by Kelly deVos
“Yes.” I say it so fast it sounds like a lie even to me.
Father Tim reaches into his glove compartment and presses a ten-dollar bill into my hand. “Just in case.”
“I—”
“Let’s not have a big scene, eh, Cookie? Just get home safe.” He starts to walk away but turns back. “You know, every time your dad sends in one of his mission reports, he asks about you.”
“He knows where to find me.” If possible, I feel even more alone.
Father Tim waits until he sees me get in the car and then drives off in the direction of the church.
Just in case. Those words keep echoing in my head like a scene in a really cheesy movie. I never thought I’d need a backup plan to prepare me for the moment my best friend left me for dead.
Father Tim’s money gets me a few gallons of gas and I get home around eleven. Grandma is already asleep. I know this isn’t a slight. The lady gets up at 4:00 a.m. But it makes me feel even more abandoned.
At the kitchen table, I’m looking at the half-full boxes of glazed doughnuts and can taste the sugar dissolving on my tongue. I could eat a dozen by myself. It won’t fix anything, but I’ll feel good again.
For a little while.
I guess this must be what Amanda Harvey meant by emotional eating.
Scooping up the boxes, I march out the wooden door and into the darkness of the backyard. Underneath the porch light Grandma’s dog, Roscoe, is eating a ham sandwich off a plastic plate. He glances up but doesn’t bark as I head back to the trash can. I open the boxes and dump the doughnuts on top of the rotting banana peels, clump of aluminum foil and discarded cereal boxes. I don’t want there to be any chance they can be recovered.
Inside the house, I rummage through my fabric box. I spend the rest of the night furiously sewing a midi skirt from some stretchy, caution-sign-yellow jersey that Grandma picked up on sale at Sally’s Fabrics. I even add special, loopy, heirloom stitching to the hem, which is a real pain in the ass with jersey.
Kennes Butterfield has shot me forward like a rocket into some future space. She’s taught me a lesson. There’s a hunger stronger than the desire for food. The hunger for revenge.
SKINNY: Day 749 of NutriNation
It’s our last day in the city. Tomorrow, we’ll be leaving for Gareth’s ranch. Since the night I fell over like a total clown, we’ve been more like travel buddies. We walk around the city during the day and spend the evenings dissecting Gareth’s career. This manages to be both thrilling and disappointing. I’m kind of glad nothing happens between us and also sort of wish that it would.
Each night, Housekeeping leaves a mint on my twin bed.
Before dinner, Gareth says he has something special planned. We take a hired car to San Martin Park and head over to the Salta Tram, a ride that carries tourists to the top of Cerro San Bernado and offers a view of the city. It closes at sunset, a few minutes after we arrive, but of course that means nothing to Gareth. He’s worked it out such that we take our seats, sitting across from each other, alone in a gondola. The only ones going up while everyone else comes down.
We rise, and a flash of warm light crosses his chiseled profile, creating a highlight over his nose. Something about it reminds me of glimpsing his face through the narrow slit in the doorway the first time I came to New York.
“You know, I saw you once before. When I was in high school I worked for a blog that gave me a trip to the city and I went to G Studios. I was hoping to meet you. Beg for a job or something, I guess.” I don’t know why I don’t tell the truth or mention Parsons. Probably because I don’t want to answer for my failures.
“But you couldn’t make it past the guard dogs at the front desk? They can be a bit overzealous sometimes. My father came to the studio once and they wouldn’t let him in because he didn’t have an appointment.” He moves over to sit next to me. The gondola creeps up the cerro, giving us plenty of time to watch the last daylight fade behind the city. Tall, modern skyscrapers form the perimeter of the city with the older districts fanning out behind until they reach the Cordillera mountains. Salta is much larger than I realized, and it goes on and on. “Ah, well, I wish we would have connected,” he says, taking my hand.
I laugh. A dry laugh without any real humor. “Yeah. I know how much you love fat gals. You wouldn’t have even looked in my general direction. Or if you did, it would have been to call me...um...a whale of a woman.”
“You don’t know what I would have done.”
When I give him the side-eye, he continues. “You’re talking about what I said that first day on the plane. Okay. Point taken. That was me being an ass.” His hand releases mine and falls limp in his lap. “I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t start out this damn insensitive. I was the same as you. In the beginning. Out to make sure every person I dressed felt like a million bucks. And then it became more about making a million bucks and I couldn’t figure out how to get back to where I was before.”
At the top of San Bernado, there’s a small waterfall. Nearby, a picnic table has been covered with a stiff, formal white cloth and stacked with fruits and cheese and wine. As we walk, we pass a man in a uniform. He gives Gareth a nod, ducks into a gondola headed back down and then we’re alone.
I fall into one of the steel chairs, dab a bit of Brie onto my plate. “So, not only is it lonely at the top, but once you make it up you might not know how to get back down?”
Gareth smiles and points at the glittering water as it pools. “The best dress I ever made was for my grandmamma. For her fiftieth high school reunion. And it was nothing. A sequin shift dress. You could pattern it in half an hour. But the sparkles moved like that waterfall. I fit it perfectly, musta spent an hour pinning it exactly right. When she put it on...her face glowed like a light bulb. That’s why I wanted to design clothes. For the way they can make people feel.”
He reaches across the table and threads his fingers through mine. “So believe it or not, Cookie, you’re not the only person with a love for the craft. You’re not the only one who can spot talent. If I had seen your portfolio, you woulda been working for me and not NutriMin Water. And that, my girl, is a matter of fact.”
Whether what he says is fact or a rose-colored reimagining of the world or more appealing words that flow from Gareth’s deep reservoir of charm, it’s what I need to hear.
What I want to hear.
Something warm fills my insides. Like in this little picnic spot, there could be an alternate world where people could be valued according to the size of their potential, not the size of their bodies. Gareth Miller and I could exist in this world.
We sit for a while in silence, listening to the water babble against the rocks. I take deeps breaths, in and out, occasionally the tablecloth rustles in the breeze. Gareth drums his fingers on the table, keeping time with the beat of my heart. When the sun is almost down and nearly everything is blue, we leave the half-finished fromage behind and make our way back to the tram.
He takes my hand, transferring an electric energy between us. I find, in that moment, I’m no longer awkward or insecure or worried that he’ll see my stretch marks.
I know what I want.
The instant we’re in the gondola, I slide the dark blazer off his shoulders. It’s a cool wool, finely woven, smooth and expensive. Probably from his bespoke line, the handmade, custom clothes he produces for A-list actors and billionaires. Gareth takes it from me and tosses it on the bench next to him with the air of someone accustomed to fine things.
I move my fingers down his chest. Slowly. Button by button. I fumble and find patches of hair and warm skin. Breathe.
Gareth loses patience with my slow crawl before I finish the fourth button. He reaches for his wallet inside one of the inner pockets of his jacket. We exchange a look and I give him a small nod.
He lifts me onto his lap and hikes up my dress around my waist. With ease, assurance. Ga
reth Miller. Probably a charter member of the mile-high club. He puts on his own condom and pushes my thong to the side. Of course. He always knows what he’s doing.
Right now, I know what I’m doing too.
I don’t care that my knees bang against the plastic bench or that the gondola rocks in a way that makes my stomach turn over. There’s the noise, the clangs and thuds of gears and pulleys as we go down. I have to brace myself, planting my hands on the plexiglass behind me to keep from falling back, leaving palm prints on the clear surface.
I let go of all that and focus only on the feeling of his lips on mine and his hands on my body. It’s right and wrong and messy.
And perfect.
I pull my mouth off his and focus on his eyes. The last of the sunlight disappears and I can barely make out their exact shade of brown.
We don’t talk or tell each other how much we’re in love or that we’ll be together forever. It’s not romantic. Or graceful. There’s only hands moving and our bodies trying to fit together in some kind of way and the sound of our breathing.
We are.
We are two people who don’t have the slightest idea where they are or how they got there. Whatever we were. Whatever we will be. In that moment, we just are.
We are two lost people who’ve found each other.
And.
Everything.
As we near the bottom of the hill, I hear voices. I scramble off Gareth’s lap and hurry to fix my clothes. The gondola stops at the station and a man opens the door. I don’t look back at Gareth as the man helps me out and onto the concrete.
But Gareth’s hand is on my back as we go to the parking lot.
We pass another man in a uniform. He says something in Spanish and laughs.
“Well, never a dull moment with you, eh, Cookie?” Gareth whispers in my ear.
I don’t say much. I’m lost in my thoughts on the car ride back to the hotel. I always assumed that skinny people knew exactly what they wanted and were boldly going through life trying to get it. Step by step. Action and reaction. And if I could look like them, I could feel like them. I’m thinner now, but no one sent me my copy of life’s instruction manual.
Even Gareth doesn’t seem to know what he’s doing all the time or know exactly what he wants out of life. We’re trying to pattern out our relationship in the same way we design clothes. Pinning, tucking and darting parts of reality, trying to create a garment I’m not sure we have the skill to construct.
Gareth reaches for my hand and his fingers brush across my palm. I fight off a shiver.
Today, I did what I wanted to and, for an instant, I understand what I want.
Whatever this is, I want it to last.
I take his hand and hold it tight. I leave it for another time to try to figure out if our story is a fairy tale coming true or a dream that I’ll inevitably wake up from.
I hope this will last.
soScottsdale
Title: Built to Last: A Fall Wardrobe for Forever
Creator: Cookie Vonn [contributor]
Now, we’ve talked a lot on this blog about the need to invest in high-quality pieces. It’s better to own five perfect, tailored, high-end garments than five hundred poorly constructed, ill-fitting frocks. Looking different every day ≠ looking good every day.
Let’s imagine we’ve been pinching our pennies. What do we invest in? Two words: Japanese denim. I know, I know. Denim is American. Our pal Levi Strauss invented the stuff. What’s so special about Japanese denim and why does it cost so much?
Let’s be real here. Most of us live in our jeans, so a good pair is a smart investment. What’s way cool about the Japanese approach to denim is that their longtime obsession with vintage Americana has led them to perfect the old-timey looming process. In short, they make it like we used to—on old looming machines that deliver thick, unique, unshrunk, unsanforized denim. If James Dean rose from the grave, he’d be rocking a pair of Strike Gold Standards.
One sad thing about Japanese-made jeans is the lack of availability in plus-sizes. Most brands max out at a size thirty-eight waist. Here’s to hoping that someone steps in and fills that gap in the market.
In the meantime, we’ve got a roundup of what’s what in the world of Kojima-made jeans.
Notes: Kennes [associate editor]: Remove that boring plus-size part. What is unsanforized? And are we actually recommending that people buy jeans that will shrink?
Notes: Cookie [contributor]: You really don’t know anything about textiles, do you?
Notes: Marlene [editor]: Kennes, denim enthusiasts often prefer natural fabrics like unsanforized denim that has not be prewashed or preshrunk. Cookie, post is too focused on denim for enthusiasts and may not appeal to the majority of our readers who are more casual shoppers. Add other jean types and brands, especially from our sponsors.
FAT: Day 15 of NutriNation
It’s Sunday.
I’m jogging.
Let me repeat that one more time. I’m jogging.
It’s true that I almost have to trick myself into doing it. I have to imagine there’s a tyrannosaur a few paces behind me, screaming and waving his arms. No, scratch the waving. He’s carrying an oversize burrito from Filiberto’s, trying to stuff it into his massive jaws. His arms are too short, and the contents of the burrito spill down his leathery green body.
This is what drives me. The dinosaur can’t eat a burrito either.
No. Scratch that too.
What really drives me is the fact that Tommy probably spent last night making out with Kennes Butterfield, and that the Cookie Vonns of the world lurk in dark parking lots while the Kennes Butterfields are living through a nonstop game of Mystery Date.
My group from NutriNation meets in the Safeway parking lot at 4:30 a.m. It’s September in Arizona, so it’s relatively cool now. But in the summer, being outside after seven is borderline unbearable. We make a loop around the neighborhood and through the golf course. People go at their own pace.
Rickelle slows down to fall in step with me. I know she used to weigh three hundred pounds, but now she could be on the cover of Runner’s World. Her blond ponytail bobs up and down.
She checks her purple Garmin watch. “You’re doing it.”
“What?” I ask. This takes the last of my air and I’m relieved that my Corolla is not far off in the distance. We’re rounding the last part of the trip.
“You ran all the way from the golf course. At least a quarter of a mile.”
I’m doing it.
I just ran a quarter mile. Without stopping.
I make it back to the parking lot, sweaty and completely out of breath.
Dave and Kimberly are ahead of us, lingering near a black pickup. Dave is showing off his water bottle. As I come to a stop near him, Dave says, “The bottle mouth is really wide. I can get ice cubes in there. Easy. Cheesy.”
Kimberly reaches out to take the bottle from him.
I burst into tears.
“Okay. You don’t have to put ice in your water if you’d rather not,” Dave says. “I know they say room temperature is best—”
“Dave!” Kimberly interrupts. “Are you hurt, Cookie? Are you okay?”
A crowd gathers around me. Everyone is checking my feet and ankles. I feel like an idiot. I’ve always been a ‘go outside if you need to cry’ kind of girl. It takes a minute for me to be able to say anything, to say what I mean.
“I ran all the way from the golf course. I’m running. I’m running.”
Dave hits me on the back. “Hell, yeah, you are.”
Then we’re all laughing and exchanging sweaty hugs and I’m able to smile even though I’m still crying. The people in the parking lot understand this moment. The moment you set a goal and are able to accomplish it. To have some kind of control over your life.
&nbs
p; “Good job, Cookie,” Rickelle says. “See you tomorrow, right?”
“Yes,” I say with a smile.
Back at home, I take a shower and then go back to sleep. Grandma must know I had a rough night, because she doesn’t roll me out of bed for church. I hear the door slam as she leaves to walk over to Christ the King. I shut my eyes.
I usually play Monopoly with Tommy after church on Sunday while Grandma stays to socialize with the Knights of Columbus. Today, I’m sure he’s not coming, and I tell myself this is okay. I can catch up on my homework before my shift at Donutville. Spending all afternoon writing an essay on The Once and Future King sounds, like, mega super fun, and I get dressed and pull out my books.
I hear rustling in the living room.
We live in one of the shittiest neighborhoods in Mesa. I figure either Grandma has come home early from church or the Pioneer Park Gangsters are paying us a visit. The thing is, Grandma never comes home early from church.
I go around the room, searching for options. Here’s the moment that I wished I played lacrosse or softball. But my room lacks anything that could be used as a weapon. A curling iron is the best I can do. I adjust my sweats and T-shirt, grab my phone and go to investigate.
It’s Tommy.
“I saw your grandma at church and she told me to come on in,” he says. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, setting up the Monopoly board as if nothing whatsoever has changed. He pops a Cheetos into his mouth and adds, “She hooked us up with snacks.”
My mouth falls open. There are so many things I want to say. Like Get the hell out. And Who do you think you are? I’m holding the curling iron so tight that I’m losing feeling in my fingertips.
“You wanna be the thimble, right?”
“The thimble? The thimble? Are you fucking serious?” I say.
He looks up and pauses, his mouth full and bulging with orange snacks. “Wuh?”
“What? What? How did I get home Friday night?”
There’s another pause as he swallows the Cheetos. I can almost hear the wheels of his mind turning slowly.