My dad says nothing, and the room is quiet as we continue to work on the cabinet while my mom is off looking for whatever diet book she’s got for me. I wonder if he sees it—the disappointment I feel every time she brings up a new diet. Maybe it’s not on his radar. Maybe he feels the same way as my mom. That I could stand to lose a few pounds.
When we were younger, people would comment on Tessa’s looks and say things like how pretty she was and that she should be in pageants. I was more unfortunate looking as a child, needing to grow into my big blue eyes and my even bigger, toothier smile. My mom would often tell people how funny I was. “Tell them a joke, Quinn,” she’d say. As if it was important for people to see me for something other than my awkward toothy grin.
I eventually grew into my face, and people would comment about what a lovely family we were and that we should be models for stock photos. My mother gushed at the compliments. I think it was her dream to be that picture-perfect family. But then puberty happened, and so did the extra pounds.
At first she’d make comments, telling me that I didn’t need to have seconds. Or giving me a look when I went to the pantry for a snack. Then it became a “let’s do this diet together” thing, with her saying she needed to lose a few pounds, too, which was never true. Tessa got her naturally thin body from my mom. Then she’d have me write down everything I ate and we would discuss it later. After college, when I’d gained the freshman fifteen, the books started.
She comes back into the garage, a gust of hot air entering the space with her. She hands me the book. The cover is mostly white with a plain red title that says, The Magic of Intermittent Fasting.
She smiles at the book and then up at me. “I was just talking to Roxanne about this. You know my one friend—the chubby one? She’s lost all this weight by only eating like five hours a day or something. It’s all the rage right now.”
“Thanks, Mom. I’ll take a look at it,” I say, walking over to where I put my keys and setting the book beside them. I’ll take it home and put it on the shelf with the other twenty or so dieting books she’s given to me.
She smiles brightly at me. I love my mom, I do. Her heart is in the right place; I believe it is. I know she wants what’s best for me. I just think her idea of what’s best for me may not actually be what’s best for me.
I didn’t even tell her about the retreat. I didn’t want her to be disappointed if it didn’t work, if I came back not having lost any weight. I was going to tell her after the fact. Maybe surprise her and see if she noticed. She would have. I know that like I know Jerry will never get rid of his comb-over. Thank goodness I didn’t tell her. I didn’t lose anything except the notion that diets work.
Seize the cupcake . . . don’t settle for the kale. For a moment I picture bringing Henry to meet her, with that jawline of his and that heart-stopping dimple. I wonder if, when she saw that someone like him wanted to date someone like me, just the way I am, all extra twenty pounds of me, she’d see me differently.
“There you all are,” Tessa says as she walks into the garage. She lets a moth in with her, and I watch it as it flies directly to the overhead lamp above me, flittering around the light.
“Hey, Tess,” I say, going back to the door I’ve been working on.
“Finally fixing that thing?” Tessa asks, her tone indicating that she’s just making conversation. She’s never been interested in my furniture restoration. We have very different tastes. Tessa and I are different in many ways. She’s on the shorter, petite side; I’m on the larger Neanderthal side. We have similar faces, though. Most people can tell we’re sisters at first glance.
“Yep. Wanna help?”
“Can’t,” she says, looking at her nail beds. “I’ve got too much work to do.” She turns her attention to my mom. “Can you help me with the printer, Mom?”
“Sure, sweetie,” my mom says. She looks to me, and then her eyes drift over to the book. Obviously she wants to say more about it, to try to convince me to read it. I’ve never been more thankful for Tessa and our lack of a sisterly bond.
They leave, and my dad and I go back to working in companionable silence. A lot of words hang in the air. It almost feels like my dad will say something. But he doesn’t. And I’m grateful for it.
Chapter 7
I hate Thomas.
I called him on my way over to meet up with Henry, and when I told him that it was our third date, Thomas went on and on about how third dates are the make-or-break dates. The one where you talk about the big stuff. To see if you are really compatible. Like he was the world’s foremost expert on the subject. I don’t know the last time Thomas went on a date, much less a third one, so what does he know?
Except now, in a black faux leather booth, sitting across from Henry, in a modern-looking Japanese restaurant, a spread of different kinds of sushi between us, I feel ridiculously nervous. Not just because of Thomas, but because after talking to him, I realized that if this is a big date—the make-or-break kind—then I need to come clean about the work thing. I need to be honest with Henry. And I’m worried that after he finds this out, it will be over. Done. Kaput. I’ll never see that dimple again . . . or get to run my hand through that thick dark-brown hair of his. I was hoping to do just that tonight. And get more than just one chaste kiss in front of my apartment complex.
If only I could stop my pits from spontaneously sweating. I’ve got the cold sweats.
“You okay?” Henry asks. He’s holding his chopsticks, hovering over a spicy yellowtail roll, a concerned look on his face.
“Yeah,” I say and then swallow back a sick feeling crawling up my throat. “Great. Super.” Gah.
“Are you going to eat?”
“Totally,” I say, picking up my chopsticks. “I was just wondering which one to tuck in with.” I give him a half smile.
Henry chuckles, and I get the idea from the timbre of his voice and the “Aren’t you cute?” look on his face that I said that wrong.
He grabs a piece of the roll and eats it in one bite. I grab one and gingerly swirl it around in some soy sauce, my belly feeling too full of butterflies to really want to eat any of it.
Henry sets his chopsticks down next to his plate. He weaves his fingers, leaning them on the table in front of him. His look is serious, like he means business. My stomach flip-flops, my heart starts thumping in my chest. The piece of sushi forgotten.
“I got the job,” he says.
“You did?” I say, my heart now switching directions, moving away from cardiac arrest and more toward a joyful, happy feeling.
“I did. So that means I’m moving here.”
“That’s amazing.” My cheeks start to ache from the pressure my upturned lips are currently putting on them. “Does that mean you can tell me where you’re working now?”
He twists his lips to the side. “’Fraid not. Not yet, at least. But soon, I promise.”
I feel the erratic pace of my heart begin to slow down. His promise to tell me means he’s anticipating that there will be more time together. More time for . . . whatever this is.
“So,” he says.
“So,” I echo.