Moore To Love

by Faith Andrews

  Moore to Love

  Copyright © 2016 by Faith Andrews

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Except the original material written by the author, all songs, song titles and lyrics contained in the book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.

  Cover designed by:

  Najla Qamber Designs

  Interior design and formatting by:

  Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable

  Table of Contents

  Moore to Love

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Faith Andrews

  To my daughters, Julia and Leah. May you always be confident and secure in your beautiful, remarkable, inspiring individuality. Never let anyone make you feel less than the perfection you are. And if by chance someone does, I’ll kick their ass.

  BIG BONED. PLUS-SIZED. JUNK in the trunk. Muffin top. Thunder thighs. Chubster. Fat. I’ve heard it all over the course of my life because, unfortunately, that’s what I am. There’s no two ways around it or my frumpy, jiggly body. I am not the ideal. While the majority of Americans are tipping the scale these days, I’m still not considered the image of flawless beauty and sleek perfection most men desire. How do I know this, you ask? Well, because I’m single. Alone, unloved, unwanted. Twenty-five and on the road to spinsterhood. Heartbreaking, I know. But don’t dwell on it. I don’t. I mean, I guess that’s what I’m doing right now, but that’s only because the bitch in my chair just rudely pointed out the obvious.

  “You have such a pretty face.” I force an unenthusiastic smile, assuming she’ll leave it at that, letting the unspoken words “if you only lost weight” dangle awkwardly between us. But nope. Not this time . . .

  The Barbie doll-looking wench actually takes the liberty to continue. “I bet you could be a model. You know, like for Lane Bryant or, oh!!! What about Hips and Curves? With your cheek bones and trendy style you could . . .” She rambles on and on about my finest qualities, all while sticking it to me about my unavoidable plumpness.

  Nodding and yessing her to death, I go on with my work. Painting her face is effortless. I have a great canvas. Smooth ivory skin, neatly groomed brows, and lips that collagen freaks would pay insane amounts of money for. This chick is everything I wish I was. Blonde, blue-eyed, spunky, beautiful, and most importantly, thin.

  As I brush her lids with a shimmery pink shadow, I allow my insecurities to get the best of me. Thousands of recurring promises to restart a diet, rejoin the gym, and revamp my life jog through my discouraged mind. I’ve been here before. A beautiful girl sits in my chair to be dolled up for a date or a wedding or whatever and I swear to myself I’ll do everything in my power to look more like her.

  But it never works. I don’t have solid motivation. My parents love me as I am—they’re great parents. Great, overweight parents. I’m perfect to them even if I can’t squeeze my ass into a pencil skirt the way I long to. My best friend, Tatum, is the most non-judgmental person in the entire world. She has friends of all races, creeds, and sizes. Her last birthday get-together looked like a meeting between the United Nations and Ringling Brothers. No joke.

  And then there’s me. Don’t get me wrong, I love so many things about my life. My job, my apartment, my family, my friends. Oh, and I have great hair—even if it’s not the color of Goldilocks’ here in my chair. Yes, thank you God for gracing me with a long flowing mane of hazelnut locks, but did you have to give me Mom’s ass and Dad’s sausage fingers? I mean, what do you have against me?

  It’s not God’s fault I’m five foot six and over two hundred and twenty pounds. And I should love myself no matter what. Be proud of my accomplishments and happy for what I do have. Unfortunately, I’m my own worst enemy. Positivity has never been my strong point. And goddamn it, sue me for loving food. I’m Italian. We eat. A lot. It’s a lifestyle. And no amount of burpees or crunches can burn away the nine hundred course meal Mom makes every Sunday without fail. Meatballs, pasta, prosciutto bread. Yum!

  “Hello?” The girl interrupts my drooling. “I think you’re putting on a little too much liner.”

  I have a heavy hand but I know what I’m doing. Her eyes look sick. She should thank me for making the turquoise hue pop even brighter. I step back to appraise what looks like a makeup masterpiece. I’m usually all for what the client wants, but she looks gorgeous and I’d hate to erase what I’ve already done. “Would you mind letting me finish first? I think you’ll really wind up li—”

  “No! I said it’s too much. Tristan hates too much. It’s his birthday and I want to make sure he likes how I look.” She fingers her hair and purses her lips.

  I stop myself from rolling my eyes but try to convince her one more time. “I promise it won’t be too much. In fact, I think your boyfriend will—”

  Miss Prissy Pants releases a haughty laugh, snort and all. “Oh yeah? How would you know? You’re a pretty girl but I don’t see how someone like you would care about impressing anyone else.”

  Whoa. Did she just—? Yeah, she totally went there. I’d love to smack the MAC right off her face, but instead I take a cleansing breath and let it roll off my too-wide shoulders. Kill her with kindness, Leni. The customer’s always right. “Of course. I’m sorry. Let me just grab some remover.” I ignore the vein throbbing at my temple, telling me to get the tweezers and pluck this girl’s brows to smithereens.

  When I return to bitchface she’s staring at herself in the vanity mirror, admiring my work. She likes it. I can tell. Usually when a client is unhappy they avoid the mirror after the first glance. She’s turning her head to see her makeup at every angle. I might not look like her but that doesn’t mean I’m not good at what I do.

  “Um, you sure you don’t want to keep it? If you like it, that’s what matters. Don’t settle for less just to impress your man.” I don’t know what’s come over me or why I’m being so persistent but it has to have something to do with the irony of the situation. She’s drop dead gorgeous, with or without makeup, and yet here she is worried about looking the way her boyfriend prefers. If she’s not secure in her own skin, how can someone like me ever be?

  She takes one more look, focusing her attention on the beautiful mixture of colors I’ve applied to her eyes. I expect her to storm out of my chair and demand a refund or another makeup art
ist, but to my surprise, she smiles and says, “You know what? You’re right. It does look pretty awesome, if you ask me. Continue. I’m sorry I was such a bitch.”

  And with that, my faith in humanity is restored. It’s not every day someone who looks like her is as nice on the inside as they are on the eyes. I smile back and keep on with my bad self and my mad cosmetology skills.

  “Mom, Dad, Leni? You guys here?” My brother, Reynold, bursts through my parents’ house, bellowing like, well, like Reynold. He’s always making an entrance, no matter what the event. Today just happens to be any other ordinary Sunday dinner, but in true Reynold style he stumbles in like Cosmo Kramer and steals the attention of everyone around him.

  “My baby boy!” Mom runs over to him and squeezes his cheeks. They’re covered in dark, prickly scruff. He’s been growing out his beard and taking the whole men-with-hair-do-it-better movement by the balls. I can’t blame him; it totally suits him. He’s really good looking and, geez, does he know it.

  “Smells good, Ma. What time’s dinner?” He beelines it to the stove and lifts the lid off the big pot to take a peek.

  Mom scurries over and slaps his hand. “Leave it! And don’t touch the bread. Your sister already ate half a loaf. Save some for dinner.”

  “Leni, I thought you were doing the no carb thing. What happened, babe?” Reynold sits next to me at the kitchen table, kissing my round cheek and punching me in the arm.

  “I tried but carbs make me happy. Sorry not sorry.”

  “No, Leni! Carbs are the enemy. I gave you the list of the good ones. Come on! We’ve been over this a million times. Cut them out and you’ll see a huge difference.”

  Leave it to my younger, in shape, muscular brother, to try to school me in the weight loss department. I know he means well and he has a point, but I’m not in the mood. “Can we not today? Please? For once? I just want to enjoy my pasta and my loaf of bread and be left alone.” I had a rough morning—as in I ripped a pair of my favorite leggings pulling them up over my bubble butt—and I’m in desperate need of food therapy. Believe me, I know how ridiculous that sounds, but fuck off.

  “Suit yourself, but you’ll want to up your game soon,” he sings, wiggling in his chair like he used to when he was a kid with an entertaining story to tell.

  “And why’s that?” I prod, wondering what the hell he’s up to.

  “Where’s Dad? I wanted to wait for dinner to tell you guys, but I’m too excited.”

  “In the living room watching the game. Dad! Come in here, the Golden Child has news!” I holler in the direction of the den, envisioning Dad’s huff as he hauls himself off the couch.

  My father enters the kitchen, rubbing his beer belly. “This better be good. The Jets are finally coming back. Josie, can you grab me another cold one?”

  My mom does as asked—good Italian wife that she is—and then joins us at the table to pet and adore her wonderful son. “So, what’s up, Rey?”

  “Yeah, what does any of your news have to do with me abandoning my beloved carbs?” I ask, curiosity eating away at me. I wish it would eat away ten pounds while it’s at it.

  “This!” Reynold pulls a black, velvet box from his pocket and slams it down on the table. He opens the square with a tiny squeak and a two-carat, princess cut diamond ring glistens under the light of Mom’s Tiffany chandelier like a Baby-Jesus-in-the-manger miracle.

  Mom gasps. “Oh, my baby boy! How wonderful! When? How? What can I cook?”

  I shake my head. Now do you see why my life revolves around food? My mother’s had a menu set in her head for everything from our baptisms to the day I got my first period.

  “Calm your buns, Ma. I haven’t figured out how I’m going to ask her yet, but I’ll probably do it tonight. I can’t hold on to this thing knowing it’s not on her finger.” My brother’s face beams with happiness. Reynold’s been dating his girlfriend, Ashley, for three years now. I’m certain she was designed with my brother in mind. Not only are they perfect for each other, but she fits in with our family, too. We all love her. She’s a doll—like a real, live, blow up doll. Not the slutty kind, the flawless from head to toe kind. No, Ashley’s gorgeous, sexy, smart, refined. I want to hate her for it, but I can’t because she’s the sister I never had. Besides Tatum, of course.

  I jump up and throw my arms around my brother. “Wow, Rey! This is amazing! I’m so happy for you!” I truly am. I don’t have one jealous bone in my body. I mean, it’s completely normal for your younger brother to tie the knot before you do. It’s absolutely acceptable for your parents to dote on him and his soon-to-be fiancé as if the sun rises and sets in their beauty. It’s positively okay that I’ll be forced to jam my ass into a couture bridesmaid gown.

  Reality sets in. That jealousy I swore I didn’t feel creeps up on me, too. “Hey, Ma. No pasta for me today, okay?”

  Reynold nudges me with his burly shoulder and chuckles. “That’s my girl! I’m proud of you!”

  And just like that, I start my one millionth crash diet, praying that this time something will keep me going and magically melt the pounds away.

  HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT the many excruciating weight loss journeys of Madeline Moore? No? Oh boy! Pull up a chair. This is gonna be fun.

  When I was twelve, my parents sent me to Fat Camp. Yes. It exists. Lake Wanna-Losa-Poundsa. Okay, I’m joking about the name, but not about the torture I endured. Drill sergeant-like camp counselors who count calories and track your cardio minutes. Mean girls taunting you even though their triple chins far surpass your double chin. Horny, pre-pubescent boys eager to get their hands on chubby titties and jiggly asses. It. Was. A. Nightmare. I still hold a grudge against my parents for sending me, even if it was just one summer. That one summer scarred me for life. This one time, at Fat Camp . . .

  Yeah, I survived and lived to laugh about it, but that was the year I realized that my size was an issue. Up until that point, I’d been okay with being the bigger girl. Tatum was a string bean and I was a . . . potato. There was nothing wrong with that. In fact, string bean and red potato salad is scrumptious with some olive oil and balsamic vinegar. However, it was the year when the great divide happened. The pretty girls vs. the not pretty girls. Tatum fell effortlessly into the first category; curly blond hair, dainty turned-up nose, chestnut colored eyes, and a tiny, perky body. Because of my portliness, I settled in comfortably on the other side of the tracks.

  It wasn’t blatant. The boys hung around me because I was good at sports and had a funny sense of humor, and although they always called me cute, I was chubby. That alone landed me in the reject pile. Along with Caroline Hartnett and her mouth full of braces and Helen Chaney who was notorious for showering once a month, when it came time for spin the bottle, the boys prayed they didn’t get stuck with me. Whatever. I was a late bloomer. I couldn’t care less about how boys felt or didn’t feel about me. Then. But once I was home from Fat Camp . . . let’s just say, I’d seen the light.

  Years after that fiasco, in high school, I tried out for the part of Juliet in our school’s performance of, yup, you guessed it, Romeo and Juliet. I was more than fit for the part. A true Shakespeare nerd at her finest, I could recite that poetic work of art like it was nobody’s business. Our chorus director had written a few original songs to bring the play up to date, and my angelic singing voice—to quote Mrs. Lopez, herself—was practically tailored to every note in every song.

  After my own stellar audition, Anthony Ricciardelli, the tenth grade stud, aced his tryout and was chosen as Romeo on the spot. He was a shoe-in; it wasn’t a surprise. Every teacher in the school knew him, loved him, and treated him like an Adonis. In turn, every girl in the school did the same. So when Anthony became our Romeo, it was common knowledge that he would have first pick of his Juliet. The obvious choice should have been me. As I said before, my audition rocked. But, in true fat-girl-loses-every-time fashion, he chose Rebecca Grady—tall, blonde, skinny, and with as much talent as a cardboard box. I later heard l
ocker room gossip that Anthony refused to work alongside the fat chick with the pretty voice.

  It was heartbreaking, like everything at that age is. I wanted to crawl under a rock and die. After I devoured a box of Twinkies. Anthony Ricciardelli thought I was fat so that meant the whole school would agree like sheep following a teenage boy’s herd.

  I remember staring in the mirror in my bedroom, crying. With a package of Yodels in one hand and the garbage pail in the other, I vowed to myself that I would try. I was pretty. I was talented. I had plenty of friends. The only thing stopping me was my weight. The very next day, I went to the corner drug store and grabbed the first diet pills I could find off the shelf. The young clerk sold them to me without question. I assumed he agreed with my decision. Fat girl needs to lose weight. Fine by me.

  But it wasn’t fine. At all. The pills curbed my hunger, but made my heart race. I lost ten pounds in a week and the same day I got on the scale to relish in my achievement, I passed out in gym class because I was dehydrated and starving. Talk about drama. My mother almost killed me after they brought me back to life, and my brother was mortified. Only a year younger than me, we shared the same school and similar cliques. Word spread that Reynold’s sister had overdosed on Sibutramine, and while most couldn’t even pronounce the word, it was gossip. Negative gossip. My own brother refused to be seen with me for the rest of his entire freshman year. Yeah, good times.

  And that leads me to my adult years. I never scored in high school. While Tatum was having the time of her life banging guys from the football, lacrosse, and baseball teams—not all at once—and Reynold had his pick of every cutie from here to kingdom come, I flew solo to every single milestoneish event there was. Prom—alone. Graduation parties—alone. College frat parties—alone. By the time I was nineteen, I had grown comfortable in my skin. Okay, maybe not comfortable, but I learned to accept it. A Size 2 would never be in my future, but I did long for a man as part of it.

  Sick and tired of feeling sorry for myself, I started working out at the campus gym. In accordance to a strict regimen from Reynold, I followed a clean diet and stuck to an hour of cardio five times a week. It was working. My normal, scale-tipping 220 melted to just shy of 170. It was my lowest weight ever. I was on top of the world. Ready to try my luck at dating and putting myself out there. I could fit in trendy clothes and smile without worrying about scrutiny. I knew I’d risen above my negative aura when someone at the gym made a snarky remark; something along the lines of how The Biggest Loser was one of her favorite shows. I shrugged it off, because I was no longer a loser. I was a winner. That was my new attitude.