The restaurant was crowded and noisy. I glanced at my watch—6:11. Perfect. Punctual enough to be polite, late enough to show this night was no big deal.
There he was, leaning against the bar, talking to a woman who had legs up to her neck, a micromini skirt just barely clearing her ass. Blond hair with that weird undercoating of brown swirling past her shoulders in effortless waves, as if she’d spent the day on the beach.
It didn’t matter. Camden attracted women like a rotting corpse attracted flies. He couldn’t help it. But I was the one he had asked out.
“Hey,” I said, going up to him. Should I kiss him on the cheek? Yes? Or no.
“Hey!” he said, bending down. A kiss? Cheek or lips? I turned to kiss him, but shit, it was a hug, and my lips slid across his outer jaw, leaving a glossy slick.
“Sorry,” I said, wiping his cheek with my fingers.
“No problem! Great to see you! Amber, this is Marley. Marley, meet Amber.”
“Hi,” I said, smiling. Poor thing had a stripper’s name. I mentally apologized to Georgia’s stepmother for that dig at her former profession, but come on. Amber?
“Hello.” She sipped her drink through her straw, smiling around it. Was she wondering why a guy like Camden would date a woman like me? If so, soak it up, bitch. (And if not, sorry, you’re very pretty.)
“What do you want to drink, Mar?”
Mar. Ugh. “I’ll have a glass of pinot grigio. Thanks.”
He ordered and waited. “How do you know Camden?” Amber asked.
“He works with my brother,” I said.
“Cool.”
“Marley and I have known each other forever,” Camden said over his shoulder. “We’re old pals.”
Amber and I looked at each other for a minute. Okay. She’d just seen us kiss (awkward though it was). So why was she still here?
“Uh, what do you do for work, Amber?” I asked.
“I’m a social worker for the state. Mostly kids in trouble.”
Not a stripper, then. “That must be intense.”
“It is, but it can be super rewarding, too. What about you?”
“I’m a personal chef.”
“Awesome,” she said.
Camden turned and handed me my drink. “Let’s get a table, ladies,” he said.
“Sounds great,” Amber said.
With a strange feeling in my stomach, I watched as Camden put his hand on the small of Amber’s back and guided her through the crowd.
I followed like a good dog, my cheeks burning.
He asked you out for a drink, my brain said. He’s just being nice to her, that’s all.
Sure. That could possibly be true.
The table was a high top, which meant I had to wriggle onto the stool. Being short was another thing about my body that sucked, though it usually got overshadowed by the suckiness of being fat. Amber slid onto her stool as if it had been proportioned just for her.
My eyes felt hot. I took a sip of wine and fake-smiled.
“What’s new, Mar?” Camden asked. He put his hand over Amber’s.
They were dating. They were dating, and Camden had asked me here for no reason other than to show me that.
“Not much,” I heard myself say. “The usual stuff. My serial killer client is weirder than ever.”
“Awesome,” Camden said, smiling. “I love those stories you tell about him. Such a whack-job, right?”
“Seriously?” Amber asked. “A serial killer?”
“No, not seriously.” Come on, Amber. Would I willingly cook for a serial killer? I bit the bullet and asked the question that had to be asked. “So how long have you guys been seeing each other?”
“About a month?” he said. “Sound right, babe?”
“A little longer. Six weeks, maybe.” Amber gave me a slight, apologetic smile. So she knew. She knew I was in love with her boyfriend.
Her boyfriend. For five years, I’d loved him, and for five years, he hadn’t once considered dating me.
He smiled at me, then at Amber, not a flicker of anything other than happiness in his ridiculously beautiful blue eyes.
“How’d you meet?” I asked.
Sitting there on the uncomfortable stool, my feet dangling as if I were an enormous toddler, saying, “How sweet,” I had never felt less like a person in my life. I drank my wine, smoothed my hair back as it tried to coil around my face, grinned like the village idiot and watched Camden fall more in love by the second. Horribly, Amber seemed really nice.
I nodded till I was dizzy. Drank that wine pretty fast.
“We’re gonna have dinner, Mar,” Camden finally said. “You wanna join us?”
“Oh, thanks, but I have plans,” I lied.
“Another time, maybe?”
“Absolutely.”
I hopped off the stool, but my heel twisted, and a sharp pain lanced up my left ankle. I grabbed myself before I fell.
“You okay?” Camden said.
“Yup! Just fine!” I said. I took a steadying breath, trying not to let the pain show. Tears, not just from the ankle, were dying to fall. I had to get out of there. Now. “Amber, great to meet you.”
“You too, Marley.” She smiled kindly.
It took every ounce of pride to not limp out of there. The pain was awful, but I was not going to hobble.
I got to my car, collapsed in the front seat and took off my shoe. My ankle was already swollen.
My breath hitched in and out in mortifying sobs. Maybe the worst thing of all was that Camden had no idea. None. He was just introducing his old buddy to his girl, that was all. He wanted us to meet. His IQ had to be in the single digits. Hot, angry tears sliced down my face. Of course he hadn’t asked me on a date. We weren’t ever going to date.
I pictured Emerson watching from heaven, Frankie on her lap, as they shook their heads sadly. Poor thing, she never knew. What was she thinking?
I needed ice for my ankle. Just then, my stomach growled. Yes, God forbid I didn’t feed myself. Ice, and food, and probably more alcohol.
I rolled down the windows as I drove so the wind would dry my tears. I should go to Mom and Dad’s, as they loved nothing more than taking care of one of their kids. But my tears would freak them out, and God forbid I sob out my love for Camden. Dad would go after him with an ax (a pleasing image), and Mom would be devastated for me.
I could go to Dante’s. He and Louis were home, having a baking night with two other couples, according to an earlier text. I’d gorge myself if I went there, and then they’d be obliged to hate Camden, which wouldn’t be fair, since they worked together. Besides, I didn’t want to be the odd number. Rachel Carver, maybe? No. Too soon in our friendship. Plus, she had the triplets, and it was probably close to their bedtime.
If I went home, Georgia would take care of me, and she’d be so nice, so understanding, but I just didn’t want anyone to see me like this—humiliated, injured, embarrassed, my chest bucking with heartache . . .
Okay, enough.
I knew one person who wouldn’t pity me. Two actually; Eva, but she lived on the Upper East Side, and that was too far away.
The other person was Will Harding.
I was furious with Camden, with myself for being so stupid, and furious with Will. He’d called me fat. He didn’t believe Camden would date someone like me (and he was right, damn it all), so he could deal with me now. He owed me.
Besides, he had some really, really good food at his house. The food I’d brought him. Could he possibly have eaten it all yet? I always brought big portions. Of course I did. Look at how I was raised. Food, glorious frickin’ food.
Abruptly, I turned onto Elm Street. A few blocks more, and I took a right onto Redwood. Got out, left shoe in one hand, and eased my weight onto my injured foot—yikes, it hurt—and hobbled up to th
e door and knocked, hard.
“Will! Open the damn door!” A second later, he obeyed. “I sprained my ankle, and I’m starving.” Without waiting for an invitation, I pushed past him, using the wall to hold myself up.
“What happened to you?”
Choosing not to answer, I dashed away my tears, went into his living room and sat on the couch. Brown, microfiber, two matching brown throw pillows—very boring but super comfortable. I dropped my shoe on the floor next to me and took the other one off as well. “Can you get me some ice? It hurts a lot.”
“Those shoes are life-threatening,” he said. “You have no one to blame but yourself.”
“Ice, Will. Ice.”
“Fine.”
He went into the kitchen, and I eased my legs up onto the couch. Put the boring throw pillow under my hurt ankle and leaned back, letting out a slow breath. I could hear the ice machine clattering, Will muttering to himself.
I’d never been in the living room, though I’d seen it off the kitchen, the only room where I was allowed. All the shades were pulled. A huge TV sat on a console across from me. There was an end table with a lamp. Otherwise, nothing. No pictures, no magazines, no books, no photos, no prints, no decorations of any kind, as if he’d moved in half an hour ago.
He came in holding a box of tissues, a dishcloth, and a plastic bag filled with ice. Draped the cloth over my ankle and eased the ice bag onto it, then handed me the tissue box.
I wiped my eyes. So much for waterproof mascara.
Will didn’t comment on my tears, and I felt oddly grateful.
“Should you get this looked at?” he said.
“I just twisted it. Ice, elevation, Motrin and rest.”
He went back into the kitchen and returned with four tablets and a glass of water. Watched as I swallowed the pills.
“Do you have any food left?” I asked.
He sighed, but made another trip to the kitchen, returning with a plate of the meal I’d brought him earlier this evening.
I took a bite of the salad—beet and goat cheese and spinach—and sighed. Good old food. It never had another girlfriend. The steak was cool, but perfect and tender.
“You gonna eat, too?” I asked.
“That’s my dinner,” he said, nodding at my plate.
“I provide my clients with very generous portions. It’s on the website.”
“True.” Once again, he left the room, coming back a minute later with a plate for himself. He sat on the couch next to my feet, adjusting the bag of ice when it slipped.
“Have you ever dated a fat woman, Will?” I asked.
“I’m reluctant to talk about this, given your earlier hysteria.”
“I wasn’t hysterical. Answer the question.”
He gave a martyred sigh. “Define fat.”
“You’re looking at it.”
“No, I have never dated someone your size.” He looked at me. “Have you ever dated an average-looking guy?”
“Define average.”
“You’re looking at it.”
He was kind of average, kind of vanilla. Nothing wrong with his face or body, nothing particularly glorious about it, either. His hair was always adorably bed-heady.
“Yes, I have,” I said, taking another bite of food. “Actually, no. I’ve slept with average-looking men. I’ve never really dated anyone.”
He grunted and kept eating.
“So you wouldn’t date a woman because she’s fat?”
“I didn’t say that. What a gift you have for misinterpreting my words.”
“Would you?”
“It would depend on if she was a nice person.”
“Bullshit.”
He looked up from his plate, stared straight ahead, sighed pointedly, then continued eating.
We ate in silence for the next few moments, me way ahead of him. When I was done, I set the plate on the floor and crossed my arms. Looked at Will’s profile.
We’d talked more today than we had in the past year combined.
I could really go for some Ben & Jerry’s Peanut Butter Cup right now. “Do you have any ice cream?” I asked.
“No.”
“Figures.”
“You know,” he said, “you’re just as prejudiced about looks as anyone.”
“Really? Please tell me about my flaws.”
“That pretty boy you showed me. Would you have dated him if he was ugly?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Right. The fact that he looks like Captain America, you hardly noticed.”
“Bite me.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. He took another bite of steak.
“How’s dinner?” I asked.
“Fine.”
“Fine? How about something more descriptive, Will? Succulent, delicious, juicy, flavorful, amazing.”
“Yes. All those things.”
I couldn’t help but smile, and he almost smiled back.
When he was done, he stood up, picked up both our plates and took them into the kitchen. I heard him rattling around in there, tidying up. God forbid anything be out of place.
The remote was on the coffee table. I reached for it and turned on the TV.
My 600-lb Life was on. Of course.
Will came back in and sat back down, careful not to jostle my foot. “Lovely show,” he said.
“My friend died a little while ago. She was like this.”
“Is that when your mother had to bring me my meals?”
“Yes, Will. So sorry to have inconvenienced you.”
“Did I say I was inconvenienced? I did not.” There was a pause. On TV, the woman was saying how long it had been since she’d left the house.
“That must be hard,” he said. “Feeling stuck.”
I swallowed, thinking of Emerson. “I should stop watching this show. They’re all the same.”
“Are you afraid you’ll end up like this?”
“You know, if I didn’t have a sprained ankle, I would kick you so hard right now.” I shifted a little, and the bag slipped. Will put it back.
“I meant stuck,” he said. “You’re not worried?”
“Will, this might be hard to believe, but I don’t spend twelve hours a day lying at the end of the Krispy Kreme conveyor belt with my mouth open, okay? I eat good, healthy food, I go to the gym five times a week, do yoga, take Zumba—”
“What’s Zumba? A drug?”
“An exercise class, dummy. I even like to run sometimes. I’m not afraid of weighing six hundred pounds. Are you? Because I bring you a lot of food, and I don’t ever see you going for a run or out cutting your grass.”
Another silence. We watched as Gloria lied to the doctor about her diet and got a lecture about nutrition.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” Will said.
My eyes filled with tears. I grabbed a tissue and blotted my eyes. “Thanks.”
We watched Gloria try and fail to get out of bed.
“Even if she has the surgery, will she ever be normal?” Will asked.
“I don’t know, Will. I’m not an expert on all the fat people in the world.” No was the answer, based on the Where Are They Now spin-off of this show.
“It was a hypothetical question.” He paused. “Did your boyfriend break up with you? Is that why you were crying when you got here?”
“I wasn’t crying. I was very dignified.”
“Can you give me a straight answer?”
Touché. “Yes. More or less. We weren’t dating, but I thought . . . well. He asked me out so I could meet his girlfriend. Who is not me, by the way.”
Will looked at his knees. “Well. His loss.”
It took me a second to realize he’d actually said something nice. To me. “Thank you.”
“Was she pretty, this girlfriend?”
“Yes. And skinny. She’s absolutely perfect. She could be a model or an astronaut or queen of Narnia. But instead, she’s a social worker for troubled kids.”
“That seems unfair.”
“Thank you. My thoughts exactly.”
We both turned our attention back to the TV. Gloria was now terrified that the surgery would kill her and maybe didn’t want it after all. But then she had it, and complained in post-op about the pain. Cried when they made her stand up, saying no one understood.
Oh, Emerson, I thought. I’m so sorry. More tears threatened, and I swallowed hard. “I should go,” I said. “Thank you for dinner.”
“You made it.” There was another silence. “Should I call someone to get you?”
“No, I can drive. Or, even better, you could drive me home. We only live six blocks apart, you know. You could walk back.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“I just can’t.” He didn’t elaborate.
“You don’t know how to drive?”
“I didn’t say that.”
I sighed, not bothering to hide my impatience. “Fine. I’m going.”
He helped me off the couch. There was a wet splotch on his outer thigh, his pants darker there. “Is that from the ice pack?” I asked. “Or did you have an accident?”
He nearly smiled. “It’s from the ice.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was soaking you.”
“It’s all right.”
I opted not to put on my shoes and hobbled to the door. My ankle already felt a lot better.
“Marley.”
“Yes?” I looked at him, and for some reason, I suddenly felt . . . seen. Even more than that, I felt . . . appreciated. The air suddenly pulsed with something warm and lovely.
“Please don’t quit.”
His eyes were the soft, dark blue of denim, of the sky just before sunrise. I’d never really noticed before. “Okay,” I said, then cleared my throat.
“I’m sorry for my . . . social awkwardness.”
“That’s all right. I’m sorry for my Italian temper.”
He smiled a little bit.
I thought he’d walk me to my car, but he just stood there, watching as I made my uneven way to the street. “Thanks for feeding me,” I called as I got in the car.
Good Luck with That Page 22