Thin

by Alicia Michaels

  On our final night together, he insisted we go out for a proper date, insisting the movies hadn’t counted. Aside from telling me not to worry because I was going to enjoy where he would take me, I was given no details, only told to be ready to leave the house at nine p.m.

  I took my time getting ready, even putting on the new matching panty and bra set I’d bought at the mall in Royce’s favorite color—blue. When I emerged from the bathroom in my new jeans and a top that showcased my stomach, I saw Royce’s approval in his gaze. My hair held a bit of a wave from my trip to the salon the day before, and I’d performed one of the best makeup jobs I’d ever accomplished on my face, achieving a sexy smoky eye and pouty red lips.

  He was pretty sexy himself, and I enjoyed the sight of him in a black button-up shirt instead of a tee for a change. I did mourn losing sight of those tattoos, but knew I would get a peek at them later, since Royce slept without a shirt on. A flutter began low in my belly as my fantasy of licking those tattoos reared its head.

  “Where are you taking me?” I asked as we left the apartment and began to walk, leaving both our cars in the parking lot.

  “No more questions, woman,” he said, placing a casual arm around my waist and holding me against his side as we walked. “You’ll know where we’re going when we get there.”

  “Well, duh,” I replied, pressing my elbow against his side.

  After several turns which made me feel thoroughly lost, I discovered that our destination was a bar called Madeline’s. The sign’s light beckoned in the darkness, illuminating our path into the small hole in the wall.

  At my puzzled look, he laughed and guided me toward the entrance. “Don’t look so scared. This place is great, I promise. Some of the best jazz and blues in town, and a mean peach tea.”

  After flashing our IDs at the door we were ushered into the small taproom, which was filled wall to wall with people dancing, talking, or milling around near the bar. On a small stage jutting out from the back wall a live band had set up—a small group with a big sound. Even from where I stood near the entrance, I could feel the call of the music. Sultry jazz with a pounding, rhythmic melody flitted through the air, and on the dance floor couples moved in time with beating drums, wailing guitars, and flashing lights.

  Taking my hand, he pulled me toward the bar, where he ordered two of the famous peach teas. As it turned out, these teas had been spiked with bourbon. I’d never been much for dark liquor, preferring vodka or tequila, but I couldn’t deny how good it tasted in the sweetened tea with a distinct peachy flavor. There were even slices of peach floating in my glass. Royce chuckled at my wide eyes as I eagerly went back to my straw for another sip, then snagged one of the peaches from the glass and bit into it with a groan of satisfaction.

  “Careful,” he warned. “This stuff’s good and sweet, but it’s strong. That bourbon will sneak up on you.”

  Slowing my sips, I lowered myself onto a barstool and took in the atmosphere. It appeared Madeline’s attracted both the young and old crowd, and everyone seemed like family whether they were here for their first time or their fifth. Royce was obviously a regular, since the bartender recognized him, as did several others who passed by where we sat, leaning close so we could hear each other over the music. The walls had been covered in posters boasting the live acts that I supposed had stopped through here over the years. Some of the prints were faded and torn along the edges. A collection of old guitars took up most of the wall behind the stage, a mixture of acoustic and electric, plain and colorful. This struck me as the kind of place Luke would love, and I made a mental note to tell him about it next time I saw him.

  “Check out that piece by the stage,” he said, lips close to my ear. “I think you’ll like it.”

  Following his gaze toward the stage, I found a metal sculpture that stood as tall as I did. While it was an abstract, I saw clearly what it was meant to convey. The sultry red and purple curves represented a woman dancing, and the black arcs swirling around her were the music, guiding her movements. I turned back to him with a smile.

  “Is it yours?”

  He nodded. “The bartender is an old family friend. He knew about my work and mentioned it in passing to the owner. Next thing I know, he’s asking me to make him a piece that would compare the vibe of the place. It’s my first custom, commissioned piece. I finished it a few weeks ago.”

  “I’m so proud of you!” I exclaimed, taking up my second glass of tea and raising it. “Here’s to many more.”

  He clinked his glass against mine and grinned. “Maybe soon we’ll be toasting over your first commissioned painting.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t think I’m there yet. I’m so out of practice.”

  “I have faith in you,” he replied. “You just need to knock the rust off. I believe yours is a gift the whole world should see.”

  We locked gazes over our glasses, and the tension that had been brewing between us for three long months continued to swell. I felt the surface of my skin growing hot, and my pulse racing as I held his stare, allowing myself to wonder what might happen at the end of the night with anticipation.

  “Wanna go dance?” he asked.

  Nodding, I polished off my drink and set the empty glass on the bar beside his. Taking my hand, he led me to the floor. The music playing had a pulsating blues rhythm and a moderate tempo. Around us, a mass of twisting bodies seemed to undulate and sway in sync. Feet pounded, and hands flew up, while hips swayed and dipped. I could see why Madeline’s was so popular—the music seemed to transcend everything. The people on this dance floor weren’t black or white, they weren’t rich or poor, they weren’t separated by the things that served as barriers in everyday life. Beneath the yellow and magenta lights over the stage, we all became a part of that music, resounding with the soul of the South. This place struck me as being akin to what my dad’s mother, Big Mama, would have referred to as a ‘jook joint’. It held a lot of the old, soulful yet relaxed vibe I always imagined would exist in a place like that.

  We spent what was left of the night dancing, returning to the bar a few times for more of the addictive peach tea. On the dance floor, we moved close, holding each other, giving in to the urge to kiss when it struck. The heat became oppressive, making my hair cling to my face and neck, and undoubtedly causing my eyeshadow to smear a bit—yet, Royce never stopped looking at me as if everything I did was magic to him, as if he could almost forget we were surrounded by strangers and take me down to the floor right then and there.

  Reservations became afterthoughts as the music grew increasingly more sensual, the space between us becoming nonexistent. Royce’s hands tangled in my hair as we swayed to a slow song, and I clung to his waist, leaning my head back when he kissed his way from my lips to my chin, then lower. My lips parted and I sighed when he nipped at my neck before pressing his mouth to my ear. I turned my head until my lips were as close to his ear as his were to mine.

  “Royce?”

  “Hmmm,” he murmured.

  “Can we go now?”

  Drawing back a bit, he stared down at me with a question in his eyes. I nodded, answering without words. He sighed, as if from relief.

  “Hell yeah.”

  I had to trot to keep up with his long strides as he led me toward the exit at a near run. Once out on the sidewalk, he halted, turning to press me against the building’s brick façade to kiss me. I melted, clinging to him and kissing him back while also cursing the walk home. It suddenly seemed too far, and I didn’t think I could make it.

  Somehow, we did arrive back at his apartment, but not without many pauses in our progress due to us being unable to keep our hands off each other. By the time we crashed through his front door, I was in a frenzy, feeling as if my clothing fit too tight, like I would go insane if he stopped now.

  Thankfully, he didn’t. Slamming the door, he pressed me up against it before pinning me with his body. He captured my lips, already beginning to swell from his earlier kisses, while tak
ing both my hands and lifting them, pressing them against the wood. His fingers laced through mine, and I clenched his hands tight, holding on for dear life.

  Then, we were moving, clothing falling off in every direction as he backed me toward the bedroom. I kicked my pumps off by the front door, while Royce slipped quickly out of his shoes. His shirt fell beside mine in the living room, my bra dropping in the hallway, my jeans in the doorway of his bedroom. Then, he picked me up, carrying me to the bed with my legs wrapped around his waist.

  He dropped me onto the bed, then quickly removed what was left of his clothes. I lay back and watched as he approached the bed, my blood singing in my veins as the moment I felt as if I’d been waiting forever for loomed closer. Royce came over me, laying only part of his weight on me and bearing the rest on his elbows. Moonlight trickling from his windows illuminated him, giving me glimpses of smooth, brown skin and the mesmerizing lines and curves of his tattoo.

  “Kinsley,” he murmured, kissing my forehead and trialing down the bridge of my nose. “I wanted to do this differently. I didn’t want to bring you home drunk and start tearing your clothes off. Not the first time.”

  Wrapping my arms around him, I did the same with my legs at his hips, using my heels against his tailbone to urge him closer. He groaned as our bodies made contact, meshing together perfectly, all of his hard lines falling so seamlessly against my feminine curves.

  “I don’t care about the perfect time or the perfect place,” I said. “I’ve had all of those things, and none of them could ever measure up to stumbling home with you—only slightly drunk—and tearing each other’s clothes off.”

  He smiled, flexing his hips against mine and drawing a gasp from my throat. “Does that mean you don’t want to stop?”

  His weight settled comfortably over me as he reached over toward his nightstand, snatching the drawer open and digging around for a moment before coming out with a condom. While he worked to open it, I gave in to the urge I’d been having since first seeing Royce shirtless, and raised my head to trace my tongue along his tattoos. He groaned when I reached his collarbone, circling over a sensitive spot which made him flinch. Smiling, I gave him a little nip, earning a sound that emanated from his chest like a low growl.

  “No,” I gasped as he lowered his head and began kissing his way down my body, “Don’t stop … don’t ever stop.”

  He didn’t. In fact, Royce kept going until the sun crept over his windowsill, and I nearly passed out beside him from exhaustion. Being with him was better than I could have imagined. There was no uncertainty; I didn’t feel uncomfortable in my less-than-perfect body. I didn’t worry about how I looked in the dim lighting, or about any of the usual first-time jittery things. Instead, I focused on burning every detail of the night into my memory—every touch, every kiss, every slow slide of Royce’s sweat-dampened skin against mine.

  As he fell asleep next to me, one arm flung around my waist, I couldn’t help a little smile of satisfaction. If this was what spontaneity and uncertainty about the future felt like, then I was beginning to think I would get used to it. Never in my life had I been happier, nor had I ever had more fun.

  Closing my eyes and drifting toward sleep, I wondered if I might not be feeling this way because of Royce. But then, I felt the swelling sensation of pride within my chest, and I knew. While I cared deeply for Royce, and saw great things for us going forward, and while he had been there for me through one of the darkest times in my life, I knew that I couldn’t have found happiness without one person’s resilience and courage.

  That person was me.

  Epilogue

  Six months later …

  Glancing around the small room, I smiled. The feeling of coming home from a long time away filled me, and I became emotional. Tears brimmed in my eyes, but I blinked them away, deciding that today was for smiles only. Turning in a slow circle, I observed my surroundings and marveled at how different things were now, while many things had remained the same.

  Incidentally, my return to Austin and college had seen me right back to Apartment 4C. True to her word, Kara had held a room for me—the small, closet-like space that Jenn had once occupied alone. I had made it my own, and the evidence of how different I was than the girl who had once inhabited this apartment struck me profoundly.

  Gone were the cheer medals, pompoms, and perfect, austere order which had once ruled my life. Gone were the bottles of hidden diet pills, oversized clothes hanging in the closet, and the scale I’d used to measure my weight relentlessly.

  Vibrant bursts of color filled the room, décor I had bought to put myself in the right frame of mind for painting. A new easel—a Christmas gift from Royce—was shoved in one corner of the room, ready with my oils and brushes, along with a fresh, white canvas. My closet brimmed with more empty canvases as well as clothing ranging in size from six to eight depending on where I’d gotten them. These days, the sixes were a bit tight, but I found myself happy to be back at an eight. Royce had declared he enjoyed it as well, and insisted that most of the weight had gone to my ass—which he immensely enjoyed. I had been slacking a bit on my workout regimen, but didn’t beat myself up too much over it. The on-campus gym was only a short walk away.

  Striding toward my little desk in the corner, I eyed the bulletin board I’d filled with printed 4X6 photos of my adventures over the past six months.

  My time in Louisiana had done me a lot of good. I’d begun my trip by bringing my parents together and insisting they make their divorce final.

  “I love you both,” I’d told them. “And I realize you loved each other once. But that time in your lives is over, and I can’t stand to see you two so miserable anymore. Also, I can’t keep allowing you to put me in the middle of your fight. It’s what’s best for all of us in the end. It’s time for both of you to either get back together, or move on.”

  While they’d been shocked by my assertiveness, they’d eventually understood my reasons for saying what I’d said. They had agreed to proceed with their stalled divorce as getting back together wasn’t a good idea for anyone involved, and had agreed to stop putting me in the middle of their tug-of-war. I’d been shocked to see them agree on anything, but I tried not to question it, choosing to enjoy it.

  As it turns out, it lasted long enough for them to agree that me changing my major and going back to UT for however long that took was the best thing for me.

  “I cannot pretend to understand why you would want to paint for a living,” my mother had told me over a family dinner—the first one I’d had with my parents in years. “But I do understand that you need something different to thrive. Something I cannot give you, nor can I control it. So, your father and I have a deal for you.”

  I’d perked up, both excited that I would have their help as well as their blessing, but also dreading what she might require as my part of the deal.

  “We will pay for the tuition, if you will get a job to pay your own living expenses,” Dad had said. “Your scholarships and grants are run dry, but your mother and I had a bit of a nest egg set aside. We’d meant it for your education in the first place, but you were so dang smart, you ended up getting a full ride. We never could agree on a use for the money … but now we’ve decided. All that’s left for you to do is pay your own rent.”

  It hadn’t taken me long to find that job. Aside from moving in to my place today, I was also beginning my new position as a Resident Assistant for the entire building. It was a lot of responsibility, and it was going to be up to me to keep the entire row of townhouses from being taken over by wild parties, or falling apart from lack of maintenance. However, it felt good to have something else to focus my energy on, aside from school.

  I’d spent the past six months at home, painting, journaling, spending time with my parents, and simply taking time to breathe. I’d also taken a part time job to start saving some much-needed cash. When I wasn’t doing those, I’d been finding new things to try and explore, finding freedom in spontan
eity.

  My bulletin board and the photos pinned there served as evidence—images of me, Jenn, and Chloe in New Orleans wearing beads and drinking fishbowl-size cocktails; me and Royce at the Texas State Fair wearing cowboy boots with barbeque-stained fingers; me and Christian tubing on Lake Travis; me and Royce on one of many road trips to wherever we could go and explore in a weekend; all of us together for Christmas, wearing Santa hats in front of the little Christmas tree in Chloe and Jenn’s apartment. This had been a memorable holiday, as it also marked the month my uterus and ovaries had begun working again. I’d cried hysterically to wake up that morning to the telltale cramps signaling the start of my period. I’ve never been so happy to have ask someone for a tampon in my life. While my new easel had been a great gift, knowing I wasn’t going to be infertile for the rest of my life had been the best present I could have hoped for.

  One of my favorite photos had been tacked to the center of the board, a photo of me and Royce on either side of Dawn in her parents’ living room in Dallas. We’d taken last weekend to visit her after her release from her rehab program. It would seem Royce had been right; a more rigorous program and new environment had worked wonders for Dawn. While she had gained twenty pounds and had lost the hardened glint in her eye, I was glad to discover she was still the Dawn I’d always known. We promised to keep in touch, and had even begun planning a trip to visit Derek in San Antonio soon.

  I’d had the time of my life, and now I was ready to face the real world again—a world that had once almost crushed me. This time, I was determined to do the crushing. Gazing down at my desk, I found the syllabi for my spring semester courses and felt a little thrill run down my spine at the reminder of the next big adventure awaiting me.

  A knock on my bedroom door brought me back to the present and I went to answer it, finding Kara on the other side.