by Tamara Leigh
“Michael?”
He blinks. “Hmm?”
“Everything okay?”
He draws a deep breath. “At the risk of setting you off again, I have to tell you I’m concerned.”
“How’s that?”
“Maia tells me you’re no longer attending Pilates.”
Bingo! “No time for it.” I continue my search for the teapot. Ah, there it is!
“Well, you need to make time.”
Tongue!
I jerk the pot free. “Why?”
“Well, because you’re … you’re …”
Straightening, I turn to him. “What?”
The dam breaks. “You’re potentially fat.”
I blink. Potentially. Fat. Did those words really come out of him? Surely I’m hallucinating. Yeah. Too little sleep. Has to be, as no guy would say something like that to someone for whom he claims to have feelings. Would he?
“Look, Kate,” he continues with desperation that clues me in to what my face reflects, “if you don’t make exercise a priority—”
“Potentially fat?”
“Well, it’s just the way you were bent down. And the robe isn’t exactly flattering, you know.”
I gnash my teeth. “I know.” Which is the way I wanted it, I remind myself. Must calm down. Must not take it personally. But I do. I slam the teapot on the counter in front of him. “Why are you with me?”
He pulls back. “What?”
“Okay, you said you like who I am, but obviously that’s not enough, so why are you with me?”
Maia appears in the doorway. “What’s going on?”
I thrust my face near Michael’s. “Why are you with me and not—” finger jab—“with her?”
He glances at Maia. “C’mon, Kate. You can’t be serious.”
“Am I laughing?”
“Uh … no.”
“Look, Michael, I’d have to be seriously impaired to not know of your mutual attraction.” I glance at Maia, who’s assumed a watchful stance. “Sure, you fight it, but it’s there. You like Maia. Certainly more than you like me, with all my imperfections.”
He waves a hand as though to wipe away my words. “No, Kate.”
“Yes, Michael.”
“No.” His frown lines deepen, and I’m tempted to advise him that he’s “potentially wrinkled,” but that would be mean. See, I’m not completely hopeless.
“Yes,” I say, more forcefully.
“Nooo.”
“Yeeesss.” I narrow my gaze on Maia.
She’s biting her lip. Waiting …
Michael makes a sound of exasperation. “Maia and I are just friends. Yes, we like each other, but not in the way you think.” He widens his eyes at Maia in a silent appeal for support.
She folds her arms across her chest.
“Maybe Maia isn’t what you’re looking for,” I say, “but she’s what you want—tall, slender, gorgeous, and with a sense of fashion and beauty.”
Michael shakes his head. “You’re what I want.”
“No, I’m not. And—” here comes the really hard part—“you’re not what I want.”
Hurt darkens his eyes.
“Though I like you a lot,” I swallow the lump in my throat, “I don’t see our relationship developing into anything beyond friendship. I’m sorry.” I push back from the counter. “I know I can’t tell you or Maia what to do, but you really ought to examine your feelings for one another.”
He stares at me across the silence.
“That’s all I have to say.” I toss the tea bag to the counter and cross toward the doorway. As I near, Maia sidesteps and averts her gaze, but not before I glimpse moisture in her eyes.
All is hushed as I climb the stairs.
Tuesday, May 29
Dear Lord,
I did it. Boy, did I do it! And I’m sure You’re disappointed. I know I am. Not because I did it, but because of how I did it. But, honestly! POTENTIALLY FAT? How was I supposed to react? By turning the other cheek? Oh! That’s funny—the other cheek. Get it? Well, almost funny.
What was Michael thinking? And what guy in his right mind says something like that to a woman he cares for? Potentially fat! If he weren’t so nice, I’d say he’s cruel. But I rant. Potentially fat aside, thank You for Belle holding me accountable, even if the breakup didn’t work out the way I’d hoped. And, more important, thank You for keeping Belle and Beau’s little bun in the oven. Your blessings abound! Potentially fat!
And now for special requests (I’ll bet You get tired of those). Lord, help me keep my nose out of places it doesn’t belong, as in the relationship between Maia and Mr. Potentially Fat. You know they’re perfect for each other, don’t you? Physically speaking, of course. With regards to spiritually, that obviously needs some work. If I could just think of a way to work it so that Michael and Maia—
I know. Keep my nose out of it. Amazing how much trouble one gets into with that particular member of the face. And don’t even get me started on the tongue! Speaking of which, please help me use all I’ve learned about guarding this nasty little waggler. I’m doing better, but not good enough. And please help me to stop dwelling on Clive’s near kiss. Must move on. Must not waste time or thought on something that was never meant to be. It wasn’t, was it? Of course not. Were it, you’d drop him right in my lap. Yeah.
Always yours,
Kate
PS: As I know you don’t want me to worry about my thighs, I’ve decided I won’t. They’re fine just the way they are. Not perfect, but perfectly acceptable. No liposuction—gives me the creeps every time I think about a hose sucking out the fat globules—however, a bit of toning wouldn’t hurt. Maybe a dozen squats or leg lifts before bed. Pre-bed toning. Sounds good. Starting tomorrow night.
PPS: Regarding my Bible time and Sunday services, it’s time to pick up the slack. Hence “Operation: Perfect Faith.” Like the name? Me, too. Though I know it really isn’t possible to have perfect faith—we are human—one should still pursue it. And so, instead of expending so much time and energy on my outward appearance, I’m going to work on the inner. Stay tuned.
leep. I had no intention of succumbing, but my head had begun to throb. So I rested my stinging eyes for just a second. However, as evidenced by the cramp in my neck, my aching back, and the hand shaking my shoulder, I did succumb. Without so much as a whimper, I plunged into that black hole that sucks up every minute of a person’s productivity. And I have only myself to blame. Well … there is Clive Alexander.
For the hundredth time wishing I hadn’t allowed him to coerce me into spreading myself thin, I drop my head back against the wall.
“Hello, Dorian,” I murmur from behind closed lids. But then the faint scent of cologne tickles my senses. “Or is it Gray?” Not that there’s anything faint about the stuff he bathes in—
“It’s Clive.” The hand on my shoulder falls away. “Sorry to disappoint.”
Sucking in a breath, I attempt to focus on the man who’s down on his haunches before me. He’s back. Not a single sighting for nearly three weeks, and suddenly he’s back. Right here. Right now. In the flesh.
Heart lurching, I squelch the impulse to launch myself at him. Where did that come from? I mean, it’s not as if there’s anything between us—
Well, there was the kiss—rather, near kiss. And my relationship with Michael is off—at least, where I’m concerned. Yesterday, just as I was starting to breathe easier, he left a message suggesting we “talk it over.” Probably should call him.
“Kate?”
Realizing how foolish I look with my mouth agape, I close it as I peer into Clive’s face—tanned face. Not that he’s deeply tanned, but he’s definitely spent some time in the sun. Has he been vacationing? Laying on a beach soaking up rays?
Feeling a stab of jealousy, I clear my throat. “You’re … uh … back.”
“And you’re sleeping on the job.”
Guessing it must be eight in the morning, I grimace. “Unfortu
nately, not the job I should be at.” I turn my watch up and, as I removed my contacts last night to ease my stinging eyes, squint to focus on the digital numbers. Almost nine o’clock. Worse yet.
Straightening, Clive reaches a hand to me. “Juggling two now?”
I know I shouldn’t be so eager to accept his assistance, but my hand slides into his as if it’s sliding into home plate. And the moment his fingers close over mine, I start to buzz.
Uh, by the way, Clive, I’m no longer dating Michael.
“Yeah,” I say as he draws me to my feet. “Mustn’t forget my other commitments.”
He continues to grip my hand as if I’m still in danger of toppling. “Not getting much shut-eye, then.”
I shrug. “Enough.”
There’s that almost smile again. “Then you meant to fall asleep on the job?”
“Oh no! And I assure you it hasn’t happened before. The long days and nights just caught up with me and …” I make a face. “I only meant to rest my eyes.”
He peers nearer. “They’re bloodshot.”
Surprise, surprise. “Nothing a little Visine can’t remedy.” I pull my hand from his, retrieve my bag, and fish out a miniature bottle. “See? A full month’s supply.” Actually, more like a week’s, but that’s between me and Visine.
He frowns. “Are you holding up all right?”
“Sure.” Not.
He doesn’t seem convinced, and I’m warmed by his concern. And thrilled by the implications.
You do know, Clive, that Michael and I are no longer seeing each other?
Of course, his concern is probably more for whether or not I’ll bring in the job on time. “Don’t worry, everything’s under control.”
“Perhaps you ought to call in Dorian and Gray.”
“A step ahead of you. As of last week, they’re back on the job.”
“Good.”
“In fact …” I glance at my watch again. “They should be here soon.” Frustrated with the fuzzy edges, I shove a hand in my bag, pull out a daisy-bedecked case, and push my specs up on my nose.
Clive’s eyebrows take a jaunt up his brow. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you wear glasses.”
It’s been a while since you’ve seen me, period.
Though I’d been tempted to inquire into his absence, I was afraid my interest would get back to him.
I tap the bridge of my specs. “Good old standbys.”
“Then you’ve adjusted to contacts?”
“I have.”
He steps back and runs his gaze down me. “Anything new?”
“What?”
He gives my face the once- and twice-over. “Has your boyfriend determined you’re still not perfect?”
Oh. I consider the liposuction card that’s still lurking (must clean out my purse) and that I did succumb to microdermabrasion’s promise to erase some of the lines around my mouth, eyes, and forehead (one last hurrah before launching Operation: Perfect Faith).
“Sorry,” Clive misinterprets my musing, “I’m overstepping my bounds.”
And I should be offended, shouldn’t I? But I’m not. Just embarrassed by my vanity and the chunk of money it’s cost me.
As I struggle for a response and a way to work in my breakup with Michael without sounding obvious, silence creeps in … seeps in … begins to flood.
Then my watch beeps the hour, an unwelcome cue to get moving. Though I have every intention of doing so, out of my mouth pops, “I haven’t seen you for a few weeks.”
“Out of town.”
Just “out of town.” Nothing about the Mexican Riviera … the Bahamas … the Caribbean …
“Well, welcome back.” I adjust my bag on my shoulder. “I’d better get—”
“I’m impressed with what you’ve done.” Clive surveys the walls that have come to life in the intervening weeks.
“Thanks. Subtle enough?”
He looks at me. “If you’re asking whether or not I approve, I do.”
Whew! “Great. Well, I really need to get—”
“You’re incredibly talented, Kate.”
Is he stalling? I moisten my lips—a movement he follows. Perhaps I didn’t read too much into his near kiss. Maybe he is attracted to me.
Hey! You! Didn’t you swear off men ONCE AND FOR ALL?
Did I? I meant to, but did I actually say it? Did I—?
Oh, yeah—Belle.
“I’m glad you accepted the job,” Clive says.
“Thank you.”
And did I mention that I’m no longer dating—?
Pitiful! I do not need a man! And the sooner Clive Alexander and I part ways, the sooner I’ll believe it. So time to push off. Unfortunately, before I get to my next job, I’ll have to stop by the house for the dose of HRT I missed last night.
As I step past, Clive says, “Coffee?”
Absolutely! And … uh … have you heard that I finally broke it off with Michael—
I turn. “Sorry, but I have another commitment. Have a good day.”
“You’ll be back this afternoon?”
“Considering my late start, it’ll be closer to evening.” Meaning he’ll be long gone. “I’ll see you then.”
He will?
He smiles.
Oh no. Must stand firm. Must resolve to be unbelievably, inconceivably happy as a single. I can do it. Sure, I can.
“Bye.” I swing away.
But as I cross the room, I’m grateful that today—er, yesterday—was a hip-hugger day (paint splatters and all). In fact, I ought to toss out every last pair of those horrendously unflattering relaxed-fit jeans. And I will. Fortunately, I recently stumbled across an alternative to the seventy-dollar-a-pops (half the price and hardly a difference!).
Hmm. Maybe between jobs I can swing by the store and snatch up a few more pairs.
As I step into the winding corridor, I glance behind and find Clive watching me.
Definitely must increase my wardrobe …
I’ve become a junkie, as in vending machine cuisine. So what’s it going to be tonight?
I stare at the machine that boasts rows of snacks. The low-fat baked potato chips are a good choice, as is the low-carb protein bar, neither of which holds the appeal of the cinnamon roll or gourmet chocolate chip cookies. But I’ll be good—at least as good as good can be when good is starving. Thus, I pair the “naughty” gourmet cookies with the “nice” baked potato chips. Then, once more erring on the side of “good,” I choose bottled water.
Booty in hand, I turn and—
Hellooo Clive.
Having seen nothing of him since resuming work on the burn unit three hours ago, I’d accepted that he wasn’t going to show. Now here he is, giving rise to a wave of excitement reminiscent of a kiddie roller-coaster ride.
“Hello, Kate.” He frowns at my dinner.
Squashing the impulse to thrust my guilt-laden hands behind my back, I smile. “Well, you certainly have a penchant for appearing out of thin air.”
“Hardly thin air, as I’ve been watching you for several minutes.”
“Minutes?” I say, only to back up and latch on to what was surely a slip of the tongue. “Watching me? Why?”
Dismay flickers across his face, but he shrugs. “Curiosity.” He lifts a hand, and in it is a magazine. Changes.
“Oh.” There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, but I am.
“Adelphia left it on my desk.”
Adelphia what’s-her-name, who’s popped in several times these past weeks, taken a quick peek at my progress, and withdrawn. Was she reporting back to her absent “colleague”? Checking to make sure I was keeping it subtle?
“Adelphia saw mention of your work on the burn unit and thought I’d be interested.”
Groan. Interested in Kate Meadows looking her worst, more like it. Maybe she feels threatened? As if! Of course, Clive did almost kiss me …
I force my feet forward. “Not exactly Kate Meadows at her best.”
“I d
on’t know about that.”
I halt before Clive. “Then you didn’t notice the before picture?”
“Though it’s true that the after picture is more flattering and stays true to the formulaic makeover, there’s nothing wrong with the before.”
“Nothing wrong? Either you need glasses, or you want something from me.”
His mouth lifts. “And what might that be?”
The first thing that comes to mind is that he’s interested in picking up where he left off with the near kiss, but that’s probably wishful thinking, meaning it won’t make a hoot’s difference when he learns that I broke it off with Michael.
But then why is he here at this time of night? A voice speaks from the recesses of my gray matter—one that refuses to believe in being unbelievably, inconceivably happy as a singleton. Good point.
Of course, considering my day job, afternoons and evenings are really the only time for us to talk about the burn unit. Another good point.
Deciding to make light of the matter, I raise an eyebrow. “What do you want from me? Aha!” I tuck the chips, cookies, and bottled water into the crook of my arm and raise a finger. “If you think you’re going to get me to bring this job in ahead of schedule, think again.”
He laughs. And what a laugh! Warm and oozing with male hormones that make my spine threaten to take a running leap off my back.
“I assure you, I only meant to compliment you, Kate. Nothing ulterior.”
Really? Well then, in case you’re wondering, Michael and I are no longer an item.
He glances at the magazine. “So now the question of how you and Michael Palmier got together is answered.”
I almost startle at the realization that I’ve been handed the perfect opportunity to disavow the relationship. However, before I can spit out words so well-rehearsed they’re practically tattooed on my tongue, he raises his eyebrows at my armful. “Late-night snack?”
Snooze, you lose …
“Dinner.”
The teasing light in his eyes flickers. “That’s your dinner?”
The rebuke is there, and I feel like a teenager again. Grandmother fixed three squares a day and expected each to be the end-all until the next. Fine with me, at least until my teenage years, when girlfriends and boys came fully into play. Time developed a sort of fast-forward quality, and dinner was more often miss than hit. And so there were the late Friday and Saturday night forays into the refrigerator, where spoonfuls of peanut butter or cookie dough and potato chips tided me over until a hearty breakfast the next morning. Grandmother had not been happy, and she’d looked at me just the way Clive is right now.