Walking Dick

by Candi Heart

  A purse took shape under my pencil. I added a pocket to it, and looked down at the doodle, wondering if I’d ever get a chance to actually see any of them come to life anywhere but the little craft room in my apartment.

  I’d tried to show the drafts to Novak, and when that didn’t work, to one of the other senior designers, but of course neither of them had time for me. Honestly, I didn’t blame Richards. It wasn’t his fault that the boss wanted nothing to do with any of my project proposals. He’d just been toeing the company line. But that knowledge didn’t make rejection any easier. Part of me wondered if maybe they just weren’t any good, if maybe I was deluding myself by believing that they had promise.

  But I knew my fashion. I knew what looked good, and what was on trend. And my purses were good.

  “Emilie!” Novak called my name.

  I sighed, tucking the doodle into my desk drawer, then got up to go see what he wanted.

  Chapter 2

  IT WAS A TWENTY-MINUTE subway ride from midtown to my little corner of the East Village. I picked at the bagel I’d grabbed on the way from the studio to the subway stop, wondering if maybe I should’ve waited for dinner. Briefly, I considered just making the bagel dinner, but the hollow in my stomach warned me that if I didn’t get something more substantial, I’d be venturing out of my apartment again for food before I could fall asleep, and I was more than ready to settle down with some Netflix and not come out of hibernation until Monday.

  I tried not to let the confirmation of my suspicions get to me, but that was easier said than done. As I sat on the hard bench seat, swaying with the motion of the train, my thoughts kept turning back to the look on Jenna’s face when I’d suggested that my cousin was holding me back because of my weight.

  I could leave the company. I knew, even as the thought crossed my mind, that it was wishful thinking at best. People who could do what I was doing for Novak were a dime a dozen in New York City.

  It had been hard enough looking for a job the first time. Doing it again—starting all over at a new company—would be a risk. Would it be better to try and catch the eye of someone who wasn’t already set against me, or would it throw me back to square one?

  Then there was my mother to consider. I pushed myself up from the seat as the train came to a stop at the Astor Place Station, huffing a laugh under my breath. Explaining to Adrienne Swan why I was cutting and running on a relative, however distant the emotional connection, would be the advent of World War III.

  I crumpled the bag from the bagel in my hand, tossing it in the trash as I exited the station. The walk from Aster Place to my apartment was a short one, though I made it a little longer by ducking into the 2 Bros on the next block over for a pizza pie.

  Stepping into my apartment felt like a weight coming off my shoulders. It was good to be home, away from the eyes and expectations of the world. I sank down onto my bed, kicking my heels off with a little sigh of relief. A moment later, I was standing up again, slipping out of the clothes I’d worn to work.

  My gaze caught on my reflection in the mirror that stood against the wall across from the bed. I paused in reaching for a pair of pajama pants. For a long moment, I stared into the glass, eyes moving over the curves of my belly, my hips, and the breadth of my thighs.

  Turning away, I grabbed up the pants and pulled them on. I added a T-shirt as well, and picked up my laptop from the desk. Having all I needed, I crawled into bed. While I waited for the computer to boot up, I grabbed a slice of pizza from the box and took a bite out of it, groaning with pleasure. It was good pizza. So good!

  The laptop grumbled to life, and I opened the browser, staring at the homepage. Maybe, I thought as I looked at the empty search bar, it was time to go on a diet.

  I’d tried one once, when I was younger. It hadn’t gone particularly well. But maybe I just hadn’t tried hard enough. Or maybe I hadn’t found the right plan. I typed ‘weight loss group’ into the search box and ate another bite of pizza while the results loaded.

  It amused me a little that I was looking up how to lose weight while stuffing my face with pizza. There was probably something a little ironic about that. But if I was going to give up everything delicious for the next however many months, I was going to have one last, good meal.

  There were millions of pages for weight loss groups. I scrolled slowly through them, feeling overwhelmed by the sheer volume of options. How did I know which one was the right one?

  Her eye caught on a name: Curvy Hips and Sexy Lips.

  I liked that name. It didn’t have the kind of shaming vibe that some of the other ones had. My hand moved on the mouse and clicked the link for the page.

  TRY FREE FOR THIRTY DAYS, read the banner across the top, promising that if I wasn’t satisfied with the results of the diet plan, I wouldn’t be risking my wallet. With a shrug, I put my email address in and then navigated around the page, noticing they had an online support group, consisting of message boards and real-life meet-ups, depending on your location. I thought that was pretty cool. Then I went to my email and followed the link to the meal plan the site had made for me.

  It didn’t look too bad, actually. No more pizza for a while, but there were recipes I could see myself eating. Making them in my tiny kitchen might be kind of a feat, but I could probably manage it. There were exercise ideas, too, most of them for a gym, but some of them thankfully for doing at home, though I’d have to be careful with that. The neighbors were likely to come knocking if I was jumping around too much. Maybe I’d just do some walking for now.

  However I did it, I decided I would get it done. That was all there was to it. As long as I was determined enough, it had to work.

  I’m not doing this for anyone else but me. Not for work. Not for my mother. Not because of comments tossed my way. For me only.

  I picked up another slice of pizza and navigated away from the diet page, although I bookmarked it first so I would be able to get to it quickly in the morning. It would probably be a good idea to make a shopping list and go get some groceries. Usually, I didn't cook, but I did okay as long as I had something telling me the steps. If I turned out to be terrible at it, I could buy salads or something.

  My cousin was going to see I could motivate myself. Maybe then, he would finally let me have more responsibility. Let me actually do something with the degree I had and the years of experience in his company.

  It would be nice to be something other than an errand girl.

  Sighing, I opened Netflix and settled in for some relaxation. The rest of it could come in the morning. I deserved another slice of pizza, and a bit of rest.

  Chapter 3

  FOR ONCE I WASN'T WOKEN by the strident beep of my alarm clock or the sound of my phone going off, demanding I come running in to work on the weekend. I rolled onto my back and smiled up at the ceiling, stretching luxuriously. When was the last time I’d had a chance to wake up when I wanted? More than a month ago, definitely.

  The plan for the day, I decided as I got in the shower, would be to eat something, and then go out and do my shopping. I could walk a little extra—not take the subway. That would be a good chance to exercise. When I got out, I smiled at myself in the mirror. It was a brand new day, and I intended to make the most of it.

  First, though, breakfast. The recipe guide on the website recommended fruit and whole grain toast, or a smoothie, but I didn't have any of those things. Besides, I had to get rid of the pizza, right? I pulled it out of the fridge and ate the last of it, telling myself it would be the last I would have until I lost the weight.

  After I’d eaten, I dressed, pulling on a pair of flats instead of heels. They looked cute with my jeans and tunic, I decided, regarding myself skeptically in the mirror for a moment. And the weather was nice out, so at least I wouldn't have to worry about getting rained on.

  I was humming to myself when I left my apartment. Around me, other people went about their days, and I found myself wondering, as I sometimes did, where they were go
ing. What was their Saturday like?

  There was a little shop where I could get some cooking necessities just down the street, but as I turned toward it, I changed my mind. It would be better to get groceries later so I wouldn't have to carry them all over the place. So anything that needed to stay cold wouldn't be out in the warm summer sun. There were a couple other stops to make first.

  I ended up getting on the subway after all. There was a bit of a walk, then there was a stupid distance on foot, and my favorite shop for purses was a good distance away. Sometimes, I went there just to look at what they had, decide whether I would have sent something like that out for sale or not. Or to see what people were buying. It was a smart idea to keep track of sales patterns.

  Sometimes, though, I went to get myself a little something new. A little pick-me-up. And considering the week I’d had, one of those wouldn't go amiss.

  As I walked through the door, the saleslady looked up and smiled at me. “Emilie!” she gushed. “How nice to see you again.”

  I smiled in return, lifting my hand in a little wave, though I was already turning my attention to the new arrivals.

  “Can I help you with anything?”

  “Just looking for now, Danielle. Thank you, though.”

  “If you need anything, just let me know,” Danielle said warmly, and then she was gone, off to help someone else.

  The fact that all the salespeople knew me by name was probably a sign that I spent too much time in this store, I reflected as I ran my fingertips over the smooth leather of the purse in front of me. But then, was there really such a thing as spending too much time looking at what you loved? It wasn't like it was totally wasted time, either. I was doing research for work. Or at least that was the best excuse.

  I laughed at myself, shaking my head. The purse was a cute one, compact and well-designed, but it wasn't exactly what I was looking for. There was already more than one black purse in my wardrobe. No. I needed something with a little more color.

  My eyes moved to the next. It looked, I thought, almost like something I would’ve designed. Maybe a little bit more utilitarian. The designer and I must have had similar ideas. A sign, I thought, that my work would succeed out in the real world. Or maybe one that I needed to come up with more unique ideas.

  The room smelled like new leather and a little like lavender. I breathed in the scent of it, so familiar and comforting. Here, it didn't matter what Novak was doing or that he treated me like a second-year intern instead of an experienced designer. It didn't matter what I weighed. It was just me and the purses. I drifted through the room, feeling some of the tension of the rough week ease out of my shoulders.

  More than a few of the purses were well out of my price range. I looked longingly at the Chanel bags. One day, I promised myself. When I was a real designer. Then I’d have my own Chanel purse. Or several of them. But there were other options, and for the moment those would have to do.

  Honestly, I could have stayed there all day. Or longer. I’d thought, once, on a particularly bad day, about applying for a job there so I could be in the store all the time, but my previous ventures into retail hadn't been pleasant, and I had worried that having to stand behind the counter and put up with customers would ruin my enjoyment. It wasn't exactly a fast track to the career I was trying to build, either.

  There. I stopped suddenly, my eyes catching on a little blue bag which sat on the display to my right. That was the one I wanted, I decided instantly. It would add just the right pop of color to a few of my nicer outfits, and I could carry it on more casual days for a bit of fun. Crossing the space between myself and it, I reached out and ran my hand over the surface, feeling the quality of the leather. A quick glance at the price tag made me wince a little, but it wasn't too bad, and I could always stay out of clothing stores for a few weeks.

  The stitching looked good, and I opened it up to check that there wasn't anything shoddy about the workmanship on the inside. Not that the shop I was in would sell shoddy work, but I always looked. It was as well made as I had expected from the rest of it, and I pulled one of the bags for sale off the shelf, glancing a little regretfully at the purses I wouldn't be able to take with me, and made my way up to the register to pay.

  “Find what you were looking for?” Danielle asked, smiling at me.

  “I always do,” I answered.

  With the new purse tucked safely into a shopping bag, I headed for the subway and my apartment. Groceries were next.

  Looking for clothes or accessories was easy. Emilie knew those. I knew how to check for quality, and what I wanted. Grocery shopping was harder.

  It wasn't that I didn't know how to shop for groceries; it was just that I hadn't gone for more than a few snack items in a long time. My mother had been insistent that I learn how to calculate price per ounce so that I could get the best deal, and at least I remembered how to do that. Knowing exactly what to get was the real problem, and I was more than a little grateful for the shopping list I’d put on my phone thanks to the Sexy Lips & Curvy Lips diet plan that had been sent to me.

  Still, the grocery store felt strange. Foreign. Not like the shops I usually frequented. I strolled through narrow aisles, picking up things for the recipes I would be making over the next few days. The site had recommended I shop a week in advance so that meal planning would be easier, but my fridge was small and I thought it might be better to get fresh fruit more frequently anyway.

  Loaded up with purchases, I walked back to my apartment. I was panting by the time I arrived, not used to walking so far with so much to carry, but I made it up the stairs just fine and set about sorting the groceries into the fridge and the cabinets. My stomach rumbled loudly.

  Now, I thought, looking over the kitchen, came the hard part.

  My mother had taught me how to cook a few basics when I was younger, but unlike my sister, I had never really been that interested in learning. I had always been far more enthused about playing dress-up. I’d listened to my grandmother's sewing lessons with rapt attention. Standing in front of the counter with chicken and vegetables spread out in front of me, I wished I’d listened at least a little bit more to my mother. It couldn't be that hard, though. People made chicken and broccoli all the time. I could manage it.

  The broccoli, it turned out, was a little more difficult than I’d expected it to be, and I was pretty sure I’d overcooked it at least a little, but it didn't taste terrible, even if it was a little plain. After a moment, I got up and took some Parmesan cheese out of the fridge, sprinkling it over the vegetables. It was a little bit outside the diet, but oh well. The chicken had come out better, and I found myself enjoying it more than I thought I would. Knowing that I’d made the food myself, and it had been edible, felt good. I was pretty proud of myself, actually. The diet thing was going to be a walk in the park.

  End of Sample.

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