"What does he say to you?" Drew leans forward on the couch, watching my face, waiting for my answer. I sit there, thinking of what to say, wishing I could tell him something other than the truth.
"He, um, he preys on my ... my insecurities," I say vaguely, waving a hand to indicate my body, myself.
"Such as?"
"Um, how I look?" And now, I can't look at him. Forgetting my posture, I shrink back, leaning into the couch, sort of pulling into myself.
"He has a problem with pretty girls?" Drew says, teasing, trying to draw me back out.
"He, um. He has a problem with me. With my, um, my figure," I stammer, completely humiliated to be telling him this.
"Oh, I get it," he answers me, pulling back some. This causes something inside of me to crack, and I feel the lack of his nearness right into my soul. I close my eyes and take a breath, waiting for the inevitable. Now he'll see me as a fat girl, a slob with no self-control. He'll see a loser, the family piggy.
"I get it," he says again. "Rick obviously has some issues. I get that. But tell me, Cass. How does that rejection issue go into a full-blown grudge against the way you look? How is it your fault if he has a problem with women who look like women?"
"Excuse me?" I look up in shock. I don't know what I expected him to say, but that wasn't it.
"I get what you're saying to me; that he's ridiculed you. For what? Your size? Because I can't wrap you up in a water balloon? Because you probably don't wear dental floss underwear? Cass, he's just angry. He sees you, and he sees everything that I see."
"And what's that?”I ask, before I can stop myself. “What do you see?" Shocked that I allowed the question to slip out, I brace myself for his response.
"I see beautiful," he answers. "If you want the full-on, vulgar man answer, I see warm soft legs I can't wait to sink into. I see full round breasts that will keep me busy for hours. I see deep dark eyes that will flutter closed while I'm busy removing clothes, without a damn care in the world what sizes they are. I see a good woman with a good heart, and full lips, and a sweet ass to boot."
"Oh," I say, disbelieving, waiting for the punch line.
"What can I do?" he asks, seeing my lack of faith. "How can I help you to see what I see? What he sees? Don't you understand that he's just angry, and rejected, because he sees something lovely that's out of his reach? Can't you see he's a damn fool?"
"Just be patient with me," I answer, helplessly. I'm in shock; he wants to defend me. He doesn't see me as a tease, or a liar; he doesn't look at me and see something ugly or gross. He still sees me, just as he did before. Still, I hear Rick in my memory.
Old habits are hard to break.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Today, we're trying something beyond the typical. We've done the typical dinner date a few times, we've met for breakfast before he had to work, we've gone out to movies, and we've watched movies together on my couch. We've been horse-back riding, and we've been to the zoo.
Today we're hiking. I've dreaded it all week, thinking of things that could go wrong; I've wondered if he'll notice if I get out of breath, if I'll get too worn out before he does. If I sweat. I mean, I'm fairly fit for my size, but I am an overweight woman hiking with a cop. We're bound to notice some differences.
What if he notices? What if he doesn't?
What if my physical inadequacy matters to him? What if it doesn't?
We've been out a time or two since I told Drew about my history with Rick and why he's so vile to me, and Drew has definitely done his part to be reassuring. Still, you can't easily forget a lifetime of memories, and no matter what he tells me, I still see a fat slob in the mirror. There is no clothing or make-up that can disguise what I see inside myself, even if I know my vision is skewed.
The wind is blowing through his hair, lifting the dark thickness and revealing the little sprinkles of gray woven through. His fingers are laced through mine, and we've just climbed a pile of rocks, so I'm out of breath. Thankfully, so is he.
"Don't you just feel alive right now?" he asks, smiling down at me as I find my footing. What I feel mostly, is burning hamstrings and a slow fiery sear in the muscles of my butt. Aside from that though, yes, I feel alive, and I can't stop myself from smiling back into the depth of his green eyes.
"I really thought you were insane to invite me hiking," I laugh. "But I am having fun, I can't deny it."
"Why would I be insane to invite you? This place isn't as pretty when you aren't here, I swear. I had to see its full potential." He tugs my hand, helping me up the last part of the climb, and then we stand together as if we've climbed Everest, victory warming us. The delicious feeling of his arms around me swells my heart up, and I lay my head against the firm solidity of his chest, heaving under the cotton of his t-shirt.
"You know, because I'm, kind of, not really, the athletic type?" I murmur. He stiffens, removing his arms to take my face in his hands.
"Stop expecting me to change my mind about you," he whispers. "You keep telling me what you think is wrong with you, what someone else has told you is not good enough. But I have told you what I see, and it's completely different. You can point up to that sky and try to tell me it's pink, but right this minute, it's blue, and there's no telling me otherwise. You can point out what you think are giant hips, and what I see is a fabulous place to hold on to while we're dancing. Or, you know, doing other things," he laughs. Kissing me lightly, he continues.
"You can tell me about giant boobs,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows dramatically. “And you can try as hard as you can to make them sound awful, but there isn't a man on this planet who would look at you and say to himself, 'my gosh, those breasts are simply too large!' And should you be the one rare person who can find such a stupid man, be aware that I am not stupid. And one of these days, I am going to get my hands on you, and you will never see your body the same way again. You got me?"
Licking my lips helplessly, I nod my head. I simply have no argument for this, and I can't bring myself to tell him to "prove it." Instead, I kiss the tip of his nose and whisper, "Okay."
"So, I brought us lunch," he says, lowering himself on the flat top of the rock. "In my backpack."
Carefully sitting next to him, I stick my legs out straight, my feet sticking over the edge of the little rock platform we're on. "Okay," I say again.
Leaning slightly behind him, I help him wriggle out of the small pack he has strapped to his back. Inside, there are squished rolls, stuffed with ham and mustard, crushed plastic cups, and a small bottle of wine.
"Oh, wow," he laughs. "I guess next time, a cooler is better, huh?"
"Aww, this is cute," I answer, touching a palm to his pinkened cheek. "Not sure how we're going to drink this though." I hold up the wine bottle in the one hand, the neatly stacked and horribly broken plastic cups in the other.
"Like, this, of course," he whispers, looking around as if afraid to be caught. "Although, this is the very lowest of the low class ways to drink wine."
"Well, look at us, two grown adults whispering on a rock, like we're about to be caught stealing liquor from dad's wet bar," I laugh. "I think we're low class already."
"Well, alright then," he says, a challenging gleam in his eye. Popping the cork easily from the bottle, he thrusts it at me. "You first. Quick before mom sees you."
Taking the bottle, I prop myself in what I hope is a sexy posture, leaning back on one arm, while I hold the wine. Shooting him a wink, I put the bottle to my lips and raise it, taking a deep swallow of the sweet red liquid. If I achieved the goal though, I'll never know; a bug crawls over my hand and in my panic, I break contact with the wine bottle too early, spilling a dribble down my throat and onto my shirt.
"I got it," Drew says, reassuring me that the bug is now dead. Then he catches sight of me, sitting there in the sun, and I’m the ultimate vision of an out-of-control fat woman, red wine trailing down my throat and into the fabric of my pink cotton top. As if I'm so gluttonous that I couldn't drink as fast as I cou
ld pour.
His eyes darken, soften somehow, and he leans close to me, taking my chin in his hands. "Be careful doing that," he says, indicating the wine still drying on my skin, because I froze up and didn't wipe it away. "A man could lose control, with you sitting here, covered in fruity red wine."
Oh my God, what?
Tilting my chin, he leans toward me, and for once, he doesn't kiss my face. He kisses just below my chin, using his thumb to guide my face as he moves toward the cool stickiness of the wine. For a short time, I pray he doesn't notice how soft I am, that I lack the firm lines of a smaller woman, and then suddenly I'm not thinking at all.
His lips are there, where the wine spilled on me; for the first time in my life, a man is touching me as if I'm something exciting. His mouth is like a searing burn on the sensitive skin of my throat, his tongue gently removing all traces of my mishap. The heater in my lower stomach is on again, blazing hot, and I feel like as if all the blood in my body is rushing to that sensitive hidden place in my panties.
His arm slips around me, lowering me to the rock, and he moves back to my face, kissing my cheeks, my nose, my forehead. My mouth. I've hardly moved, and yet I'm breathing harder right now than at any point during the hike; so is he.
"I wish you could see what I see," he whispers, kissing my lips again, his hand resting on my hip. "You looked so scared sitting there, and not because of the bug; it was just a little beetle. What are you so afraid of, Cass?"
"I don't know," I lie, unable to voice the words in my heart.
I'm afraid you'll turn on me, that you'll see something disgusting. That something will go wrong, and you'll go two-faced like Rick. That you'll hate me, and insult me, and turn cruel.
"I wasn't going to ask you this yet, Cass, because it's early still, for us," he starts, and I feel my entire body tense, anticipating all the things he could be leading to.
Will he ask me to diet? Will he pretend he's worried about my health, and we'll both know he's worried about my weight?
"My family is having a barbeque next week," he says, nervous enough to be oblivious to my tension. "I want you to come. With me."
"You want me to meet your family?" Rolling carefully to avoid falling off the rock, I sit up and stare at him in shock. He sits, too, watching me warily.
"Yes," he says. "I've told them a lot about you, and you've met Michael and Aunt Carrie already. The others want to meet you, because they can see how charmed I am, how much I like being with you."
He's talked about me? Have the others I've met talked about me too? What do they say? Do they pity him, for dating me? Do they think he's so traumatized by grief over what happened that day when he shot someone, that he needed to date a fat girl to build himself up again?
"I don't know if I'm ready," I say, looking down into my lap, afraid to see what might be in his eyes.
Is he glad that I said that? Is he hoping that I'll say no, so that he doesn't have to take me? Or have I hurt him? Was he hoping that I'd say yes?
"Oh," he says, and I can hear the disappointment. Relief washes over me, because he clearly did want me to accept the invitation.
"Why don't we see where we are then?" I offer, not wanting to commit, but also not wanting to disappoint him. Reaching out, I lay a hand on his arm, which draws his eyes to mine. "I promise I'll think it over," I say.
"Okay," he says, and takes a deep breath. I'm grateful to him, for letting it go, for not pressing. "You'll think it over?"
"I promise," I answer. "I'd like to go, and be with you, but the way I feel about myself, it still has a hold on me that I can't really escape yet, you know? And I'm afraid of what will happen if things change between us, if things --"
"If something goes wrong?" he asks, giving me the words I couldn't seem to say.
"Yes."
"We're not going to go wrong," he insists, lifting the sandwiches he brought. The rolls may be squished, but they still look edible; he grins and opens the bag, handing one to me. Taking another out for himself, he gestures at me with it before taking a bite and stuffing it into his cheek.
"I'll follow your lead," he mutters. "But I'm not going to turn away, and I'm not going to turn into someone else. This is it, right here, this is me. And I want you to come, and to be with me, and to not be afraid. However long it takes, I'm waiting right here."
"Right here?" I ask.
"Right here," he answers.
"Oh. Okay. Well then, when I leave you here tonight to go home, do you want me to bring you back a blanket?"
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I can't believe how much impact Drew has had on my confidence. I know my own personal goals; I know how important it is for me to find my confidence within myself, but I also know that I am a person driven by feedback. I think to some extent, we all are; that's why we get depressed or in some crisis, and we go running into therapy for help. We need better feedback.
I am able, sometimes, to look in the mirror and see through Drew's eyes. I am able to see the eyes he describes as "hot chocolate," instead of always seeing the "mud puddles" that I always saw before. I am able to see my breasts, and while I don't thrill to their size, I am thankful they are firm and round, that in spite of my weight, I have good strong skin. I am able to look at me, sometimes, and see beauty, though it is still rare. Right now, I'm too afraid to be able to see it often.
I'm really thinking of going with him to meet his family, of taking the risk and giving it an honest try.
I've also been thinking of inviting him back home with me some night, and I don't mean back home to Janet's house. So just in case I get brave, I'm standing in a section of Chubby Central that I don't usually go into.
In my left hand, I'm nervously clutching a red silken nightgown with breast cups and wide halter ties made only of sheer lace panels. The waist is elastic, to hold up just below the breasts, and the skirt of the gown is somewhat less sheer, as it is double layered. Just looking at it makes me feel sexy, which is rather odd and maybe a little disturbing. I'm not sure I've ever felt sexy before.
My right arm is draped heavily with other little nighties, but right now, I'm feeling risky, so I put them all back and take the little red number to the cashier.
"Wow, this is a hot one," she laughs. "I bet your man is in for a shock huh?"
"Absolutely," I say, forcing a grin. The moment of courage is over too soon, and before long, I'm walking through the crowded pathways of the mall, heading back to my car in a hurry, before I can head back to the store and return this lingerie.
"Cass!" Someone calls, and because it isn't an everyday name, I turn before I realize what I'm doing.
Crap.
Rick is walking toward me with a Gap bag in his hand and a gleam in his eye; in the effort to steel myself for the encounter, I forget completely where I've been.
"What you got there?" he asks, taking advantage of my shock to snatch the Chubby Central bag out of my hand. He's got it opened before I can stop him, and I know that nothing I say will stop him anyway, so I stand there silent, waiting impatiently.
"Woah, I take it you still have the boyfriend huh? Bet you're getting sick of salad."
"Actually, we eat cake. Every night. He likes it best if I eat a lot and make a big mess, so I actually don't even use silverware anymore; I just shove it in with my hands."
"Right," he mutters, pulling the red lace from the bag to examine it. He looks up at me and I roll my eyes, which irritates him.
"Lot of lace you got here," he says. "Making a pretty skirt for your car, are you?"
"Well, you know, a fat girl has to have her hobbies," I retort, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest and the heat pricking the backs of my eyes.
I will not cry. Not yet. I will not cry.
"Of course," he answers. "What, no cookies? This is the mall, home of good cookies and tasty treats."
"Ate them already," I say, finally reaching forward and taking my bag back. He hands the nightie back to me with a look of distas
te, digging his hands into his pockets.
"Red is a nice color," he tells me, as I stuff my purchase back into my shopping bag. "Bright. You'll be the prettiest thousand pound apple he's ever seen." With that last comment, he waves his arm, extending his leg and bowing like an old-world gentleman.
"Well, at least I've moved on from being the county reject, instead of boiling in bitterness like a worthless idiot," I say, glaring at his back. He stiffens; when he turns around, his gaze is so fierce that for a moment, I'm afraid. Taking an involuntary step back, I clench my hand on my shopping bag; it's the only weapon I have handy at the moment.
"Bitterness? You think I'm bitter?" He asks, stepping so close that I can smell the peppers on his breath from whatever he ate for lunch. "I may be bitter, but I can live with being bitter, it's the hand that was dealt to me from the beginning."
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