Three hours? Every day? No way, that wasn’t my Nate. He must have had, like, no life. I checked the comments at the bottom. Whereas there had been six on his first article, this one had exploded to fifty-seven—and from the first few that showed up on the bottom of the final page of the article, they were people who knew him. Friends. Names I’d never heard about.
Now that I thought of it, Nate never talked about his friends back home. Never texted, never e-mailed or Skyped with them.
If I had any doubt as to whether they existed, though, back at USC, the next article would prove me wrong. The title of this one was Balancing Your Gym Life and Your Social Life.
Most body builders stay away from partying, but this college boy loves to spend a night out. And even though I’m too young to drink (and the commenters can keep their naysaying to themselves, I know where you live, little bitches) I know that some well respected body builders will enjoy a night out on the town every now and then. Four, six, eight beers – as long as you can get yourself home and you know you’ll be safe (wink wink nudge nudge) then it’s no problem.
Underneath this article by Nate, who was apparently a total asshole the day he wrote it, was a picture of him standing in a bar. He was wearing a tight gray t-shirt with muscles even bigger than the ones he had now, straining underneath. He held a beer in each hand, and each arm was wrapped around a girl. One was taller than he was, and one was just an inch or so shorter.
And they were both thin as freaking rails. The tall one had her midriff bare, and even in the grainy printed picture, I could see her hipbone jutting out.
My stomach twisted. Nate had never said he liked bigger girls, but I guessed after all our time together, I’d just assumed…
And then my eyes landed on the photo caption:
Writer Nate West enjoys a night on the town with his girlfriend and her friends. “My girl is the hottest on campus,” West said. “I like a girl I can get my hands around.”
My world spun around me, and I thought I would be sick. But there was one more article left. My hands trembled as I flipped to it, because somehow, I knew what would be there. It was titled: Fat is not Fit, and Overweight is Not Fabulous – a response to the USC Observer’s Plus Size Model Spread. My head spun, but I kept reading.
Of course POSE magazine, USC’s publication by fashion students, can be easily found lying around campus, and this was the first one I’d bothered picking up to read. If it was possible, I was both horrified and glad I had.
On the cover was an intriguing descriptor – “The Real Woman Issue.” Being into fitness, I thought I might flip the page to see some practical gym outfits for girls or something – maybe I’d buy one for my girlfriend. Inside, I was appalled by what I saw.
The entire centerfold was comprised of poses by nude, plus sized models. The fact that they were nude wasn’t what bothered me, though – it was the fact that this was what we were defining, on USC’s campus, as the quintessential ‘real woman.’
These girls have rolls on their stomachs and sagging under their arms – they’re not real women, they’re unhealthy women. I understand that some people are plus-sized, and that’s normal for them, but I don’t think a publication for college students should be glorifying this body type. Big bones don’t make these girls that way – big meals do. It’s a bad example for our student population, and if flies in the face of all the hard work fitness organizations are doing to ensure a healthy student body. What kind of role models are we showing the USC population? Or high school girls, who are thinking about maybe attending USC? What message does it send?
I know that most people won’t read this article, but I just wanted to say – I’m not discriminating against people who have some weight to lose, and I encourage them to work hard to do so. That’s one of my missions on this campus. And as such, I don’t think they have any business being naked in a magazine.
Studies show that calling overweight people out for being unhealthy can spur them to change their lives. And to whatever extent this little piece does that, I hope it makes these girls and anyone admire their unhealthy bodies realize - It’s not art, it’s a display of what happens when you don’t take care of yourself. And until these girls can do so, they should get in the gym and off the pages of a magazine that represents our entire school.
Sincerely, a concerned Trojan.
The article ran only left a little bit of room at the bottom of the page for comments, but through my welling tears I read the two that were there. One said, Preach on, brother, and the other said, You are an ignorant asshole.
Yep. I totally agreed with that last one. Nate was an ignorant asshole. An ignorant asshole I’d been sleeping with, been falling in love with, for the last three months.
Absolutely nothing felt like it made sense. My stomach churned and the room spun around me. If I thought I could have made it to the bathroom to throw up, I would have. Instead, I found my phone on the couch beside me and, with shaking fingers, texted Joey.
Need to get out of here. Now.
Lol What happened?
I’ll fill you in. But I’m up here in Wilkes Barre, no car. What do I do?
Holy shit. You’re not joking. Hold on.
Fifteen seconds later, another text popped up with a phone number.
Call these guys. They’ll come get you. I’ll book you a car from here.
My eyes filled with tears. I held down the number, clicked “call,” and breathed out a sigh of relief when the recorded greeting for a rental car place came over the phone. I stepped outside, phone pressed to my ear, and thanked God I could see both a street sign and the house number without leaving the front porch. With a shaky voice, I gave the tired-sounded guy on the other end the address.
“We’ll be there in five minutes. You’re just around the corner.”
It took me less than thirty seconds to find my jacket and stuff everything I’d brought back in my suitcase. I was so grateful I’d packed light at that moment, because I didn’t want to leave anything in Nate’s car.
In the last few minutes before the rental car guy got there, I debated going back upstairs to look at Nate sleeping. But when my eyes flicked outside and saw the sun coming up, I knew with absolute certainty that I never wanted to see that ignorant asshole again.
The rental car guy tried to chat, as I signed the papers, but I just wasn’t in the mood to talk with him about why I was leaving this house—which he assumed was my parents’—at seven-thirty on Thanksgiving morning. Everything was still spinning around me, and tears still filled my eyes every few seconds, but I swiped them angrily away. As soon as I felt that burn of anger start to edge out the twisting in my stomach, I felt a little better, and I spent the entire drive back to the turnpike, pressing my foot all the way to the floor to make it up the steep, windy mountain in the little hatchback, concentrating on that anger, letting it consume me.
Nate’s article from less than a year ago at USC not only said everything I’d been freaking out about since my accident. That much, I’d seen. That much, I could handle.
But there was no fucking way I believed a guy could change from this jerkwad on the page to a guy who really truly thought I was beautiful and gorgeous, inside and out. All the things he had said when we were together, about how real women looked this way, about how beautiful I was…they were all lies.
It really didn’t make sense. Why he would have kissed me like he did that first time, or tried so hard to get my number, or taken me rock climbing? Why couldn’t he keep his hands off me on that first official date? None of it made sense—not the way he looked at my body in awe, or encouraged me to eat dessert when we both knew I shouldn’t.
The guy who wrote that article could not possibly be the same guy who made me feel so beautiful and loved.
And yet he was. And I had slept with him. A lot. And almost told him I loved him.
I did love him, in the world that was this morning, I told myself. But who did he think he was, fucking with my h
ead so thoroughly? My thoughts swirled and my heart raced as I barreled down the turnpike in the little car, staring at each mile marker and willing the numbers to go down faster.
Nothing in this entire world made sense. I didn’t know whether I was ugly or gorgeous, couldn’t make sense of every single moment I’d spent with Nate. Didn’t know if he was wonderful and this was all a dream, or if he was really an asshole that I’d somehow been lucky enough to figure out before I fell for his shit.
My phone buzzed about every ten minutes, and I knew it was Joey, but I also knew that there was no way I should be holding a phone to my ear driving at this speed in this mood. I picked up my phone and quickly texted her:
On my way back. ETA 10:00.
Great. Dinner in Marion at 2:00. You’re telling me what happened, cleaning up, and coming with.
A huge lump rose in my throat. Things were finally feeling real. Probably because texting with Joey told me, for certain, that this was not a dream. I was going to have to go talk to my best friend, the one I’d basically ditched for the past two months, and tell her all about how I’d finally got back to feeling good about myself, only to find out that my boyfriend hated fat girls. Girls like me.
Chapter 15
I pulled off the turnpike onto the Schuylkill Expressway, winding around the first treacherous turn so slowly that the car behind me honked. “Shut up, asshole,” I murmured under my breath. I wanted to purposely go even slower when we hit the main road, but Philadelphians and their road rage were nothing to fool around with.
In less than twenty minutes, I was pulling off onto 30th Street, and marveling at how different the University streets were without traffic. It really was like a different world, an alternate universe. So different-looking, I could almost believe the last twenty-four hours hadn’t happened.
The last two months were a little harder to explain away.
I wound down the University streets, past Penn and Drexel, trying my hardest not to glance at the building that held Nate’s apartment on my way to ours.
When I pulled up to my building, I was relieved to see Joey’s face in the window, watching for me, and that just brought a whole fresh crop of tears. I saw her lift her phone to her ear, and then I stepped out of the car, feeling the air whipping against my face and freezing the tears into half-solid tracks on my cheeks. I wrenched my suitcase out of the car, grateful for half a second for all the rock climbing and weight training Nate had convinced me to do. It was light as a feather.
I trudged up to the front step, and Joey was waiting with the front door open. I heard her say, “Yes, pickup any time between now and one-thirty is fine. Thanks.”
“Joey,” I half-whined, half moaned. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did. I know you’re broke as a joke, and leaving Nate at seven-thirty in the morning on Thanksgiving means you’re not fucking around. And really, it’s no big deal. It’s probably better spent on you instead of having that huge post-finals party here like we were going to, anyway.”
I stared around the apartment. We had a cleaning schedule, and it looked like the other three girls had actually stuck to it while I had been mostly absent since we moved in. It probably was better, but that didn’t stop me feeling like shit for ruining plans for the girls that, by all accounts, were my best friends on campus. Shit.
I left my suitcase at the door and trudged over to the couch, just like I’d done that first day back when none of my clothes fit. Ridiculous how, back then, I thought that was the worst problem possible.
“Spill.” Joey plopped down next to me. For the first time, I noticed how even her tiny body made the couch shake too.
“So. Nate.”
“Yeah. What did he do? He was SO into you. It was obvious.”
“Well, I found some old stuff of his.” I explained the whole thing to her, detailing the articles and photos, the tears really streaming down my cheeks until by the end I was sobbing, snotting, and gulping for breath.
Joey punctuated my retelling with the appropriate “Holy shit,” or shocked or sad face, and when I’d finally finished my story, launched herself off the couch and came back with a roll of toilet paper. “Sorry,” she said sheepishly. “We’re out of tissues.”
I laughed, for the first time in hours.
“No, it’s fine. I mean, it’s basically the same thing.”
“Yeah, and cheaper. Leaves more in the party fund, which you are going to desperately need.”
I shook my head. “Nuh-uh. Not after the last time. Do you remember how trashed I got?”
“Yeah, but Nate didn’t seem to care—”
My face fell.
Joey reached over to me as I started sobbing all over again. “Oh, I’m so sorry, honey,” she said into my hair. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“No, that’s the thing!” I wailed. “He didn’t care. I mean, he told me I was gorgeous. He fucked me like I was gorgeous.”
“Really? I mean, we haven’t talked that much, but the sex, it was that good?”
I memory shot through me. Had it only been twelve hours ago that he’d been inside me and I’d sworn I’d never felt anything so incredible? Never would feel anything so incredible ever again?
The thought just made me wail even harder. “I wish I’d never gone snooping around his stupid house. Then I never would have seen that stupid article, and I never would know, and he’d keep being perfect forever and ever.”
“Oh, honey. But you would have found out. You would have found out sometime, you know? And it could have been worse. It could have been in front of his whole family, or you could have met some of his friends from back home, or….”
I nodded numbly, staring off into the distance. “Just…I can’t believe I was so fooled, you know? And why the hell would he have been so awesome if that’s really how he feels?”
“Is it possible that he changed?”
“Since a year ago? From that colossal of an asshole?”
“I mean, he was in that nude-models class. And he did transfer.”
Just then, my phone trilled Nate’s ringtone. “Motherfucker,” I muttered, willing the tears not to start up again as I hoisted myself up off the couch to get the phone. But Joey was hot on my heels.
“No. Let me handle that.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but it was too late. Joey had snatched the phone from my hand. She stood there with her hand on a popped-out hip, the embodiment of attitude, as she pressed it to her ear. “Nate,” she said in a sickly sweet voice. “Uh-huh. This is Joey.” A pause. “No, Cat left as soon as she found evidence of what a dickwad you are.” She grinned and stifled a laugh. “Okay. Happy fucking Thanksgiving, asshole.”
“What did he say?” I asked. My heart pounded in my chest.
Joey looked at me with shifty eyes. “He was clueless. Do you mean to tell me you didn’t even talk to him before you left?”
“Yeah, I mean he was still sleeping, so…”
“Well, I guess he’ll probably call back once he figures out what you saw, huh?”
“I guess so.” It wouldn’t be too hard. I had left that last photo album’s contents strewn across the coffee table, with the last article on top.
“He talked about my body so much, I should have known something was up. I just…I don’t know. I felt like such shit about myself that I ate it up, you know?”
“Okay, but that just makes sense. Of course you wanted to hear you were gorgeous.”
“And of course you guys telling me wasn’t enough. Shit, Joey. I’m so sorry.”
“Will you stop being stupid? You’re going through an epic breakup, and I am your friend no matter what.”
The words “epic breakup” hit me like a Mack truck. Somehow, in the last few hours, I hadn’t thought of this as exactly what it was—my boyfriend was a douche, and I was breaking up with him.
The phone rang again, Nate’s ringtone. God, I would hate that little tune forever.
Joey answ
ered it again, and I heard Nate’s voice on the other end, frantic. God, if I could hear it, he must be really upset. No. No. He’s just embarrassed, and he didn’t want to lose the easy fuck buddy he had in you. Pull yourself together.
Every part of me screamed that we weren’t just fuck buddies. There was something different about us, something more.
Something that could never be the same again.
Joey’s shrill laugh rang through the air, interrupting my thoughts. “You think I’m going to let you talk to her? Oh, that’s hilarious.”
I lunged for the phone. All thought was lost, and my body took over. My fat, unhealthy body, according to asshole-USC-Nate from another world.
“What?” I spat when I got the phone out of Joey’s hand and against my ear.
“Cat. Cat, sweetheart, I don’t…holy shit, you have to let me explain.”
“I don’t have to let you do anything.”
But he kept talking anyway. “That was from a long time ago, I…”
“Nate, that was from one year ago. One year is not a long time. In any universe.”
“Yeah, but Cat, things are different.”
“By ‘things,’ you mean you fucked an ugly fat girl and now you’d like to be a little nicer?”
“If you’d just…can I see you, at least?” His voice broke.
“I really don’t think so, Nate. I have to get well again. I’m sick of feeling like shit about myself. And every time I see you I’m just going to think about what you wrote in that article, and especially the way you told me not to do that Real Women Project thing here…I really don’t think you’re good for me at all.” My voice was barely above a whisper as I spoke the last sentence.
The thing was, my body thought differently. My chest twisted and I felt sick. That didn’t make a damn bit of difference to my destroyed feelings and Joey standing there supporting me and me no longer being in the same house with him, let alone in bed with that gorgeous naked body.
I took a deep breath. Yeah. I definitely needed some distance.
Picture Perfect Page 15