Good Luck with That Read online

  And the longer we talked, the less I wanted him to remember. The shame of my less-than-ideal weight drowned out everything else from that time. I tried to talk myself out of that mind-set and failed.

  “Would you like to have dinner with me sometime?” Evan asked. “I work in the city, but I’d be happy to come up here, if that’d be easier.”

  “I go to the city all the time,” I said. “My family lives in Chelsea.” The best part of my family, anyway.

  “Can I call you, then? I hate to cut the night short, but I have an early flight to DC tomorrow.” He smiled, sure of the answer, as one would be when one was a scion of a great American family, follically and dentally blessed.

  “That would be great.” We exchanged phones, typed in our numbers, and Evan said he’d call me tomorrow. Then he left.

  Marley popped over the second he was gone. “Oh, my God, he was so cute! Tell me you like him! Tell me!”

  I blinked a few times to clear my head. Definitely wouldn’t be finishing that third drink. “I like him,” I said.

  “Then why do you look like Admiral just barfed all over your bed?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s . . . he was nice. He was really nice. The thing is, we went to law school together, and he didn’t recognize me.”

  She sat down. “Oh.”

  “But that’s okay, right?”

  “Sure! It’ll click the next time he sees you. You only talked for a couple minutes.”

  More than that, but she had a point.

  “The list is working, isn’t it?” she said happily. “Camden bought me a drink. First time ever.”

  “Yeah, I got a drink, too.” Two, actually. “We can check that off, I guess.” I smiled. After all, I couldn’t fault Evan for not recognizing me, right? It had been a long time. Maybe I really did look different.

  As I left, one of the FDNY members jumped up to open the door for me. “Have a good night,” he said, smiling. He looked like Thor.

  “Thank you,” I said belatedly. The night air was cool on my hot face, and I was glad to be walking the five blocks home.

  I shouldn’t be distressed. No. I should be the opposite.

  I knew better than to believe that exchanging numbers meant an actual date, but something had happened tonight. Evan Kennedy asked me out. Thor held the door for me. A butcher had sat down and unburdened himself—not quite as fun as the other encounters, but still a new experience.

  Three men had noticed me. One may have just been instinctively polite (Thor), but the butcher and Evan . . . they had seen me. It could’ve been argued that Thor would’ve held the door no matter what my weight, but I had no evidence that was true. Even taking Thor out of the equation, I strongly suspected that Beck the Butcher would not have asked me to come home with him if he’d met me seventy-five pounds ago. And I knew beyond a shadow that Evan would not have asked me out seventy-five pounds ago, because he hadn’t.

  I wasn’t fat anymore. That was a good thing, to quote Martha Stewart.

  It just didn’t feel so good.

  CHAPTER 11

  Dear Other Emerson,

  I fell off the wagon. I’m sorry.

  It wasn’t really my fault. I had ten good days. Ten! In a row! That’s a record, I think. You saw me, right? I was eating healthy and taking walks. I was thinking about you and all the beautiful clothes you wear, how you stride through the airport, how people look at you and wonder if you’re an actor or a really chic senator. No matter what, they know you’re important.

  I took walks. I kept my food diary. I didn’t cheat once. The diet literature said I was guaranteed to lose weight. Guaranteed.

  I know weight is just a number (pause for laughter . . . when you weigh more than three hundred pounds, it’s a helluva lot more than a number). They say it’s how you feel, your energy level, how your clothes fit. But I wear dresses or skirts all the time. Yes, they cost a lot. There’s a lot of fabric here. Jeans, please. I haven’t worn jeans since fat camp.

  That was the best summer. I should give Georgia and Marley a call. I wonder how much they weigh these days. Georgia called a while back and told me how she had to have her picture taken for the school where she’s working, and how weird it felt to smile when you HATE having your picture taken because you’re fat. I know you don’t know what we’re talking about, Other Emerson—clearly, you could model. You don’t have to worry about it looking as if you don’t have a chin—or even worse, like you have three.

  I guess I’m putting off what I really need to tell you.

  I gained weight on my diet. And I don’t look even a tiny bit slimmer. In fact, I’ve never weighed this much in all my life.

  381 pounds. I couldn’t believe it. The scale had to be wrong. I reset it, checked again, moved it to another spot on the floor, reset it again.

  381 pounds.

  Obviously, I cried. I mean, what the frig? What’s the point of eating egg whites and asparagus and four ounces of grilled chicken with a fricking salad for lunch and quinoa and salmon for dinner and you’re drinking only water when your stomach growls constantly and your mouth is crying out for the sizzle and fizz of a Coke? What’s the point when you have dreams about eating? When you have to drive home a different route so you won’t pass China Buffet because you’re so damn hungry?

  So I took some diuretics and ended up with diarrhea so bad I was in the bathroom for two hours.

  When I was finally done with that, I got on the scale again, and yes, I was down six pounds. Eff off, scale! Water loss, sure, but down six pounds.

  My hunger gnawed at me, and so I went to the fridge and saw the aging leftover lettuce and half of a hardening grilled chicken breast, and before I thought more about it, I ordered a pizza. I deserved it. I’d lost six pounds.

  Don’t judge me, Other Emerson. I haven’t had anything good to eat in ten days.

  This would be my indulgence. A large—no, make that a medium, I had restraint, see?—a medium pie with extra cheese and pepperoni, and the crust with the cheese that they’d been advertising on every channel for two weeks.

  When the kid delivered it, I had the box open before he was even off my porch. Sat down in front of the TV, pulled up Netflix and oh, God, the pizza was so perfect, so good, still warm but not burn-the-flesh-off-the-roof-of-your-mouth hot, and before my show had even booted up, I’d finished one slice and was reaching for another, and it was so, so good, the soft, gooey crust, the salty, spicy deliciousness of the pepperoni. The joy of having my mouth full, of taking bite after bite and still having more.

  Yes. I ate every single piece of pizza. Ate and loved. It was heaven, and the relief . . . I can’t even tell you. The relief of eating again.

  I washed it down with water—not Coke, Other Emerson, I am making healthy choices, after all. Also, I didn’t have any Coke in the house.

  Finally, finally I was full again. Finally.

  Except not really.

  The books tell you to enjoy your food, really taste it, not to worry about calories (please). They say to be in the moment and experience the feeling of fullness, satiety, whatever.

  That pizza had been so good. And it was my day of indulgence, the books say I can have one, after all—and Other Emerson, listen. You aren’t here. You didn’t have the entire weekend stretching out in front of you with nothing to do except scroll through social media and watch TV. You can go to the movies without worrying if you’ll fit in a seat. You can ride your bike through San Francisco or take a hike in Muir Woods with Idris Elba. You get free tickets to the symphony, I bet.

  My house smelled like pizza. And my God, I loved pizza.

  My hand was already on the phone, and I turned off the part of my brain that knew this was wrong. I hit redial, ordered another pizza, same as the first, and my heart pounded in anticipation as I waited. Watched my show, now able to enjoy it because I had eaten
and more food was on its way.

  When the bell rang, I went to the door and opened it. My next-door neighbors, the Donovans, were standing in their yard, mid-fight. They love to fight outside so we can all enjoy the show, but they stopped at the sight of the pizza guy, on my steps for the second time in ninety minutes.

  A note about the Donovans. I have a tidy lawn, thanks to the guys who come every week and take care of it and who like me because I give them iced coffee and cookies. My house is adorable and well maintained. I smile at everyone in the neighborhood. The Donovans, on the other hand, have two cars on blocks in the backyard, overflowing trash cans, a broken railing on their front porch and a dead Christmas wreath on their door, even though it’s now June.

  And yet they think they’re better than I am. They might be white trash, but they aren’t fat, and they paused in their screeching.

  God, I wished I could tell them off! I’d say, “You know, I’m a person. I have hopes and dreams and feelings, and I pay my taxes, unlike you two, so stop giving me the stink-eye every time you see me. Drop the damn skinny-supremacy righteousness and take a look in the mirror. Take a look at your souls.”

  I don’t say these things, of course. I never do.

  “Hey!” I said to the pizza guy, pretending to be surprised. “I . . . I don’t understand. I think you got your order screwed up. You were just here an hour ago.” Insert fake laugh. “Well, here, I’ll pay for it. Are these good frozen, do you know? Like, can I just wrap it up and stick it in the freezer?”

  The guy gave me a dead-eyed stare. I wasn’t fooling him. I paid, took the pizza, waved to the Donovans and went inside.

  I ate half of the pizza, the TV keeping me company.

  I should’ve just ordered a large. One large would’ve been better than a medium and a half.

  I couldn’t think about my TV show, even though I ostensibly loved it. The half pizza was too present.

  If I wrapped it up, it would be there in the fridge tomorrow, and I’m always hungriest first thing in the morning, Other Emerson. I wouldn’t have the willpower to whip up egg whites if there was cold pizza calling my name.

  I think we both know where this story is heading, don’t we?

  I might as well eat it now, I told myself. Get it over with in one big binge, then feel all the more committed tomorrow.

  And so I ate it all.

  It’s okay. Just a blip. Just 4,160 calories in one sitting. (Of course I looked it up, then cried when I saw the facts.) But it was done. I have to shake it off. One step back, two steps forward.

  Soon, you and I will merge, Other Emerson. And I will be just like you—the kind of person who loves pizza but eats only one slice before feeling full. One slice. We won’t even finish the crust.

  My stomach hurts now. I’m sorry, Other Emerson. I really am sorry for being this way. I can’t even look in the mirror anymore. I hate myself. I hate my fatness. I hate being so weak.

  No one will ever love me. Not like this.

  CHAPTER 12

  Georgia

  Hold hands with a cute guy in public.

  (Did that, and yes. It was everything.)

  Go home to meet his parents. (That one was awful.)

  No one expected me to end up with anyone, let alone a Latin chef who was drop-dead gorgeous.

  I certainly didn’t.

  My mother . . . no. Despite the fact that I had found someone (she’d predicted I wouldn’t, because I’m, you know . . . fat), she wasn’t thrilled. Rafael Esteban Jesús Santiago was a brown-skinned man who worked in a restaurant, and to my mother, that killed it right there. Also, his family was Catholic, a religion that had always puzzled her. “All those statues,” she’d muse. “What do they mean?”

  My father, too, was stunned, though his surprise was on the joyful side. Rafe had asked him for permission to propose, and Dad had burst into tears and hugged him.

  Hunter . . . his take was that Rafe was probably gay, because didn’t gays have a thing for fat women?

  Rafe said it was love at first sight. It took me fifteen months to believe him, three months to alienate him, and somewhere in between there, we got married.

  We met during my third year of law school at Yale, in the cozy little city of New Haven, where, for about a square mile and a half, you were in a place that closely resembled Brooklyn meets Hogwarts. Most of my class came from super-prestigious colleges. Some, like me, had worked between college and law school. I had spent two years with Teach For America in the Bronx and loved it, but for some reason, I’d felt like I had to become a lawyer. Maybe to prove I was smart, so Yale it was.

  Yale Law wasn’t easy. It wasn’t particularly hard, either. Then again, I had a nearly photographic memory, so I had an edge in that area, remembering case law with an X-Men type of ease. The school was a launchpad for greatness. Graduates would become presidents, senators, members of the Supreme Court, work for the Innocence Project, found nonprofit organizations and for-profit corporations. (The fact that I eventually became a nursery school teacher did not make it into the annals of Yale’s history, I’m quite sure.)

  By the time our third year rolled around, we’d all done at least two summers working for law firms and nonprofits all over the world, and at that point, our futures were about as secure as futures got. I was a little uneasy . . . though I did well in school, I kept waiting to feel like I was a good fit. Those summers interning didn’t exactly make me yearn to practice law. Marley kept telling me I was crazy; I’d be POTUS in no time and would hire her as White House chef. There was also the seduction of doing what was expected of me, family-wise. Both my grandfathers had been attorneys; Big Kitty’s father had been special counsel to Ronald Reagan. There was the little-girl part of me that still wanted to win my mother’s approval and shut Hunter up. So I kept at it.

  By my third and final year at Yale, I had a couple of offers to practice environmental law. My five-year plan involved losing weight (of course), sticking around until Mason was happily settled in prep school, then transferring to California and becoming the person I’d always wanted to be—fit, happy, secure, confident and independent.

  And then I met Rafael, fell in love and totally screwed up my life.

  Let me back up a little bit.

  While I didn’t love the law, I did love law school. My years at Concord Academy and Princeton had been . . . endurable, even pleasant at times . . . but I never felt like I fit in. I wanted to be liked—who doesn’t?—but I was so tired. All my effort went into being more outgoing, funnier and thinner, which would make everything else in the world easier (so I thought). I’d gone endless rounds with every variation of eating disorder that existed. Bingeing, purging, puking, diuretics, starvation, more bingeing, detoxing, manic phases of exercise, no exercise at all. For years, I tried every trick the Internet offered—strapping ice packs to my stomach to try to freeze off the fat, drinking lemon juice and cayenne pepper, vinegar and cabbage juice. All done like a dirty secret, the shame of not being able to lose enough constant and bleak.

  Nothing worked enough. When you’re surrounded by peers at their peak of beauty, it’s impossible to forget your own imperfections. My weight was like a Dementor, always close, always stealing happiness, something I always tried and failed to escape.

  It was exhausting.

  Only my friendships with Emerson and Marley gave me a break from all that self-loathing of my physical self, and luckily, Marley was close enough when we were in college and when I went to Yale, so we saw each other a lot. Many was the time I’d invited her to a party at Princeton in order to ease my sense of not belonging. When I was teaching in the Bronx, I saw her at least once a week, and the same was true when I went to New Haven, Metro-North trains making it easy for us to visit.

  During my stint as a high school teacher in the Bronx, I’d lost weight, thanks to the endless work hours and high stress of teaching
in an impoverished public school where the teachers were desperately trying to give the kids even the smallest chance.

  By law school, I was somewhere in between my heaviest and lightest, which is to say I was overweight but not as much as I had been.

  And once I got to Yale, it seemed we were more focused, more mature (one hoped). Did I eat and breathe SCOTUS cases from fifty years ago? Not really, but I understood them. I could argue them.

  The law school class was small, and by the end of three years, everyone knew everyone, more or less. I had friends. Body-wise—because no matter how beautiful a mind you might have, it’s almost impossible to dodge body issues—I finally settled down, not gaining, not losing for nearly two years.

  I didn’t date. I had never dated, after all. But on that first day of Torts, I sat down next to Evan Kennedy and did a double take, then felt my face flush. He was that attractive. From that moment on, I had a special radar where he was concerned, my skin prickling when he came into a room, my ears always able to catch his laugh, his voice. I always assumed he was, yes, one of those Kennedys . . . he mentioned Hyannis Port once in a while and phrases like my uncle Ted slipped out occasionally. Of course I had a huge crush on him. Oh, God, I did. How could I not?

  But Evan and I didn’t really run in the same circles. It was okay. I didn’t have the time, anyway (so I told myself). But it really was fine. I just wanted to get to my true adult life, have a place of my own, get a job and start living.

  My classes had shown me I was sensible, had a gift for seeing to the heart of the matter and a habit of waiting till others had finished speaking to make my point, at which time my classmates would start nodding. There was a lot of “What Georgia said” and “I agree with Georgia.” After a childhood spent being a disappointment to my mother, a curse to Hunter and overpraised by my dad, I liked myself more than I ever had. Even though I was still thick and graceless and, in my own mind at least, unremarkable to look at, I was doing okay.