six million fabric samples held up against him—all the same shade of grey, but with different names—while Mum picked.

  Honestly, if this was what people had to do to get married, he’d take the registry office.

  “I bet Dad didn’t have to wear a tux,” he grumbled, and Mum rolled her eyes.

  “He wore his dress uniform if you must know. And don’t you start, I’m still convinced Donna’s going to show up in her overalls and boots.”

  “It would be memorable?” Max attempted but was overridden by three women snorting in unison.

  “Dear, that attitude is why the women have to handle these things,” Ada said and shoved a pile of fabric in his hands. “Men. Honestly! Now go and put that on, go on, through there. Lucy! Lucy, dear, have you made a decision on that dress? We’re going to need a decision soon, you know—”

  Max pulled the curtain shut behind him and shook out the suit. And…the accessories. Okay. So. What was supposed to go where?

  His phone buzzed while he was attempting to work out something that looked like Cian
’s binder, and the devil himself was texting.

  Help! Max replied. Mum’s got me trying on wedding suits and I have no idea what goes where!

  You knew just fine what went where the other weekend ;) came the totally useless reply.

  Sex is easier than suits, Max opined and got a string of laughing emojis for his distress. Seriously, rescue me, this is terrifying.

  Fine, fine. Where are you, O Damsel in Distress?

  The bridal boutique down by the harbour.

  Ok, five minutes. I’m babysitting, and Katie likes chucking rocks at the seagulls.

  Max rolled his eyes and dropped the phone on the chair, going back to the mirror and the weird black binder thing. Where the hell was it supposed to go? What even was it? Screw it. Let Ada laugh. He was never getting married.

  He rejected the bow tie outright—not happening, no way, not ever—but grudgingly decided the waistcoat did look kind of sophisticated. And…yeah. Shoulders. They barely fit in the frame of the mirror, and the waistcoat and his upper arms made him look…

  Built.

  Not fat. Built.

  Max plucked at the fabric and frowned critically. He looked…okay. Like. Not awesome. But okay. Ish.

  “Max, dear, you all right in there?”

  He sighed. Fine.

  “There’s too much random stuff,” he said and pulled back the curtain.

  Mum froze.

  She was standing up on the stool he’d been placed on, her flowery top and dungarees replaced by a voluminous white dress—but she was staring at him, eyes wide.

  And watery.

  “Um. Mum?”

  “Oh, Max.”

  He shifted on his feet—and then recoiled in horror as she burst into tears.

  “Mum!”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just—come here. Come here, come here…”

  He stumbled forward and let her stoop to hug him, the wedding dress scratchy and uncomfortable between them. She sobbed on his shoulder for a minute, and Max racked his brains for what to do. What was he supposed to do? Since when did wearing a stupid suit make Mum cry?

  “Um.” He patted her shoulder hesitantly. “It’s—okay?”

  “I’m sorry,” she sniffled, pushing him to arm’s length and visibly pulling herself together. “You just look—oh, you look wonderful, darling.”

  “Um. Thanks?”

  “You do,” she insisted, wiping her nose on the back of her hand.

  “Ew, Mum.” He found her a tissue from her handbag.

  “Give over,” she mumbled and blew her nose noisily. “You look—God, when did my little Max turn into you, eh?”

  He reddened. “Mum!” Thankfully, Ada and the skinny one had tactfully withdrawn to somewhere else in the shop.

  “No, I’m allowed, this is a parent thing, you wouldn’t understand,” she said, swatting at him. Then she stroked his hair and beamed. “You’re going to look wonderful. Even your grandpa would be getting teary right about now.”

  Max grunted, shifting uncomfortably.

  “Max?”

  He glanced up. Well. At. Even on the stool, Mum was only an inch or two taller than him.

  “Are you…okay?”

  “Um. Yeah?”

  “With this, I mean?”

  “No. I hate suits. They’re uncomfortable and—”

  “No, no, I mean…the wedding, darling.”

  Max blinked at her. She was biting her lip anxiously. And it looked all wrong. She was in a wedding dress. She should be giggly and happy, like when they’d come in.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You…you just don’t seem…that enthused about it.”

  He shifted. “Yeah, well, I’m not really interested in weddings and stuff…”

  “And you still call Donna your aunt.”

  Max winced. “Oh.”

  “If—if there’s a problem, Max…”

  “It’s a force of habit,” he said. “You know, she’s…Aunt Donna. And I can’t exactly call her my mum, can I? You’re Mum.”

  She squeezed his shoulders, and he shut up.

  “Honey. I love her. I love her very much, and she makes me happy. But—you have to know, if it came down to a choice, if you really weren’t okay with this—you’d win. If it had to be you or her, it would be you. You know that, don’t you? You’re the most important person in the world to me.”

  A lump formed in Max’s throat. Savage. Hard. His eyes blurred, and his face was hot.

  He coughed.

  Swallowed.

  “I know, Mum.”

  She hugged him. Her hair was soft against his face, and her perfume familiar. He squeezed tight, as though trying to memorise her. His earliest memories were right here. Her perfume and the way she hugged him.

  He sniffed, hard, and dragged it all back together.

  “You’re being stupid,” he said.

  “Am I?”

  “Yeah. There’s no me or Donna thing.”

  “No?”

  “No. I like her fine. She’s cool. You know—scary. But cool.”

  Mum chuckled and pulled back. She’d cried again, but she smiled again too.

  “You’re really all right with this?”

  Max shrugged. “She’s fine. And you’re happy since she came along. So yeah. I mean, you know, don’t tell her. She’ll be all smug and insufferable.”

  Mum laughed. Max grinned. Job done. He hated it when Mum got all watery. It only reminded him of being little and finding her crying every family occasion that Dad wasn’t there for anymore.

  “And I’m not okay with having to wear this tuxedo thing. It’s awful. What’s the stupid binder thing even for?” he asked, warming to his theme, and Ada swept back in as though nothing had happened.

  “Tsh, you need lessons, young man,” she scolded. “Arms up. Yes, yes—Trisha! Add a centimetre or two to the sleeves. As I thought—you’re all out of proportion, dear. Look at these arms…”

  Naturally, when Max was standing there in a horrible, half-constructed tuxedo with a skinny woman shoving a tape measure into his armpit and arguing with her supervisor about extra centimetres—naturally, that was when the bell jingled, and Cian walked in.

  “Oh,” he said and grinned. “Nice.”

  “Shut up,” Max said.

  Mum laughed. “Hello, Cian, darling. Come to have a look at our Max in his finest, have you?”

  “That’s not his finest,” Cian said meaningfully, and Max flushed.

  “Shut up,” he insisted.

  Katie, hanging off her brother’s hand, told him that ‘shut up’ wasn’t nice, and then turned to Mum, eyed her up and down, and decried the dress as too ‘floofy.’

  “Sorry, Mrs Farrier. Someone is grumpy because she’s not allowed to eat ice cream until she’s sick,” Cian said, rolling his eyes.

  “Well, I sympathise. It’s one of life’s pleasures,” Mum said haughtily and then waved a hand at Max. “Go on, darling, go and have some fun. In fact, go and get yourselves lunch. There’s a twenty in my purse.”

  Max dived back into the cubicle to change, face burning as he heard Katie loudly ask what his finest was. Thankfully, he didn’t hear the reply.

  When he emerged, Mum was holding up another dress against herself and busy arguing with Ada about the merits of it against the one she had on. Max filched the twenty, turned Cian around, and escaped.

  The moment the door closed behind them, he called Cian unhelpful and said he’d been enjoying that far too much.

  “Hm, let’s see, you in a waistcoat? Yeah. I enjoyed that.”

  Max grumbled. He didn’t want to like the stupid suit, but— “Didn’t know you had a thing for waistcoats.”

  “Neither did I until five minutes ago.”

  They got jacket potatoes in a cafe, barely talking due to Cian needing to patiently make up lies about why the sky was blue but clouds were white. But when they ventured back outside, Katie became preoccupied with tr
ying to catch seagulls, and Max found himself sitting on the harbour wall, arm around Cian’s hip, and a faint layer of sweat building under his arms.

  He could just…

  Lean in. Turn. Stop talking about exams and the upcoming wedding, and—

  So he did.

  Cian made a pleased sound—when had Max learned the meaning of those individual noises?—and a hand curled into the cotton of Max’s T-shirt. Max’s hand curled inwards from hip and found arse. Balance. Politeness. Just helping. It’d hurt if they fell off, so yeah. He was duty-bound to put it there.

  There was a sharp blow to his leg and he yelped.

  “Cian! Stop being disgusting!” Katie yelled.

  Cian cackled. “Never!”

  “I’ll tell Mum!”

  “You go ahead,” he jeered. “I’ll just do it again, watch.”

  Max laughed into the kiss, Katie hitting them again and yowling in six-year-old horror. She even decided they’d get cooties, which Max hadn’t thought kids really did.

  Then, when Cian dropped off the wall to grab her and turn her upside down, Max found himself staring across the harbour.

  And Jazz Coles was staring right back.

  The hairs on the back of Max’s neck prickled. The sweat was suddenly cold.

  “Max?”

  He jumped. Stared down at Cian. He’d dropped Katie, who’d run after another seagull, and was staring up at Max, frowning.

  “You okay?”

  Max nodded across the harbour.

  Cian looked—and smirked. “Ah,” he said and then stepped forward.

  Right between Max’s legs.

  “What’s he going to do?” Cian whispered. “Your mum’s like two hundred feet away. There’s a whole bunch of shoppers. And we have a kid who can kick for Britain.”

  Max swallowed.

  “He’ll come after you. He knows what you are.”

  “Let him. He’ll find out in short order what I’m not, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Weak,” Cian said and grinned. “I’ll crack his skull open from ear to ear.”

  Max coughed. “Uh. He might have said some stuff about you, and I might have…decked him.”

  “You decked him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Proper cross?”

  “Proper cross.”