CHAPTER 1
Parents just don't understand …
Parents. Can't live with them. Can't toss them off the roof.
Belinda Gordon walked up her parents' driveway. She had moved out of their home practically on her eighteenth birthday but in the last five years she had probably spent more hours in her parents' home than her own. Her mother had called half an hour ago, for the third time that day, this time begging her to come over.
"I need you, Pudge," she'd purred in her lispy Spanish accent. "Please."
She found it hard to say no to her mother—to both her parents, actually. She could say no to men who had asked her for dates over the years. She could say no to donating to the countless fund-raisers the high school kids kept bringing her way. She could even say no to those cute little Girl Scouts who tried to tempt her with boxes and boxes of those damn delicious cookies. But she couldn't say no to her parents.
Ever.
How annoying.
She was their only child. After years of fertility problems they had only produced her.
You're all I have. Her mother never let her forget it.
Her mother was damn good at guilt. A master at it. But then again most mothers were. She wondered if that came naturally when one became a mother or if it was something one had to work at. Were there guilt drills? Little sayings mothers everywhere practiced every night to ensure their children turned into guilty balls of mush?
You never call me.
Why don't you want to spend time with me?
But Belinda had deserved being the recipient of such guilt. She had made some pretty big mistakes in her life.
Colossal mistakes.
Breathtakingly stupid mistakes.
Like moving across the country alone on a whim. And turning down a high-paying job at an insurance company because it would have stifled her creativity. She made the mistake of buying two pairs of harem pants because she thought they were coming back in style. And her biggest mistake, the one she could barely bring herself to think about: falling in love with a man who was totally wrong for her.
She had disappointed her parents with her choices and now she was still trying to make up for it.
So she was here, in her sexiest black dress and her newest pair of Spanx, prepared to spend the last remaining minutes before her second date with Brian Warren with her parents. She had to admit she was also there because she needed the distraction her parents would inevitably provide.
She was nervous about her date, and she was woman enough to admit it.
She was nervous about going out with Brian again because … well … everything had gone so freaking well on their first date. That was not the norm for her. Since she had started dating again, just after her thirtieth birthday in February, she hadn't had one good date.
But then there was Brian. Brian was the type of man—a sensible man—a thirty-year-old woman should date. He was cute, worked in finance, owned his own condo, smelled like he bathed regularly, and always paid for dinner.
Dreamy …
He wasn't too cheap or too touchy or too shy or too freaky or any of the things that sent her red flags flying. Brian was a far cry from the other men she had dated in the past few months. There was that guy her neighbor set her up with. The one who called himself a Green Scientist. She thought she was getting a nice bookish type, who worked to stop chemicals from being dumped into rivers and championed the rights of animals. What she got was a man who didn't wear deodorant and refused to eat anything he hadn't scavenged from the earth. On their first date he took her to look for edible wild mushrooms in the park.
Fungus you can eat! Yum.
Then there was Mr. Obsessive-Compulsive, who on the surface seemed to be very normal. That was until she watched him count every leaf of lettuce in his salad, cut his steak into sixteen equal pieces, and turn his plate counterclockwise five times before he would eat.
One two three four five. One two three four five. One two three four five.
And then there was Mr. Married with Three Kids. Who was married with three kids.
They showed up at their date. Begging him to come home.
Daddy, please. We miss you.
But still she trudged on, agreeing to be set up. Agreeing to date after four years of seeing no one. She was thirty now.
Thirty.
The big Three-O.
It was the birthday that told the world that you were no longer a kid. Your twenties were like an extended childhood. A simpler time where you could get away with still getting drunk, or blowing rent money to see a concert or on a pair of really kickass shoes. At thirty, you really had to stop doing those things. Thirty was the birthday that meant it was time to stop screwing around. The birthday that meant no more excuses. That it was time to grow up and really know who you were.
Both her best friends seemed to have figured it out; Cherri and Ellis had gone off and gotten married. Cherri was a mother. Ellis designed beautiful wedding dresses for brides who were a little harder to fit. She opened the shop that both she and Belinda worked in. Cherri was an extraordinary painter, commanding thousands of dollars for her work. Their lives were moving forward when Belinda's life seemed to be staying still. They were leaving their mark on the world.
But what was Belinda's mark?
She thought she was fine with the way things were going. Happy even, but then she turned thirty. And yet another Valentine's Day had passed. And cashiers stopped checking her ID when she bought wine. And people started calling her ma'am everywhere she went. And her Facebook newsfeed was now littered with baby pictures and honeymoon photos. And she had marked off four years since her heart had been broken.
Belinda snapped herself from her thoughts as she walked up to her parents' house. She heard their heated voices from outside. They we're arguing. Again. But then again Bill and Carmina Gordon's fights were as normal as the setting sun. And so were their makeups.
"I think you're trying to kill me!" Belinda heard her father say as she entered through the kitchen door.
She stepped back to survey the scene. Her father was facing her mother, a dinner plate filled with fried confections in his hand. He was still in his work clothes. Sweatpants, a Durant University windbreaker, and his old Mets cap. He was six foot four, burly, mean looking at first glance. And then there was his wife with her elegant designer clothes, her long lean body, glossy black hair, and perfectly refined features. As opposite as they were, both her parents were tall and gorgeous. They looked like they belonged together.
And then there was Belinda, with her crazy shade of dark-red hair, her tawny skin, and her short, roundish body. She looked like neither of her parents, which often led her to wonder if she was adopted.
But she knew she wasn't. It might be easier if she were.
"Why would you say such a thing?" Her mother shouted the question. "I'm not trying to kill you. If I was, you would be dead by now!"
"Then why do you keep doing this?" He pushed the plate in her direction. "First it was your seven-cheese macaroni. Then it was your double-dipped chicken-fried steak. Served with deep-fried okra and cheesy corn bread. Then you made me go out with you at ten o'clock on a Sunday night so we could have bacon ice cream sundaes. And now you're deep-frying the shit out of Snickers bars. I thought I was a decent husband but I must not be because you're trying to kill me."
Carmina blinked at her husband. "But my food is good. No?"
"Carmina!"
"What? If you don't like what I cook, then you can cook for yourself!"
"The hell I will. I spent a damn fortune remodeling this damn kitchen. If I paid for it, the least you can do is cook me what I want. It's your job."
Belinda covered her eyes as the last of her father's words slipped from his mouth. Her father had just said probably the wrongest thing a man had ever said to a woman.
"Bastardo! My job? My job! You think I wanted…" Her rapid tirade switched to Spanish and Belinda took it all in quietly. Her parents weren't typical. Her mother used to be a model. Her father had played professional ball for the Mets until his knees gave out. They had moved from New York City to Durant when she was in seventh grade when her father had taken a job coaching the university's baseball team. They were an odd little family. And after a few years of separation they were a close-knit one.
"Damn, you look sexy when you get mad."
Carmina stopped her rant and smiled. "I have to admit, I like it when you get so angry, too. I can see the cords of your neck. It is very sexy. My mother hated when I married an American man, but there is something very sexy about American men from Texas."
"Come here," he ordered softly.
Carmina sauntered over to her husband and wrapped her long, slender arms around him. "I make these things for you, because I want to feed you. I want you to be happy."
"I am happy. Just keep being my wife." Bill leaned down to kiss his wife, and just like that their argument was over.
"I hope you two didn't call me over here to watch you make out," Belinda said, making her presence known. "I get it. You guys are still hot for each other, but seeing you make out makes me want to toss up my cookies."
"Bill Junior!"
"Pudge!"
They separated. Her father clapping her on the back. Yes, he called her Bill Junior. He'd always wanted a son. The fact that Belinda didn't have a penis didn't stop him from treating her like she was a boy.
Her mother called her Pudge. Short for "pudgy." She'd rather be called Bill.
"How are you, my love?" Her mother cupped her chin in her delicate hands as she smothered her cheeks with kisses. "I am so glad that you are here. Please explain the difference between a Mars Bar and a Milky Way to your father."
Her head spun. She thought back to the urgent call her mother had placed to her half an hour ago, not believing that this could be what that was about. "Did you seriously call me here from across town, half an hour before my date, to ask the difference in candy bars?"
"Yes." Her mother nodded. "You do love your chocolate."
Belinda took a deep breath. Not knowing why she was surprised that her parents had called her over for this. "You know, when you said you needed me—that it was urgent—I imagined the worst. Like you had chopped your finger off. Or the house was on fire. Or Daddy was having massive chest pains and needed to be taken to the hospital. I did not think you called me over here for something you could have looked up on the Internet!"
Her mother blinked at her. "We tried to look it up on the Internet, but we don't know how to work the computer."
"I didn't call you, Junior." Her father pointed to his wife. "That was your mother."
Carmina gasped. "You didn't try to talk me out it."
"I can't talk you out of anything! If I could I would be a lot happier!"
Carmina opened her mouth to retort, but Belinda stopped her.
"Enough! Unless you have a good reason for calling me over here I'm leaving."
"We thought it would be good to see you, Junior," her father said gruffly. "You didn't come over for dinner on Sunday."
"We only ask for one night a week, Pudge. It's now Friday. We missed you."
"I'm sorry but I really was busy on Sunday," she said, feeling that sneaky little bastard, guilt, rise up in her chest. "But calling me over to ask me about candy is not cool. I thought something was wrong!"
"I'm sorry, Pudge." Her mother nodded. "You said to call you over if there was an illness, fire, death and … home invasion."
"Yes, and that means no calling me over when you can't figure out how to work your cell phone, or when you can't decide what shoes you should wear with your dress." She looked at her father. "That also means no calling me over when the Mets go into extra innings or calling me away from work so I can test out the new gloves you got for your teams. We need to have some boundaries."
"But you're my only child. My precious." Her mother grabbed her hand and squeezed it. "We love you so much. Don't be mad."
They would never stop calling her over for little unimportant things, and she would never stop coming. "I'm not mad, Mamá."
"Good. Stay. I want to talk to you about your date." She led her to the kitchen table and sat beside her.
"Here, Junior." Her father slid a plate in front of her. "Eat this." And what a plate it was. All she could do was stare at the dough-encrusted, deep-fried, chocolate-syrup-and-whipped-cream-covered candy bar in front of her.
"Don't give her that!" Her mother pushed the plate away from her. "That's the last thing she needs. All that sugar and fat."
"You were willing to give it to me two minutes ago!"
"That was different. Pudge needs to watch her weight. You know it's very hard for her."
"There is nothing wrong with her weight," her father said through clenched teeth, just as she was about to defend herself.
There wasn't.
She had long ago come to terms with the fact that she would never be like her mother. She would never be tall and willowy. She would never be elegant and graceful. She would always be too short, too curvy, too red. Too imperfect. And she was okay with that. She liked herself. She spent her days at Size Me Up telling women that it was okay to be comfortable in their skin, it was okay to love themselves, no matter what size they were. But her mother had always lamented over her appearance. Carmina sometimes looked at her as if she had wondered what had gone wrong.
"No." Carmina touched Belinda's cheek. "No. Of course, there isn't anything wrong with her weight. I just don't want her looking poochy before her date." She patted Belinda's stomach. "No woman wants a poochy belly before she goes on a date."
Belinda shook her head, trying to ignore her mother's little poke at her weight. "What did you want to know, Mamá?"
"Do you like Brian?" She smiled brightly. "When I first saw him I thought he would be perfect for you. He's got the nicest blue eyes, Pudge! Oh, he reminds me of Robert Redford. Do you know the first movie I saw Robert Redford in was The Way We Were? Oh, I cried at the end of that movie. But I cry at a lot of movies. Even movies that others don't think are very sad." She looked up at her husband. "Do you remember when you took me to see Dumbo, Bill? And how I cried and cried and how you sank down in your chair so that you would not be seen with me. I was quite put out with you, you know. Your father doesn't like to take me to movies anymore, but he did when we were dating because he wanted to spend time with me. Do you think Brian will take you to the movies, Pudge?" She went right on without waiting for an answer. "Some say that is a cheap date but I like cheap dates. That's why I fell for your father. He didn't try to impress me. He just wanted to be with me."
"We are going to Tortola's for dinner, Mamá," she said when her mother took a breath. "We had a very nice time last week. I like him."
"How wonderful!" She clapped her hands and hugged her. "He could be the one, Pudge," she said into her ear. "I want to have grandbabies and plan a wedding. Ellis will make your dress. And I will put together a big reception. It will be so exciting. You don't know how I've longed to actually see you get married."
Belinda pulled away from her mother, guilt, her familiar friend, eating at her once again. She had disappointed her parents with her last choice in a man. She had once again robbed them of their dream of seeing their only child married. "I've got to go, Mamá. I don't want to be late."
"Yes, of course. Go! And call me after your date, I want to hear everything. Maybe we can go to yoga tomorrow morning. It's really good for you, you know. And it would help you slim down. Ellis's mother and I really enjoy our six AM class."
She nodded noncommittally. As she got up, her father pulled her into a gruff hug. "Don't let her bother you, Junior. She means well." He ruffled her hair. "Let's go fishing next week. I got some new bait that's sure to get the big ones biting."
"Okay, Dad." She offered him a small smile before she walked out. It was time for her date.
* * *
Two hours later she and Brian had finished yet another nice dinner. A plate of tiramisu sat between them. Sometime over the course of the evening he had reached across the table and linked his fingers through hers. It startled her at first. It had been a long time since anybody had touched her so intimately.
It was sweet, but she was wondering why she didn't feel the butterflies she should have.
"I'm really glad I asked you out." Brian took her hand in both of his and stroked his thumbs down her palm. "When your mother introduced us at the historical society's gala, I wasn't sure that I should."
"Why?" She grinned at him. "Were you afraid that I would be no fun because I was hanging out in a room of people whose average age was a hundred and nine?"
He shook his head, his eyes twinkling in the process. They were nice eyes, reminding her a little of an old-school Paul Newman. "You're a lot of fun, Belinda. I knew you would be the moment I saw you doing the cha-cha with Dr. Petersen."
"Ah, you saw me cha-chaing with my date. Is that why you almost didn't ask me out? I only went with Dr. Petersen because he's my father's good friend and his wife was too sick to go. You didn't really think we were a couple, did you?"
"No." He shook his head. "You didn't strike me as the type of woman who dates men who could be her grandfather."
Her brows went up, curiosity starting to gnaw at her, and she wished it would stop. She shouldn't care why he almost didn't ask her out. He had asked her out.
Still, she couldn't stop herself from asking, "You didn't like the color of my dress?"
He laughed. "No. If I recall, you look really good in green."
She flashed him a smile to thank him for the compliment. "Then what was it? Did I have food in my teeth? Toilet paper on my shoe? Did my breath stink? Come on, Brian. You can't tell a girl you almost didn't ask her out without telling her why."
He shrugged and leaned back in his chair. "I don't usually date girls like you."
"Like me? What kind of girls?" She kept her voice light. "Redheads?"
"I've got a thing for redheads." He winked. "Your size kind of put me off at first."
His words must have had some kind of powerful stun effect because it felt like the world slowed down for her in that moment. She studied his face carefully to see if he was serious.
"When I saw you—" He paused to study her. "—I thought, If she were just thirty, thirty-five pounds thinner she would be perfect."
Oh.
Ouch.
Her size put him off.
Did you hear that, Belinda? If you were thirty-five pounds thinner, you'd be perfect. Perfect.
Perfect?
What a crock of shit.
"But then I realized that I was being an asshole. You're probably the sexiest woman in this town."
Thirty, thirty-five pounds. The size of a well-fed cocker spaniel.
Insecurity, her old and nearly forgotten friend, snuck up on her.
She had to shake that feeling off.
Her size would never be in the single digits, her legs would always rub together when she walked, she would always have more junk in her trunk than a '68 Caddy. And she was okay with that. Why wasn't everyone else?
Brian's words should have had no effect on her. But they did.
Let it go, she ordered herself. His words are like water off a duck's ass.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
She clenched her teeth instead.
"I like you a lot," he went on. "I'm attracted to you and I figured if we got you on a good regimen we could get that weight right off you."
"Regimen?"
"Yeah. Like an exercise routine. I know you don't have one. You wouldn't be so soft-looking if you did. I hit the gym five times a week. I spend an hour on cardio and an hour doing free weights. I can't stand to see jiggly. I try to keep my body as firm as possible."
She shut her eyes, trying desperately to hold on to her calm. "I wouldn't call it a routine but sometimes I take dance class at the community center. I've even been known to do yoga on occasion. It may not be the type of routine you are referring to, but I certainly do more than sit on the couch lifting the fork to my mouth."
"That's great." His eyes lit up, as if she had just given him a gift. "So you're not lazy. All we have to do is turn up the intensity. If we get you down to twelve hundred calories a day, and put you in the gym four times a week, you could have that weight gone in a couple of months. It'll be great. You'll see. We can go together and I can help transform you into a healthier, better version of yourself."
Lazy?
Twelve hundred calories?
Transform?
"Better version of myself?"
"Yeah, Belinda. You obviously have to know when you look in the mirror that you could look better. I think this is why we met, so I can help you get on the right path. You need me. I can see a future for us."
Her head spun. A whole bunch of thoughts collided and she felt like she was about to have one of those Exorcist moments. Pea soup spewing and all.
He didn't just—
He couldn't have said—
Did he just offer to put me on a diet?
Oh, fuck that!
She threw back her head and laughed. That kind of hysterical laughter that got people put in institutions. She was going to lose it. First the episode at her parents' house and now this. The bad Belinda was about to rear her bitchy head. The Belinda who'd once made a cop cry. The Belinda who just didn't give a shit anymore and there wasn't a damn thing anybody could do to stop it.
"Isn't that ironic? I almost didn't say yes when you asked me out."
"Oh?" His eyes widened with curiosity.
"Yeah. Judging by the way you walk and that big expensive sports car you drive, I figured you must have an extremely tiny penis." She leaned back in her chair, crossing arms nonchalantly. "But I told myself I was being a bitch. I can get over a man having a little weenie. It's not the size of the boat, right? It's the motion of the ocean. And if I can't get off, it's no big deal. That's what vibrators are for."
She took great joy when his dumb grin melted from his face. He had hit her where it hurt and now she was only out to return the favor.
"Belinda, I—"
"You what, honey? Can't get laid regularly? Sorry that you kiss as well as a cold dead fish? Have a hard time finding somebody who'll accept that you keep a large jar of toenail clippings on your nightstand?"
He looked around in a panic, noting that she was beginning to draw attention from the other patrons. "I do not have toenail clippings on my nightstand."
"And I do not need nutrition or exercise advice from you!"
"You're overreacting," he hissed.
"I'm overreacting? You're clueless!" She sat up straight. "And since you're obviously too stupid to know these things, I'll be nice and school you. There are three things a man should never talk about with a woman. Her hair. Her mother. And her weight. But you seemed to have skipped class the day God was handing out common sense. What kind of man in his right mind tells a woman that she needs to lose thirty-five pounds? Haven't you considered that I love myself just the way I am? Big ass and all, and I don't need some man with a God complex telling me different. I wouldn't lose a pound for you or any man. I am healthy and happy and if you can't accept me for who I am, then you can go to hell. You better wise up, buddy. You keep talking to women like that and the only thing that's going to be keeping you warm at night is your sports car. And that would suck because I hear metal chafes."
She stormed out, vowing never to date another jackass again. Vowing to join a convent. Vowing to do something, anything to change her luck. How? She had no clue, but she knew she was going to try like hell to figure it out.
Copyright © 2014 by Sugar Jamison
