It was a little shocking, sometimes, how much I missed Emerson. Knowing she was gone forever, that we’d never have any reunions, any weekends together, was like a kick in the head.
Worst, though, was knowing she’d never have any more chances. That’s what the list was about. The chance to get it right. It wasn’t about tucking in shirts and piggyback rides. It was about not letting your weight define you, and not letting it decide when you could be the person you wanted to be. She’d wanted us to stop waiting, and start living, the way she never got to, not totally.
In the most innocent way, our eighteen-year-old selves had written a map to loving ourselves. The only thing wrong had been the title. It shouldn’t have been “Things We’ll Do When We’re Skinny.” It should’ve just been “Things We’ll Do.”
“Georgia?” Evan said. “Where’d you go?”
“Sorry,” I said. “Just thinking about an old friend who died recently.”
“No apologies needed,” he said, though his tone held traces of irritation. “Do you want to talk about her? Or we could go back to your place and talk there. I drove up. There’s a great place for brunch near here, too.” He smiled in a self-deprecating way. Hint, hint. I drove up so I could stay over. You could cry on my shoulder, and then we could have sex, and tomorrow, Belgian waffles.
It wasn’t the worst offer in the world. I could do it. After all, I hadn’t gotten laid since I was married, and Evan was good-looking and fairly nice and liked me. Well, he liked the woman in the flowered dress. The woman who wore slutty shoes.
This is what I’d done with Rafe, too. That version of myself I thought he’d like best. Except Rafe had seen through that.
You were my home.
Rafael Esteban Jesús Santiago had always had a way with words.
Evan . . . not so much. He was kind of a shallow guy, this Kennedy. I mean, he was fine. He had good hair. He said all the right things, but . . . well, he was boring.
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” he said, since I hadn’t jumped on his hints just yet.
“Very good, Evan. I’m glad you have the days of the week memorized.” I smiled to lessen the sting.
“And neither of us has to work.”
“True.”
“We could stay up late.”
“And watch Saturday Night Live?”
“Or something,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“Would you like dessert?” the server asked.
“Yes, please,” I answered immediately. I didn’t want to leave just yet. “Do you have crème brûlée?”
“We sure do.”
“I would love that, then. Thank you.”
“You got it. Anything for you, sir?”
“Cappuccino,” he said, not looking at her.
Off she went. Evan and I stared at each other. I stifled a yawn. The Tappan Zee Bridge winked over the Hudson, and the noise of the restaurant was low but lively, constellations of laughter flashing now and again.
“Are you really related to those Kennedys?” I asked.
He gave a demure chuckle. Really, there was no other way to describe it. “President and senators, you mean?”
“Is there another famous Kennedy clan you’d like to claim?”
“No. And yes. My great-grandfather was a third cousin of John F. Kennedy’s grandfather.”
I let that roll around in my head a minute. That was hardly American royalty, was it? I mean, if I spent enough time on Ancestry.com, wouldn’t I also find that I was distantly linked to the Kennedys? Wouldn’t everyone?
“Huh,” I said. “I thought you were a little closer to the throne.”
“Why would you think that?”
“At—” Yale, I almost said. At Yale, everyone thought you were John and Caroline’s cousin. And you never denied it. All those mentions of Hyannis Port . . .
“Here you go,” our server said, putting down a veritable lake of crème brûlée. “And your coffee, sir.”
“Thank you,” I said. I picked up the spoon and took a bite. Oh, it was perfect, the crunch of the caramelized sugar, the cool cream of the pudding beneath.
Eat dessert in public.
Holy crap. It was on the list, and I hadn’t even thought of it.
“I love a woman who can eat,” Evan said, giving me an indulgent smile.
Every hackle I had suddenly flared. “What does that mean?” I asked. “Does that mean I have your approval to eat my dessert?”
“No! No, not at all,” he said. “I just . . . I don’t know. I hate women who are always counting calories. I like a woman who enjoys food, that’s all.”
“Women would enjoy food more if men weren’t always offering their opinions on how they ate and what size they are.”
“Wow. I didn’t mean to offend you. Eat your dessert if it makes you happy. Don’t eat it if you’re worried about getting fat. Your call. Jesus.”
That was it. My jaw turned to iron. “Evan. We know each other.”
“Uh, yeah, of course we do,” he said, not all that nicely. “We’re on a date.”
“We went to Yale together.”
His head jerked back. “What?”
“Yale Law. We were in the same class.”
It was almost funny to see his mouth work, his eyebrows draw together. He still didn’t remember me.
“I was fat,” I said.
Evan closed his eyes. “Oh, God,” he muttered. “So you’ve known all along?”
“Yes. I recognized you instantly.”
“Well, you look really different.”
“Not that different. My name is still the same. Same haircut. Same skin color, eye color, hair color.”
“Look, calm down,” he said, even though I was perfectly calm. Icy calm. “Can you blame me? I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you, but it’s been what, almost six years? And you’ve lost a lot of weight, obviously.”
Had I? I mean, how heavy had I really been? Rafe had said something about how I saw myself and how I really was. I hadn’t been that big in law school. Surely not unrecognizable. I took another spoonful of dessert, this time defiantly, my eyes narrowed on him.
I kind of hated Evan Kennedy, didn’t I?
He leaned forward. “Georgia, I’m sorry I didn’t know who you were, but that’s in the past, isn’t it? I mean, now we have more in common.”
“What do we have in common, Evan? Being thin?”
He paused. “Uh . . . well, we like kids. And scotch, right? Uh . . . I think you’re great, and we have some chemistry, don’t we?”
“But we sure didn’t have chemistry when I was fat. You never asked if I liked kids or scotch when I was fat.”
His eyes darted around the restaurant to see who was listening. Many people, that’s who. I wasn’t bothering to keep my voice down. “I guess not. No. I barely knew you.”
“Because you didn’t want to. Because I was fat. We barely spoke, even though I had a huge crush on you. I knew you were out of my league, physically speaking. Intellectually, I kicked your ass. I passed every single class with honors, and I know you barely scraped by.” There was that photographic memory again.
I sat back in my chair. After all, a person didn’t get to have these moments often in life. “We sat next to each other in Torts our first year. You wore a blue and black cashmere sweater a lot. One time, we walked back to the law school in the rain and we had a really nice talk, Evan. You were very polite.”
He smiled. “Good.”
“No!” I barked, slapping the spoon down on the table with a crack. “Not good, Evan! In four dates, you haven’t had even a flicker of recognition about who I was. We spent three years in school together, but because I was fat, I didn’t register! You only like me now because I match a certain image you have of what a woman should look like. What if I put on a few pounds? Would you
like a woman who could eat then? Or would I become invisible again? So, sorry, not sorry, I’m breaking up with you.”
The restaurant burst into applause.
“Yes!” said a woman at a table to my right. “Yes! You tell him, honey!”
“You’re a real piece of scum, mister,” someone else said.
Holy crap. My face burned. I hadn’t meant to be that loud.
Then again, maybe being that loud was a long time coming.
A guy came over to my table. “You need anything, miss? Want me to get rid of this jerk for you?”
Evan’s eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. “I . . . I’m totally confused here.”
“You didn’t do anything right, either,” I said. I turned to my would-be defender. “Thanks for your concern. We’re fine.”
“If he can’t love you when you’re big and beautiful, baby, he can’t love you period,” said another female diner. Her male companion nodded sagely.
“Thank you,” I said, giving a little wave.
Evan looked mortified. “I guess I owe you an apology,” he said. “I genuinely didn’t recognize you.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s the whole problem. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you we knew each other right away. It was a test, and I think we both failed. Take care of yourself.”
And with that, I got up, grabbed my jacket and purse and left, not even wobbling on those heels, to another smattering of applause.
I felt light. I felt like a balloon and sunshine rolled into one. Marley was going to go crazy when she heard this. Mason, too.
I couldn’t wait. I group-texted them.
Eat dessert in public, check.
Tell off the people who judged us when we were fat. CHECK AND THEN SOME!
Mason answered first. G, that’s awesome!!! You’re amazing!
Marley was a little less eloquent. Rocknroll, muthafuckah! (sorry Mase!) Come see me the INSTANT you get home.
I slept like a baby that night, pretty sure I smiled the entire eight hours.
In the morning, my good mood was slightly dimmed by the knowledge that I had to have brunch with Big Kitty. I opened my closet and looked at my clothes. Most of the stuff that fit me had been purchased from Crave, and I wasn’t really in the mood to dress up. Instead, I chose a pair of leggings, a long, shapeless sweater and added a pink scarf. It was one of my favorite teaching outfits, since it was as comfortable as pajamas and washed easily.
When I got to the Lawn Club, Mother was already seated at a prime table near the window. The maître d’ walked me over, pulled out my chair and told me to enjoy brunch. A glass of champagne was already waiting. Mom was drinking vodka with a wedge of lemon.
“What are you wearing?” she asked by way of a greeting.
“Clothing, I believe. How are you, Mother?”
“Why aren’t you wearing something I bought you?”
“I wanted to wear this, Mom. I’m capable of picking out my own clothes.”
“Are you?” She squinted at me. “You’ve put on a little weight. Don’t backslide, Georgia.”
I took a slow breath. Sipped the champagne. “Mom, I don’t think I mentioned I was in the ER two weeks ago.”
“Why?”
“I have a bleeding ulcer. And . . . well, maybe a bit of an eating disorder.”
“An eating disorder?” she asked. “What does that mean?”
“I ate too much as a kid, remember? Then I’d hate myself for it, so I’d purge and diet. You know. You were there, obsessing over my weight with me. Obsessing over yours, too.” I paused. “Did you ever wonder if you’re anorexic, Mom?”
She huffed. “Please. You can never be too rich or too thin. I have discipline, Georgia, not anorexia. I’m slim. And you’re practically there now. Was that the ulcer? Maybe it’s not all bad.”
Even though I’d had those thoughts myself, they sounded so much worse coming from my mother, who was supposed to love me. Protect me. Take care of me.
Then again, I shouldn’t have expected a different answer. That was just naive.
“Do you ever get tired of it?” I heard myself ask. “Feeling like the best thing you have to offer is just a pretty face and a good figure?”
“Don’t underestimate those, Georgia. Don’t give up. You could be so much more than an almost-pretty girl.”
“No, Mom,” I snapped. “You could be so much more. Or you could’ve been. Instead, you’re an aging coat hanger with a plastic surgery addiction. All my life, you’ve criticized me for one thing. I wasn’t skinny. Imagine if you’d appreciated that I was smart and good-hearted. Imagine if you’d stuck up for me with Hunter, instead of letting that little monster terrorize me.”
“There you go, exaggerating again.” She sighed wearily, then wagged her fingers at someone. “Why can’t you just take a compliment. You look good. Don’t stop now.”
“Mom. I fainted. There was a hole in my stomach that was bleeding. Maybe there are more important things than being thin. I’m smart, I’m nice, I’m a great teacher, but you never notice those things.”
“You weren’t happy being fat, though, were you?”
“No. But having a mother who constantly reminded me that I was overweight only made me want to eat more. Being miserable because my brother hated me only made me want to eat more.”
“Oh, please.” She sighed, taking a drink. “Must you keep score on everything, Georgia?”
I looked at her steadily. I knew she’d never admit fault with herself, never admit she was anything but a perfect mother. She would never, ever apologize.
But sometimes, you had to say things for yourself, even if you weren’t heard. “No one in my life has ever made me feel as bad as you have, Mom. Not even Hunter.”
“What about your father?” she said, sitting up abruptly. “I don’t remember him being around much when Hunter was”—she made quote marks with her fingers—“torturing you. Maybe I could’ve used some help parenting you, instead of having an ex-husband who was out dating strippers while I was home raising you on my own.”
“By raising me,” I said, “you mean shopping and drinking and telling me I was fat? Turning a blind eye when Hunter was being such a shit? At least Dad didn’t try to make me hate myself. And when he was around, he tried to rein Hunter in. Your son should probably be in therapy, by the way.”
“Well, I guess you know everything. I’m a horrible mother. Maybe you shouldn’t keep that red leather jacket, then. It cost two grand. Armani.”
“Then by all means, I’ll give it back. I know how things make you happy.”
She huffed over her martini glass.
The waiter came over. “Are you ready to order, ladies?”
“I’ll have a poached egg and one slice of whole-wheat toast, no butter,” my mother said, giving me a pointed look.
I thought about getting up and leaving. Thought about throwing my water in her face.
I smiled up at the server. “Eggs Benedict for me, please,” I said. “And a side of hash browns.”
In a half hour, Big Kitty would forget everything I’d said and go back to criticizing me, lionizing Hunter and being the perpetual victim of her divorce. But for now, even if only for this tiny window of time, I’d said what I had to say.
I ate every bite of my breakfast.
It was delicious.
CHAPTER 34
Marley
Tell off the people who judged you when you were fat.
(If Georgia can do it, so can I.)
“There you are!” Mom yelled from the kitchen as Georgia and I came in. “I was starting to get worried. Dante, tell your nice police friends they’re here safe and sound, even if my own daughter didn’t call me to tell me she was running late.”
“The tristate search has been cal
led off,” he said, giving me a hug.
“You didn’t really call anyone, did you?”
“No.” He grinned at Georgia. “Hey, you. You’re looking awfully hot these days.”
“Save it, gay guy,” she said, but she blushed. Dante did have that effect on women.
Louis and Dad were cleaning gutters (code for avoiding the rest of us). I stuck my head out the back door, said hello, warned them against personal injury and crossed myself to ensure their safety.
“Georgia, sweetheart!” Mom said, emerging from the kitchen, taking off her apron. “Don’t you look wonderful! A little skinny, but we can fix that. Are you hungry, dear?”
“Starving. It smells great in here, Mrs. D.”
I’d brought Georgia with me because she loved my family, for one, and for two, I needed moral support. Seeing my parents’ house being slowly packed up had my heart in a vise.
The family pictures that ran up the stairs were gone, the paint brighter where they’d hung. In the kitchen, the shelf made by Dante in eighth-grade shop class had been taken down, the decorative plates it held now packed (or thrown) away somewhere. All the little cracked crystal vases Mom had collected and lined up on the kitchen windowsills, gone.
But Frankie’s shrine was still intact, the candles burning, Ebbers the Penguin staring out at us solemnly as if daring my parents to lay a hand on him.
“Dante and I picked out some things for you,” Mom said. “In your room, which we still haven’t packed up because you refuse to come over. Go. And tell me if you want Great-Nonny’s silver hairbrush and mirror set, because Eva wants it, too.”
“Eva can have it,” I said.
“Good,” my sister said, appearing at the top of the stairs. “Because it’s already sitting on the bureau in my guest room. Hey, Georgia.”
“Hi, Eva,” said Georgia. “How are you?”
She didn’t get to hear an answer because Mom dragged her into the kitchen. But Eva didn’t bother responding anyway, as social skills were not her forte. “Marley, get your ass up here.” (See?)
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