by Elaria Ride
It wasn’t until I moved on with my life (both figuratively and literally) that I realized how fucked up environment was. During senior year, I got a full ride scholarship to a fairly prestigious university 3,000 miles away, graduated as the valedictorian, and moved the hell out of that toxic household. Leaving home hadn’t scared me at all, mostly because I’d been curious to see who I actually was without my overbearing mother.
Thankfully, the person I found pleased me.
I discovered that when I was away from my mother’s taunts, I didn’t binge eat, feel terrible about myself, or constantly compare myself to everyone else. I made an even wider circle of friends than I’d had in high school — ones who accepted me exactly as I was. I enjoyed a rich social life filled with movie nights and parties and a bit of studying in between.
I also realized — or perhaps solidified — that I really don’t care about having a romantic relationship just for the sake of it. I’d enjoyed flirting with the occasional boy here and there, and I’m pleased to say that I have a few hookups under my belt. What I’m not pleased to say is that these all happened (as my mother predicted) “with the lights off.” Honestly, though, I attribute that more to the college circumstances than anything else; hooking up in a dorm is fraught with roommate complications — and the dudes I’d been with hadn’t complained!
All-in-all, college taught me to be content with who I was — and around this time, I accepted that fat is a positive thing. Still, my mother had nearly fainted when I’d come home one summer, announced that I was majoring in Forestry, and shared that my life’s ambition was to one day become a senior park ranger.
To any other parent, this would have seemed like the obvious career path for a child who’d spent her whole life outside, but Mom isn’t any other parent. Instead of congratulating me, she’d just started in with probing questions about raising a family.
But by then, I found I finally had the strength to cut her off at the pass — and for me? This was huge. I finally told her, point blank, that my choices were none of her business. And to my surprise, she’d finally agreed.
Since then, our relationship has improved, but I still don’t think my mom actually ‘gets it.’ My father and my siblings have more or less learned to keep out of it, but deep down, I can tell they have some critical thoughts of their own.
In retrospect, these crazy family experiences are probably why I love the outdoors so much. I crave the quiet stillness, the way you can feel nature growing around you, the way everything develops exactly as it should — without pressure from the outside to conform to any specific bullshit rules. Being in the wilderness has always made me feel like I’m part of something bigger, like I’m contributing to something more important than myself.
As it turns out, Biggal Mountain is perfect — in more ways than one. Upon my arrival, I immediately noticed that most women on the mountain are… plus-sized. Just like me. It had been pretty damn shocking to go from a placement where I was largely ignored to a small town where I’ve actually turned heads while I’m walking down the street. Me!
Still, I’ve never received an offer I couldn’t refuse. A couple of dudes have hit on me, but I haven’t seen the point. They’re hot, sure… but if I’m being honest? Asher’s hotter. And as I said before, I’m fat, happy, and single: it will take a lot more than a random dude on the street to take any of those three things away from me.
I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished. Starting fresh on Biggal Mountain forced me to gather a new type of courage — and I’ll be damned if I let Nick’s grudge impede my happiness. I just hope that we can both put our weird differences aside to focus on that something bigger.
So with that, I march towards the visitor’s center entrance, EnviroBucket clanging against my knees. As soon as I take a few steps, though, a nasty squelching sound from my boots stops me in my tracks. Blegh. I’d almost forgotten that I’m soaked with coffee. Better to get this wardrobe change taken care of before I even attempt to do the salting.
I head out to my car (and Charles), shuddering as a gust of cool air shoots straight through my drenched clothing. The weather reports weren’t kidding about temperatures dropping; it definitely seems like we’re gonna get some precipitation tonight! I only hope I can get out of here in time to avoid the worst of it.
I set the bucket down on the ground and pop open my trunk, viewing the contents with trepidation. This ‘alternative outfit’ has been bunched in the corner for the past six months. To be frank, it’s not my style — and not just because I rarely dress up. My mother purchased it for me before I moved out here, which I guess explains why I want nothing to do with it. The blouse is white with a bird pattern (a little too on-the-nose for a park ranger), the slacks have some tummy-control-blah-blah nonsense, and the shoes have some heel height, which I’m not a fan of, either.
But right now? This frumpy-ass getup is the only thing separating me from smelling like coffee for the rest of the day. So with a little flair, I close my trunk, vowing to live by a line from one of my favorite reality shows.
This isn’t an ideal circumstance… but I will absolutely make it work!
4
Asher
Nick is a weirdo… but unfortunately for me, he comes with the job.
As promised, the two of us are getting breakfast before the start of our shift. We’re crammed into a booth in Mercy’s Diner, which is about fifteen minutes away from the park. Well, I’m crammed, anyway; at 6′4″, fitting comfortably is a distant fantasy, almost everywhere I go.
Nick’s probably 5′5″ on a good day, so he fits in the booth well enough, but because he’s Nick, he’s generally just an ass. For no reason I know of. Today, he’s choosing to express his discontent with life by shooting me these mutinous glares as he tucks into his French toast.
I sigh and take another sip of my coffee, reminding myself (yet again) that Nick comes with the job.
Over a hundred years ago, our great-great-grandfathers (Alessandro Bosco and Alfonso Ricci) settled what is now the Village of Biggal Mountain. As legend has it, the two of them immigrated from Northern Italy and built up the entire town on a $5 loan. Our great-great-grandfathers then established a successful lumber business — and in doing so, they earned the type of money that could keep your family comfortable for generations with a little bit of budgeting and a lot of hard work.
Oh, and in case you didn’t know, there’s one thing the inhabitants of Biggal Mountain are famous for that doesn’t involve lumber at all. From as far back as my great-great grandparents, every male (and non-straight female) has had a strong preference for curvy women. Or fat women. Or BBWs — although that one is sliding out of favor as the years progress. No matter the term, though, each generation has shared a commonality since my ancestors settled the mountain: we’re into bigger women.
This means that the bigger girls in school are the most popular — which I’m told is the opposite of how life functions elsewhere.This also means that most couples become high school sweethearts. If this monogamous mindset isn’t for you, you head out and don’t look back. I’m one of the few exceptions to the happily-ever-afters around town. I might technically live on Biggal Mountain, but Bachelorville would be a more fitting title for my property.
Happily-ever-after also hadn’t happened for the Ricci-Bosco partnership, all those years ago. This business partnership worked seamlessly for a while, but in the 1930s, our families ran into a snag: My great-grandfather started noticing displaced wildlife running amok in town, and saw the need to shift business practices to protect animal habitats. Back in those days, there was very little to stop random people from approaching (and harassing) wildlife — and most of the time, these people were both woefully misinformed and horribly disrespectful.
I’ve heard reports from as recently as the 1970s of people doing absolutely moronic things. Like attempting up-close photos with elk. Or putting a bear cub in the backseat of a car to ‘keep him warm until his mom showed up.’ It
was probably clear to everyone involved that certain regulations were necessary to maintain the balance between lumber and life.
Apparently, Nick’s great-grandfather disagreed with this philosophy. He doubled-down on the importance of profits, and this drove a wedge in the Bosco/Ricci partnership. By the time Nick’s grandfather inherited the business, our families were barely on speaking terms. The Boscos had begun using safer lumber practices in less-inhabited wilderness, but the Riccis were driven by profit potential in already decimated areas.
For all intents and purposes, Bosco-Ricci Lumber was already operating as two separate businesses — and they might have simply split ways and become two businesses if Nick’s grandfather hadn’t also been a notorious drunkard.
Apparently, Nick’s grandfather’s drinking became such a huge issue that it affected the business. At one point, my grandfather finally put his foot down: the Riccis could either accept a buy-out, or the Boscos would take them to court. Nick’s grandfather accepted the first option, which was probably the smartest thing he ever did.
I wish this story had a happier ending for the Ricci family. I’d like to tell you they accepted the buy-out money, moved away, and lived happily ever after.
But because this is real life, things didn’t turn out like that.
The buy-out money could have been budgeted to last... but sadly for Nick, that just wasn’t in the cards. Like his father before him, Nick’s old man was a drunkard — but he was also a serial philanderer.
I was young when the scandal of Dominic Ricci’s infidelity came out, but because Biggal Mountain is so damn small, I’d still grown up hearing all about it. According to gossip, Dominic’s cheating was only discovered when his wife contracted herpes — which apparently he’d picked up during one of his many affairs.
Sadly for Nick, his mother hadn’t been able to deal with any of that. Following the scandal, she’d been so mortified into a mental breakdown. As far as I know, she spent the rest of her life in a mental health facility — leaving Nick (and his older sister Anastasia) with their dad.
As it turns out, drunken cheaters aren’t great parents. Social services removed Nick and Ana from the household a few months later, and for the next twelve years, they bounced around to different foster homes, both in and away from the Biggal Mountain community.
Still, my father has always harbored a soft spot for any member of the Ricci family. During my childhood, Nick and Anastasia had always spent holidays with us, regardless of where they were living. The second Nick turned 18, though, they’d both vanished into the sunset, leaving any trace of Biggal Mountain behind them.
I’m told that this about-face is common for foster kids, but I think it cut my parents harder than they wanted to admit. Mom and Dad both harbor guilt over how Nick and Ana ended up. It didn’t surprise me to learn they’d contacted him after Dominic died of cirrhosis five years ago.
What had surprised me, though, was that my dad expected me to hire Nick at the park… and that he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. Conveniently, one of our part-time aides was retiring around the time Dominic passed; my dad had seen this as a perfect opening. He’d insisted I hire Nick for that position — despite the fact that Nick has no park experience, doesn’t care about nature (or the environment), and has openly stated that he’s only working at the park ‘to make it rain’ at the strip-club the next town over.
Nick only has one quality that makes him good at his job: he’s anal-retentive. For some reason, the dude loves rules and regulations — more than anyone else I’ve ever known. I guess he thought this gig would be a great way to exert his control-freak dreams, but at least he always shows up and does what he’s supposed to do.
Unfortunately, he’s an ass while he does it.
Still, I have little choice in the matter of Nick’s job placement. Out here on Biggal Mountain, what the Bosco family says, goes.
Whenever I mention that Nick isn’t a great fit, my dad reminds me that Nick’s predecessors had owned half the mountain at one point. I usually retort with how Nick could just as easily find a position with Sylvie or Finn (my twin siblings, who own wineries) — but this suggestion is usually followed with swift kicks under the table from both Sylvie and Finn, who don’t want to work with Nick any more than I do.
So yeah.
Here I am, a 35-year-old man who has lived on his own for over a decade… but still getting bossed around by dear old dad.
None of this mattered to me until Autumn arrived, though. If you’d asked me on June 30th, I would have told you I was perfectly content with my job and had no qualms whatsoever.
But then came Autumn.
And my attraction to Autumn.
And my dreams about Autumn.
Before I knew it, I was finding a laundry list of complaints about this place — Nick chief among them. Of course, there were other issues, like the excessive red tape and bureaucracy: the NNS is run by a bunch of elected officials who rarely set foot on nature preserves unless they’re conducting inspections.
Still, if I want to continue to get the meager funding that keeps our lights on, I have to play by their rules — and it goes without saying that these rules include not having sex with employees.
Truth be told, that’s probably the most valid rule they have. The rest of the regulations run the gamut from being irritating to downright dangerous. Take this morning, for instance. If Autumn were to follow strict regulations, she’d be forced to slosh around in wet boots all day. If she’d had to scale a mountain or hike a steep path, she could easily lose her footing in those ill-fitting shoes.
Practicality doesn’t matter to the NNS, though. Red tape is the name of the game.
Over the past six months, I’ve spent increasing amounts of time researching how to open a private preserve, but I know that’s a dream few ever achieve. Owning a private nature preserve would require fundraising and networking and hobnobbing, and to be honest, the mere thought of that shit makes me miserable. I’m really not a social dude.
That being said, I love most parts of this job — but the arbitrary rules and the extent of the Bosco influence bug me from time to time.
In the meantime, I’ve started documenting every weird thing Nick does. When and if I fire him, I’ll have ample evidence of wrongdoing. Like I said, though, he always shows up — which would be the most fireable transgression. It’s hard to record stuff like ‘gives me a creepy vibe’ and ‘completely disregards manners’.
Since Autumn’s been hired, though, Nick’s gotten weirder. It’s like he sees her as competition, or maybe he feels threatened that she’s more qualified. This makes no sense, because I’d bet dollars to donuts the dude doesn’t care about the job as much as the rules — but whatever. Being petty isn’t a crime, even if it’s a stupid way to live your life.
As if on cue, Nick takes a loud slurp from his coffee and slams the cup down. He spreads his arms on the bench seat and gives me an appraising stare.
“So,” he starts, wagging his eyebrows. “What did I interrupt this morning?”
I give him a blank stare as Automatic Asher powers up. “Nothing.”
It’s the truth — even if it’s a partial-truth; nothing had technically… transpired. Even if I’d been about ready to abandon all professionalism and pull her body close to mine, and —
“That blush seems like more than nothing,” Nick says, interrupting my thoughts as a nasty smirk spreads across his face. “It seems like something.”
I shrug, refusing to rise to the bait. I’ve spent years ignoring taunts from my siblings; I’m not sure why he thinks I’ll respond to this.
But then Nick does something beyond the pale, and I instantly regret bringing him to breakfast in the first place. Without breaking eye contact, his grin broadens into a full-on leer.
And he begins to sing.
“Autumn and Asher, sitting in a tree,” he starts, running his tongue over his lips. “F-U-C-K-I—”
“—That’s enoug
h!” I cut him off firmly, my voice coming out both louder and deeper than I’d intended. My eyes narrow as I cross my arms over my chest. Insulting me is one thing, but bringing Autumn into this is too much.
Unfortunately, this is exactly what Nick was looking for: Evidence that he’d provoked me.
He leans back, not embarrassed in the least. “Well, well, well,” he drawls. “Looks like I’ve finally discovered Asher’s weak spot.”
My fist clenches at my side, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing as much. “Nick,” I say, pleased that my voice has remained hard and cold. “I’m not sure why you think it’s appropriate to make sexual jokes. Is this something I need to report to the NNS?”
A flicker of fear crosses Nick’s face — but it immediately fades into smarm again.
“You wouldn’t dare,” he taunts, his yellow teeth glinting in the overhead fluorescents. “Because then I’d have to report your chubby-chasing ass!”
And with that, I almost lose my damn mind. Almost.
You see, Nick knows better. He isn’t a typical arrogant frat boy making a callous dig. He was more or less raised here. The women in his family are big girls. His mother’s big. He knows how wholly disrespectful it is to body-shame anyone around me: he just doesn’t give a shit.
I also know that Nick is fishing for something. He’s deliberately trying to piss me off. Just like with my siblings, I refuse to let him win.
I down the rest of my coffee just as the waitress approaches — which provides the perfect chance to turn the tables, just a little.
“We don’t fat-shame,” I announce, loud enough for the waitress to hear. I feel her pause beside our table as Nick recoils from the deep tenor of my voice.