Free Agent

by Catherine Gayle

  Me: I am. Me. We’re talking about me. And about you. And about how you’re trying to make a fool out of me.

  Blake: Can I please come back over? I think this would be easier if we were actually talking in person.

  Me: No.

  Blake: Then I’m calling you. Please answer.

  Sure enough, my phone rang. Out of spite, I declined the call. Maybe it was childish and petty of me, but I didn’t want to talk to him right now. Not when my mind was still reeling from everything that had happened tonight.

  Blake: Fine. We can’t talk. But will you please explain what the hell I did wrong so I can fix it?

  Me: You can’t fix this. I need sleep.

  Blake: Me too, but I won’t be able to sleep unless we sort this out.

  Me: Sounds like your problem.

  Blake: Now who’s the one being unreasonable, hmm? You’re not giving me a chance.

  Me: Maybe you don’t deserve a chance.

  Blake: Ouch.

  Me: …

  Blake: I’m not okay with this being over after one fucking kiss. Hell, that kiss made me want you more than ever before. I need more, Bea. I need you to be in my life. Maybe you don’t want to be with me the way I want to be with you. Maybe I fucked up too badly before and I can’t ever make you see past it. But even if you don’t want me the way I want you, I still need you to be in my life. I have to make this work.

  Me: Then you need to back off. You can come and read to my students, but that’s it. There’s nothing between us other than that. Got it? I’m not willing to be the butt of some joke.

  Blake: What joke?

  Me: The one where you go and tell all your buddies how you tricked some dumb, old fat chick into thinking you were into her.

  Blake: Wait a minute. Old? And who’s the fat chick? What the hell are you talking about?

  Me: I’m the fat chick.

  Blake: ??? You’re not fat.

  Me: Get off it, already.

  Blake: Maybe you should get off it, not me. Because you’re not fat. I don’t know who the hell told you you’re fat, but they’re full of shit.

  Me: Maybe I’m not fat now, but I was.

  Blake: And?

  Me: And guys like you don’t want to deal with it.

  Blake: You sure do seem awfully sure about guys “like me.”

  Me: Because I’ve been on this side of experiencing what guys like you can do to women like me for my whole life. Men don’t look twice at me. Not unless they’re into fat chicks because then they can control them or something.

  Blake: I thought we established that you aren’t fat.

  Me: I used to weigh more than 300 pounds.

  Blake: And you were probably just as funny and sassy then as you are now.

  Me: You’re not going to make some fat joke? You’re not going to run for the hills now that you know what’s going on under my clothes?

  Blake: First, I still don’t know what’s going on under your clothes. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve barely kissed. I definitely haven’t seen anything.

  Me: And you won’t be seeing anything, either.

  Blake: And second, why the hell would I make fat jokes or run off just because you used to be bigger? What does that have to do with anything?

  Me: Guys like you should have a skinny supermodel type on their arms. Not someone with saggy skin and weird lumpy rolls of fat in awkward places.

  Blake: Damn. Superficial much?

  Me: Only as superficial as the world has taught me to be. Only because that’s the way the world has always treated me.

  Blake: Well, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not exactly normal. Maybe I’m not like that. Maybe I want to be with you because you make me laugh and you challenge me.

  Me: And maybe you’ll change your mind once you see what you’re dealing with.

  Blake: And maybe I won’t. You didn’t run off once you found out about my issues. You could have. You could’ve told me to take a fucking hike and not come back. Maybe you just need to get over yourself and your own insecurities and give someone a chance to see you the way you are. Maybe you’re trying to hurt me before I get the chance to hurt you. And maybe, just maybe, I don’t have any intention of hurting you, even though you seem bound and determined to think that’s exactly what I’ll do.

  Somewhere through this exchange, I’d started crying—big, wet, frustrated tears. Because there was a lot of truth in what he was saying. My problems with the whole situation seemed to have a lot more to do with me and all the body image issues I’d been dealing with for my entire life than they had to do with him.

  I didn’t like that revelation. I didn’t want him to be right.

  Because it meant I’d have to work on me and the way I saw myself if I ever wanted to move past this.

  It’d probably be the same with any man, if I were being honest with myself. This didn’t have anything to do with Blake. It had everything to do with me.

  I’d been too scared to let someone in.

  My phone rang, and I didn’t even have to look through my tears to know that it would be Blake. Despite myself, I swiped my thumb across the screen and answered it.

  “Hello?”

  “You’re crying,” he said. “Damn it. I didn’t mean to make you cry. I’m seriously trying here, Bea.”

  “I know you are. And you didn’t make me cry. I did.”

  “You made yourself cry?”

  “Because I’m a mess.”

  “You’re not a mess.”

  “I am. Maybe you’ve got some issues you need to deal with, but you’re not the only one. I’ve got plenty of my own.”

  “What kind of issues?” he asked.

  “Aren’t they obvious?”

  “Maybe, but I think you need to say it out loud. You need to talk about it or you’ll never be able to deal with it.”

  Damn him for being right.

  I sniffled again and reached for the box of tissues I kept on my nightstand.

  “What kind of issues?” he repeated.

  “Maybe I’ve lost a lot of the weight. Maybe I’m healthy now and the world sees me one way…but I still see the fat chick. I still see myself the way I was a few years ago, when I was too big to fasten my seat belt on an airplane and too fat to ride on a roller coaster and so big that no man would ever dream of looking twice at me.”

  “And you don’t think I’d be interested in you if you were still her,” he said.

  “I am still her.”

  “You’re not fat.”

  “You wouldn’t even see me if I was.”

  “I’d see you.” He sounded sincere. “I would,” he insisted. “Because you make me laugh.”

  “I haven’t been making you laugh too much lately,” I said through my sniffles.

  “No, but you can. And that’s beautiful, Bea. You’re beautiful.”

  My tongue was too thick for me to speak. Which was probably for the best, because if I tried to speak right then, I’d most likely burst into a fresh flood of tears.

  “I want another chance,” he said.

  “Another chance?”

  “With you. I want to take you out. On a date.”

  “Oh, no. No, I never should have let Dani—”

  “No Dani this time. Just you and me.”

  “You’ve lost your mind.”

  “Maybe, but give me a shot, anyway.”

  “Why should I?” I asked, reaching for another tissue.

  “Because you liked it when I kissed you. You might have even liked it as much as I did.”

  Darn if he hadn’t come up with a reason that I couldn’t argue with.

  WE ENDED UP at an improv comedy show for our date—which might have been an offbeat choice for some, but it turned out to be the perfect fit for the pair of us.

  Blake and I, despite our occasional difficulties in the communication department, shared a sense of humor. Slapstick? Sure. Inappropriate? Of course. Bawdy? Just show us where to sign up.

  I l
aughed so hard my sides felt like they’d split in two, and at one point I snorted while taking a sip of water and nearly needed to go to the hospital to get sorted out. Blake laughed even harder than I did because of how hard it was for me to get my coughing fit to settle down. By the time the show came to an end and we were walking back out to his car, we were both holding our bellies from the ab workout.

  Or maybe I was the only one feeling the effects on my abs. Something told me his were in impeccable shape.

  Well, not something, exactly. My fingers told me that.

  Because I’d had my hands on them once…briefly. Too briefly.

  I’d always wondered what it would feel like to touch a set of abs like his. Now I knew, and I wanted to know more—and that scared me.

  The wind picked up on our brief walk outside, almost blowing my jacket away. Shivering, I reached for the zippered ends and quickly zipped it up all the way to my chin, wishing I’d thought to grab a scarf on our way out the door.

  “Cold?” Blake asked, raising a brow in question.

  I chuckled, then wished I hadn’t because my abs weren’t ready for more laughing. “Usually. I’m still not used to being cold all the time.”

  Blake reached for my hand, almost casually, as we walked to the nearby parking garage. His strong fingers linked with mine. They were so warm, and I could only imagine the rest of him was equally warm. The thought of leaning into him again, pressing my body against his, was a seductive tease.

  “That’s new?” he asked. “Being cold?”

  “When I was heavier,” I said, because I was determined to be real and honest with him, even though it scared me, “I was always hot. Everyone around me could be bundled up and shivering, and I’d be wishing I could strip down to nothing because I was sweating. But literally the moment I woke up from my surgery, I was cold. I begged for heated blankets in the hospital. They piled about five of them on me and I was still shivering, and it hasn’t changed since. I’ve had to invest in a lot of electric blankets and have them scattered through the whole house.”

  “What surgery?” he asked.

  I hesitated, but then I remembered that I’d already told him how fat I used to be. No point in trying to hide from reality. “I had gastric bypass a couple of years ago. Weight-loss surgery,” I added, in case he didn’t know what that meant. And then I braced myself for the lecture or disgust or whatever he felt the need to send my way.

  “That’s how you lost the weight?”

  “Yeah. I literally used to weigh twice what I do now. I was enormous. I wouldn’t have been able to fit in those seats in the comedy club tonight. I’d have been spilling over the sides. And then I would have been uncomfortable because I’d be taking up your space, and I’d worry about what you were thinking.” It was a never-ending vicious cycle.

  “And you get cold a lot now?” he asked.

  I shivered just at the sound of the word. Then I shrugged, laughing.

  Blake grinned and winked at me, tightening his grip on my hand and sending more warmth shooting up my arm. It spread all through my body. I was almost positive there was more involved in his ability to warm me up than simply the small bit of physical contact.

  It was funny how so many people liked to judge others over things they didn’t understand. I’d been told that having weight-loss surgery was cheating more times than I could count, that I should have just gone on a diet and learned to employ self-control like the rest of the world.

  And then there were the others—some of my family, in particular—who’d tried to convince me that I’d made a huge mistake, one that I could never reverse, and I’d regret it soon and for the rest of my life. Never mind that I was healthy now, and I would have been on my way to an early grave otherwise.

  If I’d had plastic surgery to get breast implants or liposuction, or anything else of the sort, no one would have said a word—even though those kinds of surgery were purely for a physical transformation and had no impact on a person’s health. But make a life-changing decision to improve your health, and suddenly everyone in your life knows better than you do and is determined to point out what a poor decision you’d made.

  At least that was how it often felt to me. Particularly when I refused to eat Mama’s tamales and flour tortillas and my abuelita’s tres leches cake, instead bringing my own foods with me for family gatherings.

  But Blake didn’t seem to be judging me for it.

  He was curious, sure. Most people who found out I used to wear a size-thirty dress and a 50-H bra tended to be curious. It went with the territory. But usually, people looked at me a certain way once they knew I’d decided to have surgery.

  He wasn’t.

  When we reached his car, he waited for me to get in the passenger seat before closing my door. As soon as he went around to the other side, he started the engine and then reached for the center console to press a button.

  “Butt warmer,” he said, winking. “Give it about thirty seconds, and you’ll be nice and toasty.”

  That was an extravagance I’d never allowed myself. Yeah, I earned more as a special education teacher than a lot of my colleagues did, but I didn’t have extra money lying around for fancy features in a car. Everything about my vehicle was utilitarian.

  By the time he pulled out into traffic, the seat had warmed up so much that I wasn’t shivering any longer. Maybe the next time I upgraded, this would be a feature I should splurge for, despite the cost.

  “That’s my new favorite thing,” I said with a contented sigh, settling back against the seat.

  “What? Going out with me?” He waggled a brow suggestively, which only made me roll my eyes and him laugh. “Comedy night? Laughing until your sides hurt?”

  I laughed, shaking my head. “Butt warmers.”

  “I turn mine on when I’m driving in for every practice and game. Even in the warmer months. Helps loosen up my glutes and thighs. It’s good before a massage, too. Helps them get in deeper and break up all the knots.”

  “You get knots in your butt?”

  “You can get knots in any muscle you use. Don’t you get them?” He turned down a street I didn’t recognize instead of getting onto the expressway.

  I got the distinct impression that he was taking the long way back to my place. And to be honest, I didn’t particularly mind. It meant getting to spend more time talking with him…and despite my reservations, I was enjoying myself.

  “I don’t know,” I hedged. “How do you know if you have knots in your muscles?”

  “When your massage therapist finds one, you’ll know. Hurts like a motherfucker when they press on them, but then it’s so much better afterwards, once they’ve loosened things up for you. But maybe you don’t have a very good therapist.”

  “I don’t get massages, so I wouldn’t know if my therapist is any good or not.”

  “Why don’t you get massages?” He sounded shocked almost to the point of being scandalized.

  “Can’t afford them. And I’m not overly keen on the idea of having someone I don’t know touching me and all my loose skin.” As soon as I’d mentioned that part, I wished I could take the words back.

  He came to a stop at a red light and turned his head to stare at me. Hard. So hard I wanted to shrivel up and disappear into my seat. “When’s the last time someone touched you?” he asked.

  I rolled my eyes. “About five minutes ago when you reached for my hand.”

  “Doesn’t count.”

  “A couple of days ago when you mauled me on my front porch.”

  “You know what I mean,” he grumbled, in the most adorable way.

  I did know what he meant. And I wasn’t in the mood to go there. I shrugged and said, “It’s been a while.”

  “How much of a while? Months? More than a year?”

  Not the sort of conversation I wanted to be having with him or anyone just now. I stared out the window on my side.

  His hand came down over mine. Warm. Strong. A seductive tease of th
ings that both called to me and terrified me.

  “How long?” he demanded, quietly but insistently.

  “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “Bea.”

  “What?”

  “You’re avoiding the question.”

  “If you want to know how long it’s been since I’ve had sex with a man, then the answer is never. I’ve never had sex. Not with a man. Not with a woman. Not with a goat. Not on a train or in the dark or on a plane. Never.”

  “How old are you?” he asked, putting his foot to the gas pedal again since the light had turned green.

  “Thirty,” I bit off. “And if you make one single crack about me being a thirty-year-old virgin—”

  “I’m not making jokes about it,” he cut in. “I’m not making jokes about you.”

  Not yet. I couldn’t seem to stop the dark thoughts from invading my mind.

  “Is it a religious thing? Or you just don’t want to have sex before marriage or something?”

  “It’s a men-don’t-look-twice-at-the-fat-chick-because-she’s-invisible-to-them thing.”

  “Well, since we’ve already established that you’re not a fat chick anymore, that no longer applies. If it ever did to begin with. Might have just been in your head.” He stopped at another light.

  “It wasn’t just in my head.”

  “Maybe it was. Like you said, you didn’t want to be seen. Maybe you were doing your best to be invisible, and you did too good a job of it.”

  He could be right about that.

  I enjoyed being invisible. I felt safe when I was invisible.

  But that safety was just a mirage. I knew it now. Maybe, by isolating and insulating myself like this, I wasn’t going to get hurt by loving someone who didn’t love me back, but I still ended up getting hurt. I got hurt because I never allowed anyone to love me. I wouldn’t let them close enough to hurt me, which meant I didn’t let them close enough to care, either…which meant I ended up getting hurt very badly, even though it was the very thing I was doing my damnedest to avoid.