Bigger Things Page 2

  As if sensing their glance, the man looked their way. Jen shielded her face with her hand, and studied her food.

  “Stop looking! I don’t want him to think I’m remotely interested.”

  “You’re pathetic.”

  “Let’s consider the source on that one.”

  “Would you two please shut up? Everyone’s staring.”

  A few heads had turned and two teenagers were laughing, possibly at them, it was hard to tell. Hardly everyone, Jen thought.

  “I just don’t see why you won’t cut me some slack. Why the hell does it matter to you whether I’m with some guy or not?”

  “It doesn’t matter to me a bit. I couldn’t care less if you—”

  “Come on, you guys, come on. Don’t fight. Kyra, it’s fine for Jen to be single. Jen, it’s nice that Kyra has someone to love. Be happy for each other.”

  “Good grief, Chels. You treat us like kids. ‘Don’t fight, guys. Be nice now,’” Jen mimicked lightly.

  “Well, if you two wouldn’t act like adolescents—”

  “Jen, if you’d give people, including men, a chance, they would like you,” Kyra said. “That was true before, it’s true now.”

  “I’m sure.” Jen dismissed the compliment with the shake of her head, her face warm. “I know you’re just getting the last word in, but for what’s it worth, I meant the comment about your soul mates to be funny, but it came out bitchy. I’m sorry.”

  Chelsea muttered something about crazy friends, and let go of the strand of hair she’d been mangling.

  “Whatever.” Kyra shrugged. “I didn’t mean that thing about you hiding behind your weight either. I’m sorry.”

  “Now, that’s better.” Chelsea patted Kyra’s arm. When she was finally rewarded with a grudging smile, she added, “And stop pointing out how fabulous you think Ted is, or I’m going to let you live with him for a few months.”

  Jen and Kyra let out catcalls.

  “Oh, be quiet. Be quiet.”

  Kyra and Jen smirked, then Kyra disappeared to the lunch counter, returning shortly with a huge wedge of cheesecake topped with strawberries and chocolate.

  “Dessert,” Jen said in an exaggerated, dreamy voice.

  “Yes, Jen, that’s what they call this.”

  Jen laughed.

  “And just for the record,” Kyra said a few minutes later, licking a drop of chocolate from her finger, “any of the men I’ve loved could’ve been the one. Think about it. What if I chickened out, gave up, and missed out on the one who really was the one?”

  Jen and Chelsea exchanged a look.

  “What are we supposed to say to that logic?” Jen asked.

  “Absolutely nothing,” Chelsea agreed.

  “See, I’m right.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far—”

  Jen was interrupted by a muffled beeping sound coming from one of the purses. She groaned.

  “Is that you, Chels?”

  Chelsea nodded a bit sheepishly.

  “What is it this time? You need to have a drink? Go for a pee?” Jen asked.

  Chelsea shook her head. “You mock, but notice how I’m never the late one?” She silenced the alarm on her phone. “I’ve got to run and pick up the girls.”

  “Seriously? I thought Ted was going to get them today.”

  Chelsea tucked a wave of hair behind her ear and gave Jen an apologetic grimace. “Couldn’t. The girls have a dance recital, so he can’t work tonight. He asked if I’d grab them, so he can do a little more before he leaves for the evening.”

  Jen groaned. “That sucks. It’s not like you get out that often. So what are we going to do without her, Kyra?”

  “Well, actually . . .” Kyra studied her empty dessert plate.

  “No, are you kidding? You have to go too?”

  “I’m sorry. I thought Chelsea’d be staying longer. I accidentally made overlapping engagements.”

  “But we just got here! I turned down other plans because we were hanging out.”

  “I’m sorry, Jen. I just never get to see Jimmy during the day and since I was taking the whole afternoon off—”

  “You’re dumping me for James?” Jen picked up her napkin, scrunched it, then placed it on her dirty plate.

  “What does ‘James’ mean?”

  “Nothing, nothing. Forget it,” Jen paused. “Are we still on for Saturday though? Shopping for a whole new wardrobe? I can’t believe it’s my one-year anniversary. I’m going to own more than one pair of jeans again, imagine!”

  Chelsea blushed. Kyra tapped her pointer fingers together.

  “Volleyball tournament. And I said they could have friends sleep over. Ted’ll kill me if I desert him with them after harassing him to stay around more.”

  “Chamber of Commerce luncheon. Can we reschedule for Sunday?”

  “Well, I was going to go to church—”

  “Never mind, Jen. Sunday doesn’t actually work for me either, I just remembered. How about Monday?”

  “I have to work—”

  “Come on, Jen, please? You build websites at odd hours all the time. It’s not like Dave makes you punch a time clock. You work at home. Can’t you work Sunday instead? Church doesn’t last all day.” Kyra smiled with dimples at Jen, then looked to Chelsea for reinforcement. “Would you be able to come if it was Monday instead, Chels?”

  Chelsea fidgeted with her watchband. “I think so, I think so . . . but I feel bad about today. What are you going to do?”

  “Read for a bit, I guess,” Jen said, nudging her backpack with her foot. “Then hit the gym maybe.”

  Chelsea’s eye rested on Jen’s stuffed pack. “You brought your library with you as usual? Well, I don’t feel quite so bad then.”

  “Yes, that settles it,” Kyra said with finality. “Jen’s at eleven, Monday. It’ll be great, Jen. We’ll celebrate. It’ll be your day.”

  “Sure. Sounds good.”

  Chelsea squeezed Jen’s shoulder, her face wrinkling in another wordless apology, and then she and Kyra hurried to the door.

  Jen looked at her watch. A whole afternoon to kill, and then a whole evening. She couldn’t believe she’d turned down plans with Dave and Lana for . . . this. She tapped through some downloads on her e-reader. Can Man Live Without God—interesting question, but she wasn’t in the mood. A book about sugar addiction—ugh, definitely not. The latest Jodi Picoult? Maybe—no. She finally settled on a graphic novel. Soon she, an elderly couple, and a group of women around her own age were the only ones left in the restaurant. She read for a while, but stopped when she realized she’d read the same page twice and still couldn’t recall what it said.

  On the way out of the restaurant, a display of chips caught her eye. Corn chips. Jen looked at them for a long moment, then reached into her bag and rummaged for change.

  2

  Jen dead-bolted the door and made her way across her condo’s tiny living room, shoes still on. Sighing with something a lot like relief, she sank into her chocolate-brown leather couch.

  She lay there a few minutes, eyes closed, breathing deeply. Then she lifted her legs and pushed off each running shoe. They landed with dull thuds on the leopard-print rug. She ran her hands through her sweaty hair and shivered, chilled by the perspiration drying on her body.

  “I should change,” she said to the dark room, but didn’t get up. Instead she pulled a fleece blanket out from where it was wedged into the back of the cushions, tucked it around herself, and reached for her phone.

  “You have two messages,” a robotic voice informed her. “To hear your messages—” Jen pressed 1-1. Her mother’s voice replaced the robot’s.

  “Give me a call, Jen, will you? It’s been too long.” A pause. “Maybe we could have brunch on Sunday? Do you still eat brunch? Okay, never mind. We can have coffee. Okay, call me—bye.” There was another pause, then dead air.

  “Hey.” Jen sat up abruptly, and sucked in a sharp breath. “Jen, it’s Jay. I saw you the other day at
Book Binge. Babe, you look great. I made my way toward you, but then you were gone. You must not’ve seen me.” Of course I saw you, idiot. That’s why I was gone. “So anyway, I’ve been thinking a lot lately. It’s been almost a year. A lot has changed.” Yeah, like your wife finally dumped you. Kyra told me. “We should get together and talk.” And there should be world peace. Too bad neither are going to happen. “Sooooo, call me, number’s the same or I’ll call back later.” Thanks for the warning. Jen punched the pillow beside her, hard. Happy Anniversary, Jen. You have so much to celebrate, she thought. Tears were coming, so she decided to take a shower. It might camouflage them.

  *

  It was hard to believe that another weekend was over, another workweek begun. Jen dropped her heavy shopping bags inside the door and flexed her aching fingers. White lines marked her hands where the plastic bag handles had bit into her flesh. At least the four flights of stairs were good for her butt. She had a big glass of water and moved to start putting things away.

  Midnight-blue silk shimmered in its tissue wrap at the top of one of the bags. Jen smiled at the memory of how the gown had clung in all the right places for once, and how her leg looked in the thigh high slit.

  Shopping for clothes was strange now. It felt more like dressing a doll than dressing herself. Everything fit. Anything she tried. She could just pick a size off the rack. That simple. That unembarrassing. A salesclerk even pooh-poohed the dress size Jen requested. “Goodness, dear. That would never fit you.” For a moment, it was a flashback to BBT (bigger body times), then the woman continued and Jen’s spine relaxed. “You’re at least a size smaller than that.” And, to Jen’s amazement, she was. Two sizes smaller, in fact.

  Jen closed her closet and looked at the shopping bags still sitting on her bed. They were stuffed full again, but now with clothes to give away. She moved them to the front door, so she wouldn’t forget to drop them off at the Salvation Army and went into the kitchen. Light glowed off the soft orange walls.

  “You look like a carrot in here,” her mother had said when Jen showed off her handiwork during a phase of dieting that had her repainting every room in her condo to stave off munching. Jen smiled at the bright white border of daisies painted helter-skelter two feet down from the ceiling. She loved this room. Arming herself with a 64-ounce bottle of water, an apple and some cheese, Jen went into her office.

  Originally, her office was the dining room, but she didn’t need that kind of formality—the kitchen nook worked fine for her needs—so she’d laid maple laminate flooring and stuck her multiple desks and bookshelves in it.

  Three monitors glowed at her. She settled into her well-worn chair, rolled to the newest computer, and clicked to open her mail. A chime sounded. She had four new messages.

  Jen skimmed the first message and made a mental note to call Dave later and tell him the New To You franchise wanted an online shopping site.

  Uninterested in another credit card, Jen deleted the second message. Rolling her eyes, she trashed the third message as well. No, she didn’t need a bigger penis.

  The fourth subject heading looked like spam too, and she was about to hit delete again when she saw the sender’s name.

  She opened the e-mail. “Dear Red-haired Babe.” Red-haired babe? She frowned at the e-mail and read it again.

  From: InTinyTown

  To: jar@yahoo.ca

  Subject: Too Good To Be True?

  Dear Red-haired Babe,

  You sound too good to be true, but I am interested in going for coffee. It’s actually doable because I’m only two hours away.

  You might find I’m not your kind of guy though. I’m pretty laid-back, just your average Joe. I do like to do new things and I’m not afraid of a challenge, but I’m not really sure what you meant when you said that. If you want to e-mail back and forth for a bit first or make plans to meet right away, I’m open to either.

  Thanks for making contact.

  Cheers,

  Greg Hart (That’s my real name. What’s yours?)

  Feel free to e-mail again soon? What the hell? Jen leaned back in her chair, apple and cheese forgotten.

  B5 – Mainstream; Your Entertainment & Lifestyle Weekly

  DEAR FAT GIRL: I’m a concerned mom

  Questions, Dreams, Raves,

  Rants and Fantasies?

  Express them and have them

  responded to by our experts!

  ASK MAINSTREAM

  Dear Fat Girl,

  My ten-year-old daughter is a very big girl. We’ve been fighting her weight problem for years.

  She’s 5’3 and 110 lbs, but she resists all my attempts to help her. Her belly sticks out and so does her bottom. Even her legs are chunky. Everyone knows fat girls are miserable. I want her to be happy and healthy. What can I do?

  Sincerely,

  Very Concerned Mom

  Dear Concerned Mom,

  The number of people who write to me about someone else’s problem when they’re the ones with the problems, never fails to amaze me.

  Have you heard of puberty? I’m assuming, yes, since you have a child. Apparently your brain was shortchanged of growth hormones during yours.

  This is for all parents, not just you. The pot belly so many of you are concerned about in your under ten-year-olds (What is wrong with you people?) is a normal developmental phenomenon. Children do not have the strong wall of abdominal muscles that adults do. Hence, the swaybacks and pot bellies.

  Puberty, the onset of sexual maturity, usually occurs anywhere from 8-13 in girls, 10-16 in boys. Both genders grow rapidly, gain weight and experience changes in body composition, especially in the quantity and distribution of fat and muscle. Girls’ bodies build up fat as they develop womanly contours; their hips get wider and breasts develop. Arms, legs, hands, and feet get bigger. Your child is 5’3; 110 pounds is not obese.

  But enough, this isn’t Sex Ed! Get yourself a book about child development and stop undermining your daughter’s value and self-worth. Do you really want her to grow up believing that her whole identity is tied up in her body?

  Do I sound harsh? I think I sound harsh. But love like yours creates eating disorders. Get help with your own body issues and stop hurting your kid.

  Very Sincerely,

  Fat Girl

  P.S. Thanks for letting me in on everyone’s secret. I had no idea I was miserable.

  3

  Jen layered tomato, cucumber, sprouts and hummus on nutty, whole grain bread and felt glad her back was turned to her mother.

  “To tell you the truth, Jen, I’m sick of your attitude. You’re a very pretty girl now. You have your own condo and a decent job. You come from a good family. . . . You’re smart.”

  Nice, Mom. Put brains way down on the priority list.

  “You need to stop moping, stop being so snooty, and stop playing hard to get.”

  In other words, grab the first man who’ll have you.

  Jen’s mom stopped to take a breath just as Jen waggled her finger seriously at the pickle jar.

  “What are you doing? You’re a woman, Jennifer, not a teenager. You’d think for one minute, you could listen to me and stop imitating me like a child.”

  Jen moved toward the table, plates in hand, and stuck out her tongue. “Sorry, is that better? I’ve heard your patter my whole life. The replay gets old fast.”

  Marie waved her hand as if to brush away Jen’s comment and squinted at her plate. “What is this? Surely you didn’t find those ingredients in my fridge?”

  “You make them sound like toxic sludge or something.” Jen plunked down on a chair. “And no—I brought them with me.”

  Her mother sat down too. “When I said we’d have lunch, I assumed you’d know that meant I’d have food for you.”

  And should I have assumed you were going to cook it too? “I had a craving,” Jen said aloud. And I can’t eat that processed garbage you call cheese and the white glue masquerading as bread. It still boggled Jen’s mind that
with a mother like Marie, she’d ever managed to have a weight problem in the first place. Where had she learned that food could be good?

  Marie snorted. “No wonder you’re having cravings, you look half starved to death, like you’re an-or-ex-ic or something.” She picked up her sandwich, looking as if it might bite her, instead of the other way around.

  The anorexic comments were newish, added when Jen first hit her goal weight, and was, for the first time since she was eleven, lighter than her mother. Jen didn’t know what was more annoying—the accusation or the fact that Marie always enunciated each syllable of “anorexic” separately.

  “God, Marie, it’s not a competition,” Jen’s dad had muttered recently at a brunch where Marie spent fifteen minutes comparing and contrasting Jen’s measurements with her own. His words made Jen blush, her mother livid.

  “You think I don’t know that? What are you talking about anyway, Ed? As if you know anything about mother/daughter relationships. You just sit in your chair, head in the sand—”

  “Mom, you look great,” Jen had intervened as usual. “You’re gorgeous.” Her mother raised her eyebrows, but finally let herself be soothed.

  “Well, I’m not bad for an old bag. Frankie still can’t believe I have children Sam and Diane’s age.” Frankie was Marie’s hairstylist. She tipped him well.

  Jen grimaced at the memory of that brunch and forced it from her mind.

  “I’m not anorexic, Mom. Not even close.”

  “Well . . .” Marie gave Jen a once over with her mascara-spiked eyes. “I guess you’re not, but you’ve lost enough weight. You have to be careful. If you lose too much, your mood will suffer. You’ll be one of those irritable skinny minis who never eat and can only talk about how many calories they’ve burned. No man likes that.”

  Jen almost choked on the bite of sandwich she’d just taken.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” Jen mumbled through her mouthful of sprouts. “It’s just my whole life you’ve been saying I need to do something about my weight or I’ll be miserable and alone; now you’re telling me I should watch out or I’ll end up a miserable skinny person, alone. Can I ever win with you?”