“Besides, it’s pretty much fizzled out,” I say, dismissing their inquiring stares with a wave of my hand. “It’s been a while since we’ve even gone on a date.” Or made out in the audio booth . . .
“So then have you texted this Henry the Brit person?” Holly asks, smoothly moving the conversation away from Brady, and I give her a thankful smile.
“Oh, he’s British?” Bree asks, her brown eyes sparkling.
“Yes, I believe that was the only word Quinn used to describe him,” says Holly.
Thomas slaps a hand on the table in front of him. “Oh, right. ‘I’ve met a guy named Henry and he’s British,’” Thomas says, doing a terrible job of imitating me. I don’t actually sound like a southern grandma. I’m pretty sure.
Holly snorts. “I’m sure he has other qualities, right, Quinn? Like a face? Two arms? Or was his accent the only thing you noticed about him?” She angles her body toward me. She’s got a glass of red wine in her hand, her red hair in a low, perfectly coiffed side ponytail that hangs over her shoulder. She’s Logan-less tonight, which is an odd sight. She and her new beau have been together for nearly a month now and are practically joined at the hip. They’re a “we” now. As in: “We have dinner plans tonight” or “We are going to the grocery store” or “We need some alone time—can you not be a third wheel tonight, Quinn?” That last one was from Logan. He has very poor filtering skills, when he does talk—which isn’t often, thank goodness.
I smack my lips. “Yes, of course he has other qualities. He’s quite dashing.” I smile wistfully as I picture Henry with his dark-brown hair and those blue eyes of his. Our children would probably have blue eyes since they’d get them from both of us. Or not. I’m not exactly sure how genetics work. I’m also getting ahead of myself again . . .
“But have you texted him?” Thomas asks, leaning his elbow on the table, his chin resting on his hand. He’s got his lawyer face on.
I twist my lips to the side, contemplating how to answer this. “No, I haven’t texted him yet,” I finally say.
Holly scoffs, Thomas shakes his head in disappointment, and Alex just looks at me.
“Good for you, Quinn,” Bree says, an empty martini glass in her hand. “You’ve got to make him wait.”
I catch Alex rolling his eyes. Poor Alex. At one time I had a few tendrils of feelings for that lovely wavy brown hair and those bright-blue eyes of his, but that only lasted until those eyes found Bree and stayed there. And Bree wouldn’t know a good thing in front of her even if it walked up and slapped her across the face. Bree . . . with her messy bun and her flawless makeup-free skin. She makes the worst choices with men. And really, with life. I love her just the same.
“Exactly,” I say, giving a nod to Bree. “And it’s only been like two days.”
“Aren’t those rules all old school now?” Thomas says in the know-it-all tone I’ve come to know and sometimes hate. “Where’s the girl power? Where’s the feminism?”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”
“You know what I think?” Thomas says rhetorically. Because he’s not really asking. “I think you’re just chicken.”
I let my mouth drop, dramatically. “I’m not a chicken.”
“You are.” And then he clucks at me. Just one little “bok” like a chicken.
His attempt at trying to rile me only rankles a little. I am being a bit of a chicken. What if I text Henry and he doesn’t text back? What if he does but has had time to think about the girl covered in powdered sugar and has decided that it was a mistake to give me his number? What if I call, we go out, things click, we fall in love, I meet his parents, we go ring shopping, and then he decides I’m not really what he pictured for his life and he’s made a mistake and breaks my heart three months before our wedding? I mean, the last “what if” is exactly what happened to Holly. Of course, she’s happy now—with Logan. And that wouldn’t have come to be if she hadn’t had her heart broken by Nathan. Or if I hadn’t made her go on her honeymoon with a stranger as a feature for the news station. But that’s a whole other story I try not to bring up. I’m pretty sure she’s forgiven me by now. Hopefully.
Where was I? Oh, yes. Thomas thinks I’m a chicken, and he’s not totally wrong.
“Leave her alone, Thomas,” Holly says as Thomas is now sticking his elbows out, his hands on his sides, his chin jutting out like he’s about to peck me.
Thomas does stop, but only because the server approaches bringing a large tray of food with him. My stomach does a little jumping thing as the aroma of char-grilled burgers and fried chicken wafts my way. I’m the last to get served, and my excited stomach does a little drop. A tiny sad-sounding wah-wah from a trumpet comes to mind.
My friends’ plates are all full of wonderful, yummy, flavorful-looking food, and the salad that was just set in front of me with its lettuce, cucumbers, tomato, and diced cold chicken looks . . . well, it looks like I’d rather be fat.
Salad is my go-to order. I always get it. I went to this retreat thing last month and it was supposed to give me all the answers I’ve been looking for with food. It was going to be my answer to finally getting thin and staying there. But the camp ended up being a bust. I called it fat camp but it really wasn’t that—it was a Mind, Body, and Spirit retreat, and it cost me nearly a month’s pay. I’d been on the waiting list for a year. I wanted it to be the answer to everything. Instead, I was told the answers were all “inside me” and to “trust my own body” and other junk like that.
Listen, if I could trust my own body, I wouldn’t be carrying around this extra twenty pounds I can never get rid of. I realize that’s not really overweight to a lot of people, but it is to me. And it is to my mom. And it is to some of the butthead viewers who watch me do the midday news.
I’d probably be able to trust myself if I didn’t have so many outside sources critiquing me. That’s one of the nasty side effects of reporting the news. My bosses never say anything, but some of the viewers are just rotten. I’ve had to go completely incognito on social media to get away from them. I can’t stop the emails that come in, though. And there are plenty.
The worst offender is this person who goes by “Grace Is Amazing.” She has something to say every day. Always some biting comment. “Your dress is too tight.” “Who wears white after Labor Day?” “Your hair was a disaster.” Somehow, without my realizing it, she’s become the voice in my head. I can even hear her now: “Are you sure you should have that much dressing on your salad?”
I take a few bites of my salad but mostly push it around with my fork. I’ll probably do what I normally do: eat some of the salad and then go home and make myself something I’d rather eat. It’s ridiculous because I know not one of my friends would judge me if I ordered a burger. They might fall off their chairs with surprise since there’s an ongoing joke about my salads. But they wouldn’t judge me. I don’t know why I can’t just eat what I want in front of them.
Seize the cupcake; don’t settle for the kale. Well, crap. I think there are actually pieces of kale in this salad.