by Billie Dale
“You are invited to join Paul George and the visiting Stephen Curry as they take the court for pregame warm-ups. Arrive at Banker’s Life Field House at 6 p.m., to partake in this wonderful opportunity.”
I’m speechless, gasping puffs of air from my mouth opening and closing are the only sounds in the room. I need a minute to register what I read.
“You get to play ball with them, Kohl. I don’t know who those players are but the man that sold me the tickets assured me you would know them and be one happy man,” she explains proudly.
Grabbing her around the waist I jerk her to my body, crushing my lips to hers. Begging her mouth for entrance with my tongue pushing at the seam. Tongues and teeth collide, hands flying everywhere and anywhere. When oxygen leaves my body and a moan leaves hers I pull back. Her face is flushed, her eyes are lustfully half open, her pupils huge, her lips red from my bruising kiss. Her chest heaving with each rapid breath.
“W-w-what was that for?” she asks, bringing her hand to her cherry lips.
“This is the best gift anyone has ever gotten me. I can’t believe you did this. How did you do this? This must have cost a fortune,” I acknowledge, stepping back to put some space between us before I grab her again to thank her more thoroughly with my tongue between her thighs.
Shrugging she responds, “Archer, from the coffee shop, helped me. His dad had some connections within the Pacer’s organization. He was able to set it all up for me and he’s going to take a little bit every week out of my check.”
I love the gift she got me, but when she says Archer helped her get it, rage filters through my blood. Archer Boyd is the last man I want to help Ten. His reputation on campus is worse than mine. He’s a known playboy with his boyish charm and sweet artist demeanor, I don’t want him sniffing around my Tennie Girl.
“Are you okay? Your face is red and I can see your pulse pounding in your neck.”
Shaking out the rage, “I’m fine, I just don’t know how to thank you for this. This is everything. I have dreamed of seeing the Pacer’s since I was a little boy learning to dribble the ball. I wanted to be the next Reggie Miller. He was my idol.”
“Seeing you this happy is all the thanks I need.”
“You’re going with me, right?”
“You want me to go to the game with you? I don’t know anything about basketball.”
“I wouldn’t want to share it with anyone else.”
“Really,” she asks with a smile. “I would love to go.”
“I’m still at a loss for words,” stunned shaking my head, “But you need to FaceTime Ronnie. She insisted once you were up and moving you contact her so she can give you her gift.”
Grabbing her phone, she pulls up her contacts and presses Ronnie’s name, the signature jingle fills the room until it connects and Ronnie’s face lights up the screen.
“Hey, baby girl. How are you feeling this morning?”
“This morning was rough. I’m starting to feel a little less like a blob of goo on the floor but I still have a marching band playing in my head. Remind me to never drink that much again. I’m glad that Kohl stopped in this morning to peel me off the bathroom floor or I would probably still be dying there.”
Laughing, Ronnie questions skeptically, “Kohl came in this morning?”
“Yes, he was here to witness the purging of all things peppermint and then some, from my body.”
“Kohl?”
Stepping behind Ten so she can see us both on the screen, I try as hard as I can to convey to Ronnie, with my eyes, not to divulge the truth about my arrival last night. Ronnie knows I was here because I responded to a text she sent to Ten asking how she was doing after she passed out. “Yes, I’m here.”
“In the drawer beside my bed is a little blue box, could you get it and give to Ten please?”
Moving across the room I grab the box she described out of the drawer, walking it back and handing it to Tensanne.
“Open it,” she instructs.
Pulling the bow, Ten opens the box. Pushing her glasses up on her nose in the cute way she does, she removes a sheet of paper from the box. Her eyes move to the sheet then to Ronnie on the screen, her forehead crinkled and lips pursed in confusion, she asks, “Ronnie, what is this?”
“What does it say it is?” I ask.
Reading the card, she mumbles, “You have an appointment set for Monday, December 29 at 8 a.m. with Doctor Greg Camp D.O. for an eye exam and contact fitting. Also, available to be scheduled at the patient’s discretion is LASIK surgery.” Her eyes widen, moving to me and back to the phone, “What exactly am I reading Ronnie?”
“You have an appointment Monday morning to get contacts. Then, as a gift from my dad, if you are interested, you can schedule LASIK surgery so you should never have to wear glasses again. If you decide to not do the surgery, you are supposed to ask for the money to be refunded and my dad said you are to take the money and buy yourself something great. It’s not to be spent on anything you need; you have been ordered to buy something frivolous,” she beams.
Tears stream down her cheeks, “This is too much. I can’t accept this.”
“You can and you will. You know my dad never takes no for an answer. He expects to see you at the party Wednesday night sans glasses. Did Kohl give you his gift?”
Wiping her cheeks, sniffling her nose, she responds, “Yes, I’m going tomorrow to get fitted for the dress.”
“Good, good. Wednesday morning, I will come get you and together we will go and get my gift to you. We are spending the morning at the spa. Complete make-overs and royalty treatment for both of us. Head to toe pampering. I promise to have you back in time for Kohl to pick you up.”
“I have to go, Ron. I need be at work in an hour. I have no idea how to thank you and your dad for this. I will give my gift to you when I see you this week. I love you, Ron. Hug your dad for me and I will see you soon,” she says blowing a kiss to the screen.
“I’m overwhelmed. I don’t know what to say,” she whispers to me wiping her face and taking a deep breath, “I need to get ready to make coffee for the masses.”
Pulling her to me, I embrace her in a huge squeezing bear hug. “I need to get my mom’s car back. Make sure you get to the dress store in the morning. Will you be ok here, by yourself?”
“Yes, big brother Kohl. I will be fine here by myself. I can always hang out with Archer and Leah or I can call Wren and see what he’s doing.”
My thoughts are anything but that of a big brother, a growl rumbles out at the thought of her spending more time with Archer and I don’t want her near Wren.
Mine, she is mine, my inner caveman rages.
“I can come back. I’ll take mom’s car back and have them drive me back to campus. I can be back before you get off work.”
“No, absolutely not. You enjoy the rest of break. Spend time with your family, I will see you New Year’s, Eve. I will be fine, Kohl.”
“Fine,” I pout, kissing her on the cheek. I leave. My mind telling me I need to stay. My body urging me to take her to bed and never crawl out. I do neither.
Chapter Fifteen
When life gives you lemons, you say screw it and drink coffee.
—Tensanne staring into her cup
Tensanne
“HEY, LEAH?” I ask, adding an espresso shot to the latte I’m making, “Have you ever been in that dress store downtown?”
“Mirage?” Leah asks,“The one that custom makes dresses?”
Nodding my head in confirmation, she continues, “Yes, they also sell on-the-rack dresses. I stopped in last year searching for a dress to wear to a dinner party. I was shocked when they were all a size two and less. I asked the clerk if they had anything in a larger size. She had the audacity to frown at me and inform me they can alter any dress. So, I picked one, she started the alterations and then told me it would be impossible to let the dress out far enough to fit me and maybe I should try a department store in the next town over,” she says her
eyes wide in mock horror.
“I was mortified. I mean, I’m a size eight and she was implying that I was too fat for their dresses. I left and have never been back,” she finishes with a shrug. “Why do you ask?”
“Kohl bought me a gift certificate to have a dress made for New Year’s Eve. I’m a lot bigger than a size eight. I hope they can fit me,” I say handing the customer his coffee ignoring his “thank you” as he walks away. My mind fretting that the dress store will tell me I, too, am too fat.
“I wouldn’t stress about it. It is a custom-made dress. Surely they have clients who order dresses that are larger than a size two.”
With a forced smile, I turn to take an order from the next customer. “Hi, what can I get for you?”
“Did I hear you say Kohl bought you a dress from Mirage?” the sharp tongue she-beast says leering at me.
“That was a private conversation. What would you like to drink?” I ask trying to ignore her judging eyes raking me up and down.
“You’re lying,” she spews, spraying my face with spittle. “There is no way Kohl bought you a dress; or anything, for that matter. We all see you tagging along with him to the fitness center, helping him in the library. He pities you, ya know?” she pauses for her venom to settle into my head. “He was at a party hooking up with my friend Jill two weeks ago. You’re a charity case who can help him pass his classes. When your usefulness runs out you’ll see. Honestly, honey, you shouldn’t lie to people about mythical gifts. A fat ass like you could never attract a man like Kohl,” she finishes with a smug smile on her bitchy face.
“You need to leave. Now,” I hear from behind my shoulder, making me jump. Archer has once again come to my rescue. Though I appreciate it, I was ready to take care of this bitch myself.
“You’re kicking me out?” she bellows in disbelief, “But, but, I haven’t gotten my coffee yet,” she whines in a high-pitched howl.
“I suggest you find a new shop to get your coffee. You’re no longer welcome here,” he says pointing to the sign behind the counter that reads ‘We reserve the right to refuse service to any patron’.
Huffing, she slings her purse on her shoulder, mutters obscenities under her breath and stomps out of the shop.
“Archer, you have to quit kicking people out because of me. If you throw out every rude person on campus, there won’t be anyone left to buy coffee here,” I chuckle.
“I will continue to ban every person who wants to be an asshole. If people can’t be decent human beings, I don’t want them in my store. Prejudice is prejudice, no matter how it’s packaged. People judge you because they see you as a heavy person. Someone not as appealing to the eye as a thin person. That’s bullshit,” he bellows, his nostrils flaring.
“Rather than take the opportunity to get to know someone, they judge on sight alone. Honestly, it’s not even eyesight they’re judging on. Take you, for example,” he says waving his hand up and down toward me. “You’re a heart-stopping, young woman with rocking curves and curious eyes. Getting to know you is the icing on the cake. Jealousy is what’s fueling these people. You have something they want. Something they covet and it’s eating them up. These hateful people’s only response is to let venom spill from their mouths.”
Taking a big breath, I clarify, “They’re not jealous, Archer. Attraction is based on our senses. We must find something or someone physically enticing before we want to get to know them or want to buy it. Do they smell good? Are they appealing to the eyes? Do we feel a spark when we touch? It’s rare for people to get to know each other before seeing them. We see something we want, we pursue it. Simple as that. It’s kind of like trying a new food. When you first experience it, you will either love it or hate it. If you love it, you will love it always. If you hate it, you can learn to appreciate its taste but you will never love it.”
Grinning with his eyes lit with pride, “Spoken in true psychobabble; you will make a great psychologist,”, he states.
“I don’t want to be a shrink. I want to understand how the brain works. Study the factors that make us who we are. Thank you again for standing up for me,” I correct wrapping him in a hug.
“You’re a wonderful person. You need to see it and stand up for yourself,” he mumbles into my hair. “Haters are everywhere in this world. They will judge you for your race, your religion, your sexual preference—anything that makes you feel less than you are. Be stronger, be braver; don’t hide, don’t settle, be an Amazonian and make this world yours,” sighing sadly, he heads back to his office.
After my shift, I lay in my bed replaying everything in my head. My heart bleeds for Archer; he feels he must hide who he loves because he’s afraid of his family and friends. He’s unable to be openly gay, to embrace who he really is. Ironic that he wants me to stand up for myself when he can’t do it. Maybe helping me will help him see that he too needs to fight for what he wants.
My brain is consumed with the words of that venomous girl, the things she said about Kohl hooking up with her friend.
My head knows that we’re not together, that we’re only friends. My heart missed the memo and it’s wrenching me in half thinking he was with someone else. He’s a young, attractive man with sex being thrown at him all the time. Part of me secretly hoped he wasn’t screwing anyone, a small figment of me thought he might be starting to have feelings for me that extending beyond friendship. The sweltering kiss we shared on Christmas is on a constant loop in my head. The explosion of electricity when our mouths met, I can’t get the feeling of his warm lips pressed against mine, out of my thoughts.
Is he my friend or does he pity me, like she said? Jealousy over other girls, angry at myself for feeling something for someone like him, and hurt that he might not care consumes me until I fall into a fitful sleep. My dreams coming in like an episode of Cheaters.
I wake to the alarm on my phone, groggily I shuffle to get some coffee. The dreams from last night plaguing my mind. Picking up my potion bottle to add my daily dose, I glance to the second bottle. The one the lady said would show true intentions. Picking it up, I roll it around in my hand, an idea forming.
If I give this to Kohl, will he reveal why he’s really hanging out with me? Do I honestly want to know? Would he consider using this a violation?
Shaking my head, I set it back on my desk. I’m going to trust my instincts and trust that Kohl is legit. Plus, there is a little voice in the back of my head begging me to keep things as they are. Getting dressed quickly, I grab my purse and make my way, via Uber, downtown to Mirage.
The storefront is glitter and sparkles. The word Mirage over the door lit up with twinkles, shining in the sun. Headless mannequins in the window showcase glorious elegant dresses with jewels and trains. A jingle, announces my presence when I enter the door. A woman, maybe in her fifties, is behind the counter. She’s elegant in a cream-colored pencil skirt suit. Adorned with diamonds on her fingers, a Rolex watch on her wrist and expensive stilettos on her feet. I’m not knowing with fashion but this lady screams sophistication.
Her smile is warm when she greets me, “Hello, hello; you must be Tensanne.”
“Uh, yes. How did you know?”
“Your young man described you well,” she winks. “Come in, come in. I’m Mrs. Brandt. Let’s get started,” she beams, taking my hand, leading me back to a room full of mirrors.
“My young man?” I question, cringing at my reflection surrounding me.
“Yes, dear. The attractive young man who came to buy your dress said you were gorgeous, with amazing curves and wonderfully long legs. His exact words were “Baby’s got back.”
A laugh burst from my lips from his description and the elegant way Sir Mix-A-Lot’s lyrics come from her lips. Feeling my blushing from my head to my toes, “Kohl said that?” I ask.
“Yes, he’s very sweet on you. Now, do you know what kind of dress you would like?”
I stagger for a moment at her comment. Hope blooming inside that he might be ‘sweet on
me’.
“I’ve never worn a real dress.”
“Never?” she gasps.
“I’m more of a yoga pants kind of person,” I shrug, fidgeting with the bottom of my t-shirt.
Crinkling her nose, “Those pants are the worst invention ever. Shapeless, stretchy, wastes of fabric. Now, what size are you?”
Shrugging off her assessment of yoga pants, I briefly study my body, “I’m not sure, maybe a size eighteen?”
Reaching for a tape measure, she wraps it around my waist then slides it down to my hips, “My darling girl you are way off. Your waist is a size twelve and your hips a size fourteen. What size jeans do you wear?”
“I don’t own a pair of jeans.”
Eyes wide. “No,” she huffs, “You’re joking? You wear these shapeless pants all the time? No wonder you don’t know what size you are. You must buy yourself a great pair of jeans. Jeans can accent your legs, your backside, and your small waste. You must get a good quality pair to fit correctly.”
Taking a step back, she analyzes me, walking around me. She completes the circle, beaming, “I know the perfect dress for you,” she gushes rushing through a door in the back of the room.
With mirrors surrounding me, I take stock of what I see. My shirt pulled up above my waist where she measured me. Peering very hard at the woman in the reflection. My eyes more judgmental than anyone else. I see, for the first time, a person that is not repulsive. I see the extensive length of my legs, long and quite toned from the hours I have spent on the elliptical. Glancing at the mirror behind me, I gaze over the shape of my butt. No longer sagging but round and perky. My waist is small and indented at the top of my hips, I still have a soft belly but it’s almost cute, I think. Up, my eyes move to my chest, it has decreased some in size but still a huge mountainous lump on my upper body. Though, with the right bra, I think I might like these huge twins.
What I see staring back at me, is me. All of me. I like what I see. The woman staring back at me is a person I’m learning to love. Lumps, bumps and all.
