Good Luck with That

by Kristan Higgins

  “You look good from here,” he said.

  “Right back at you, Mr. Kennedy.”

  “Can I see you again?”

  I said yes. Then, without too much hobbling, I made it out of the restaurant. Evan hailed a taxi. “I had a great time,” he said as the cab pulled over to the curb.

  “Me too,” I said. “Thank you for a lovely dinner.”

  “You’re welcome. Good night, then.”

  He kissed me, a very pleasant, firm kiss—on the lips and everything, and before I had time to analyze it further—or respond—he stepped back, opened the door for me and smiled down at me. “See you soon.”

  So this was how it would be, then, I thought as the cab headed for Grand Central. I’d be the pretty woman in the flowered dress.

  Fat Georgia wasn’t going to be exhumed until she had to be.

  CHAPTER 23

  Marley

  Hold hands with a cute guy in public.

  (Still a big fat no. Emphasis on big fat.)

  On Monday, after ignoring thirty-two messages and calls from my mother and Eva about why I couldn’t help divide up the aging blankets and deteriorating pillows of the parental home, I dropped off Will’s dinner and waited for him to write me my check.

  Since my little meltdown on his couch, he’d barely spoken to me this past week. He hadn’t asked how my ankle was. He hadn’t asked about Camden. He’d just watched me unload his dinner on the counter. And while he hadn’t exactly been cuddly and warm the night stupid Camden broke my stupid heart, I did kind of expect a little more.

  Instead, he just said the same things as always. “I’ll get your check. Thank you. Good-bye.”

  Today seemed no different. “Thank you. Good-bye,” he said, looking at my forehead.

  “Tomorrow is Tuesday,” I said.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “And you still want me to bring the special dinner and stay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I bring anything? Besides the dinner, I mean,” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you have wine?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll bring wine.”

  He nodded, and I left, a little irked, and headed to the other side of town.

  Tonight, I was babysitting for Rachel, the mother of the triplets. I wasn’t sure how I’d said yes to that, but apparently I had.

  “Hi, Marley,” Rachel said as she answered the door. “Thank you again for doing this.”

  “No problem. You look gorgeous.” It was true; she looked even prettier than usual, her long blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, a little lip gloss, a little mascara. She was so slim, too, in that completely unselfconscious way that said she’d never had to diet, never had to wonder if she could pull off an outfit.

  The girls thundered down the stairs, shouting my name.

  “Hello, little girls! Oh, there are so many of you!” I picked up Grace. “Hi.”

  “Put me down!” she said. “I’m a big girl.”

  “Got it,” I said, obeying.

  “Pick me up!” Rose said. “I love you. Why is your hair so messy?”

  “Rose, honey,” Rachel said, “Marley has beautiful hair. So curly and thick!”

  “And messy,” I whispered, getting a smile from Rose.

  Rachel had a beau, and it still hit me . . . not the unfairness, exactly, but the unbalance. Of course she was lovely on many levels, but Rachel had three small children and was already forty, divorced for maybe a year . . . but she had a boyfriend, or at least a suitor. I bet they held hands. I’d been looking for love since I was fifteen and still hadn’t been on a proper date.

  No man had ever held my hand.

  “I’ll be home before ten,” Rachel said. “The girls have eaten already, but I made you dinner. It’s in the fridge. There are some cookies, too. Chocolate macadamia.”

  “Oooh,” I said.

  “We had some already,” Charlotte told me. “But we can have another if you want.”

  “No more cookies, girls. And don’t forget to brush. Be on your best behavior, angels. I love you, and I’ll kiss you when I get back.” They swarmed her like honeybees around a flower, kissed her and hugged her and told her she smelled good.

  “Have fun,” I told her. “Don’t rush home.”

  “Thank you so much,” she said. “You’re the best.”

  I shut the door after her and turned to my little charges. “Okay, girls. What shall we do?”

  “Candy Land, read a story, eat more cookies, ice cream, bubble bath, hide-and-seek!” was their answer.

  We read four books, played hide-and-seek. (They were pathetically easy to find, doing things like closing their eyes to hide, or sitting under a couch cushion, legs sticking out.) Then we played Candy Land, which made them hungry—all those sugar references—so I got them each another cookie and put scoops of ice cream on them, so as to cement my role as Everyone’s Favorite Adult.

  Watching them shovel ice cream into their mouths, I felt a slosh of guilt. Rachel had already given them dessert, and here I was, doing the irresponsible thing and letting them eat whatever they wanted, starting them off on the road to poor eating habits and potential obesity.

  Then again, they were only four, and this was one night.

  Frankie had been four, and so skinny, so frail and tiny.

  The triplets were robust little things, with adorable little bellies and sturdy legs. No one was fat, no one was skinny.

  “Do you really know Miss Georgia?” Charlotte asked me, almost suspicious that I had such a claim to fame.

  “I do,” I said. “We’ve been friends since we were teenagers.”

  “She’s our teacher.”

  “I know.”

  “I love her,” Rose said. “I wish she could live with us.”

  “Me too,” said Grace and Charlotte simultaneously.

  I wondered if Frankie and I had ever talked in unison like that.

  I herded them upstairs, poured a quarter of a bottle of bubble bath into the tub, and watched as they slid around like seals and bravely put their faces in the water.

  When the water cooled, I hauled them out, getting soaked in the process, then got them dressed in their jammies. Each one gave me a good-night hug and wanted a firm commitment for when I’d come back to play again.

  “Soon,” I said. “Very soon.”

  They really were angels. Rachel was such a great mom. Georgia often said what good-hearted little girls they were, bright and fearless.

  I left the door open a few inches, then went downstairs and tidied up from our games.

  Rachel’s house was idyllic—clean but not severely so, lovely but livable. There were flowers on the kitchen table, and artwork decorated the fridge. From the outside, it seemed like she had a perfect life. I guess from the outside, mine seemed pretty perfect, too—the fun and creativity of my job, living in a sweet apartment I rented from my best friend, my wonderful, close-knit family.

  I knew Rachel’s father had died when she was young. But I’d never told Rachel I was a twinless twin. Didn’t want to freak her out by mentioning Frankie’s age.

  Besides, some things were too sad to talk about.

  Speaking of the fridge, I opened it up. A dish of rather gorgeous ravioli topped with parsley was wrapped in cellophane with a note on it that said Thanks, Marley! with a heart beneath it.

  I heated it up in the microwave, then sat at the table, the quiet of the house settling around me.

  I didn’t like being alone. At home, though I knew it wasn’t a great habit, I kept the TV on for company. Georgia was great at solitude, the type who’d set the table for one, pour a glass of wine and eat while reading a book with Mozart playing in the background. Then again, that’s how she was raised—very properly, if without a lot of lo
ve.

  The ravioli were stuffed with porcini mushrooms and crumbled bacon, with just a little Romano cheese. I should get the recipe.

  My phone rang. Dante, in an actual phone call, not a text.

  “Hey, what are you up to?” he asked. “We’re at Hudson’s. A whole bunch of us. You should come.”

  “I’m babysitting my friend’s kids,” I said.

  “Oh. That’s nice of you. Well, Mom was pissed you didn’t make it yesterday, and I took the quilt from Eva’s room. You know, the one Nonny made.”

  “Eva didn’t want it?”

  “She’s the most unsentimental person I ever met. You should’ve seen what she was throwing out. That cat and dog creamer and sugar bowl from the 1930s? They’re so cute. And the pot holders I made in third grade! The teal and pink ones.”

  “I can’t believe Mom ever thought you were straight.”

  “It was the fire trucks. They threw her off the scent. Anyway, I put a box aside of stuff you might want.”

  I did love my baby brother. So much. “Thanks, ugly-face.”

  “You’re welcome, potato-head.” I could hear the sounds of laughter in the background, some music.

  “You okay about Camden having a girlfriend?” he asked suddenly.

  I jerked a little. “Uh, yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I know you liked him.”

  I considered lying, then decided against it. “Well . . . I did. I’m mostly over it.”

  “Louis told me to ask. He said you looked sad on Saturday. You know, after you jumped Cam and he fell down.”

  “He is kind of a weakling, isn’t he?” I said.

  “He is. He’s not here, by the way. If you did want to come by later. Louis and I would love to see you.”

  “You’re a good brother, Dante,” I said, my throat suddenly tight. “Even if you are really, really ugly.”

  “You’re ugly. Seriously. Come by later.”

  “Dante, did Mom and Dad do anything with the shrine?”

  “What? No. No, not yet.” He paused. “You all right?”

  “Yeah. Get back to your boo. Tell him I love him and I’m glad you married out of your league.”

  My brother laughed. “Will do. Bye.”

  I finished my dinner (I always did), cleaned up and then tiptoed up the stairs to check on the girls.

  Charlotte had gotten into bed with Rose, and the two of them were sound asleep, cheeks flushed, Rose snoring the slightest bit.

  Oh, Frankie. I’m sorry.

  I went down the hall to cry in the bathroom. Most of the time, I kept the tears down, but seeing the little girls in bed together . . . I missed my twin. Eva was fine, Dante absolutely great. They just weren’t my other half. And no matter how untrue it might’ve been, I always felt responsible for Frankie’s death.

  CHAPTER 24

  Dear Other Emerson,

  If Mica and I could live on another planet, we would be so happy.

  I mean, we are happy. I love him so much, Other Emerson. And he loves me! He loves taking care of me, loves having sex with me, loves my appetite, my laugh, my smile, my dimples. He tells me how beautiful I am. He says nothing is sexier than seeing me eat, unless it’s seeing me eat naked.

  When we’re alone, it’s perfect. We never fight. He rubs my feet, he makes us snacks. (I eat 90 percent of them.) We talk about the past, the future, where we might want to live someday. He’s never left Delaware, and he loves my stories about Camp Copperbrook and the time my father took me to see the Grand Canyon. We love the same TV shows and cuddle up on the couch together like a regular couple.

  But I HATE going out in public together. In a way, it’s worse than going out alone. I know there are women like me who love their bodies and feel sexy and confident and have snappy answers that put haters in their place.

  I’m not one of them. I just smile a lot. My smile tries to say, Please don’t say something mean, please don’t stare, it’s not like I’m unaware of the fact that I’m fat, I’m actually a really nice person and most people like me once they’ve given me a chance.

  It doesn’t always work.

  I have to tell you something shameful, Other Emerson. I’ve gained more weight. I shouldn’t care—Mica is in love with me, and that’s what matters.

  But.

  But.

  But.

  I still hate being fat. Still hate myself for my weakness. I’m helpless around food. I love putting food in my mouth, even when I overeat so much that I wake up with knifelike pains in my stomach. Even when my knees burn and my back aches, which is all the time now. Even when I’m breathless just going to the kitchen. The power of food, of tasting and chewing and having more . . . it takes over everything. So I hate myself, but I still eat. All day long, I think about eating, and even when I’m eating, I’m thinking about what I’ll eat next. It’s like this all the time, OE. All the time.

  We went to the company picnic a few weeks ago. My first challenge was getting from the car to the picnic area. I was sweaty already, since it was hot, and by the time we got to the site where everything was set up, I was breathing pretty hard and trying not to show it. At least I had on a big straw hat with a pretty scarf tied around it, so the hat would shade my face, which was no doubt fire-engine red. I used the scarf to blot my face. Thinking ahead, Other Emerson. Thinking ahead. Everyone was already there, and we said hi and put down the potato salad Mica and I had made that morning.

  Then came the picnic table challenge.

  Other Emerson, I know you have no idea how difficult it is to sit at a picnic table. You just slide right in, ever graceful. For me, there are so many factors to consider. Would I even fit? What if I tipped the table over? What if I got stuck? What if I fell backward because my huge ass couldn’t get enough bench?

  Thank God, Mica is super thoughtful. He found a sturdy wooden Adirondack chair (no arms) from another site and, while I was cooling down in the shade of a tree, brought it over and put it at the head of the table. “My lady,” he said, dropping a kiss on my shoulder, which took away some of the humiliation of not being able to sit like everyone else.

  Some of the humiliation, but not all.

  When the Delicate Fawns sat with us, it was hard to see Mica next to a woman who was more of his physical match . . . more proportionate. They wore those cute, tiny clothes with itty-bitty straps and flirty skirts that skimmed their thighs. Mica’s so nice, Other Emerson. Everyone likes him. He’s so cute, he could date one of the Delicate Fawns. It’s so easy to picture that.

  Meanwhile, the other fatties from work shot me dirty looks, because I’d dared to attract the only man at work who was single and at all desirable, because the only other straight, single man, Korbin, A) has a stupid name and B) has serious hygiene issues and wears the same clothes every day. All the other men are married or in relationships.

  But the picnic wasn’t awful. Three of the Delicate Fawns are downright sweet to me, especially since I’ve normalized myself with a boyfriend who isn’t obese. So the picnic wasn’t that horrible, though I would rather have stayed home.

  Restaurants . . . restaurants are awful. Mica likes taking me out. “Showing off my lady love,” he says, grinning with those adorably crooked teeth, making me a little swoony. But aside from the looks we get, there are the logistics. The strength of the chairs. The weaving through the other tables. The size of the stall in the ladies’ room.

  But the other night was the worst.

  Mica and I went to the movies, to the theater with the big recliner seats and the arms that go up so I can fit comfortably. Mica bought us the giant popcorn and two Kit Kat bars and a root beer to share. There we were, minding our own business, talking, sharing, cuddling . . . but then came the comments.

  Oh, yeah, she definitely needs all that food. There are starving children in Syria.

  T
hink that chair is safe?

  I didn’t think we were here to see Free Willy.

  They’ll have to call the fire department to get her ass out of that seat.

  We pretended not to hear. Or I did, at any rate, whispering to Mica that I loved his haircut, or asking him if he’d seen such-and-such movie or TV show. Kept smiling, kept chatting, keeping my voice low, because God forbid I’m fat AND loud in a public place. I wish I could be like Lindy West or something, smart and fast and cutting and able to change hearts and minds.

  But I’m not. I’m shy, and I’ve been lonely a long time, and I just want to hide from the hate.

  Then this girl came over. This really, really pretty girl, dressed like a two-dollar tramp, as my mom used to say. And she leans down to Mica like I don’t even exist and says, “I just wanted to say that I think you’re really cute and if you want to hook up sometime, here’s my number.” Then she sticks a scrap of paper into his shirt pocket.

  Mica said, “I’m with her. Obviously.”

  “But you don’t have to be,” she said.

  “Butt out.”

  She sighed, her perfect boobs rising hypnotically. “Whatever. Keep my number.”

  And Mica took the slip of paper out and dropped it on the ground, then put his arm around me . . . at least as far as his arm reaches.

  See, Other Emerson? He’s a white knight. I just don’t want to need one. I just want people to leave us alone.

  CHAPTER 25

  Georgia

  Tell off the people who judged us when we were fat. (Sort of.)

  Grace Carver let out a shriek of fury that made my blood run cold.

  “It’s my turn!” said Hemp Cabriolet, trying to wrestle a paintbrush away from her. “I get the green now!”

  “No!” Grace yanked back, nearly pulling Hemp off his feet.

  “Mine!” the little boy yelled.

  “Okay, okay,” I said, intervening. I pried the brush out of their sturdy little fists. “Hemp, did you take this away from Grace?” He had; I’d seen him do it, the little bugger.

  “Yes. She’s hogging it. She’s a selfish hog of green paint, and she won’t let me have any and now my day is ruined forever!” He burst into tears. I swore I heard Grace hiss.