She comes to a conclusion, apparently, bestowing a giant grin on me. “It’s that word, isn’t it? Fat?”
“Well, I don’t—”
“Do you think fat means bad?”
“I mean, I—”
Hand wave. “It’s just a word, princess. A word like tall or short or Nebraskan. It’s an adjective that doesn’t have to mean anything negative. The world thinks that fat is the worst thing a woman can be, but the more we use the word like a neutral description, the more we say fuck you to that idea.”
“But,” I say, “it’s one thing to say it about yourself, you know, to use it as a hashtag and make it your choice. But other people don’t use it like that.”
“Aha,” Mackenna says triumphantly and stabs a finger up into the air. “I knew it was about that article!”
I flush.
“Let me guess… You read the comments?”
“Yes,” I mumble. “I know. It was stupid to.”
She gives me a rueful kind of smile. “It’s okay to forget to expect the worst sometimes.”
I let out a long breath, staring past her and out the window. “I felt so idiotic after I did. Because I’ve spent this year trying to be someone more like you. Confident and happy in my body, like all the body-positive people I see online. And I thought I’d done it! I thought I was over ever feeling bad about my body again—but all it took was one freaking picture.”
“And a hell of a comments section,” Mackenna adds.
Sigh. “And that.”
“Look, princess, body positivity doesn’t mean you flip a switch and walk around feeling great for the rest of your life. It’s not even really about feelings at all. Body positivity is about what you do. It’s about daring to live your life as you are—not fifty pounds from now, not six dress sizes from now. And there are going to be days when every bad feeling comes back for you again. When you feel all the messy, hopeless things you thought you were past feeling. Those are the days you do it anyway.”
“Do what?” I ask, my voice bleak. “What is there to do?”
Mackenna practically erupts. “Everything! There is everything to do! You post pictures of yourself, or you dress the way you want, or you push back against a flight attendant who’s treating you like trash. You unapologetically pursue your photography career, and you date the people you love, even if other people don’t like it. Not because it makes you feel good but because it helps change the world. Do you see? Even just living your life is a radical act. That is body positivity. That is what matters, not an emotion that can change at the drop of a hat.”
I understand what she’s saying, although I don’t know if I like it. It feels hard. It feels unfair.
It feels unfair because it is unfair, I remind myself. It shouldn’t be this way.
It should change.
Maybe I can be someone who changes it. Who fights against the unfair parts, because what’s the other option? To live like I did before? To be and die alone?
I press my fingertips against my eyelids, careful not to mess up my makeup but also wanting to keep the tears inside. “But what about Caleb and Ben? Those trolls and my ex were coming after the tavern online, and I couldn’t—” I break off, really about to cry now. “I couldn’t bear the thought of Caleb and Ben paying any price to love me.”
“And?” Mackenna says.
She says it so matter-of-factly, as if there’s definitely something else I need to say, that I don’t even question it.
I answer her, as surprised by the words as she isn’t. “And what if this was the first time they noticed I was fat? What if they hadn’t really noticed before, but then after they learned how everyone else sees me, they would realize they didn’t really love me after all?”
And then I clap a hand over my mouth. Where the hell did that fear come from?
Mackenna nods as if she were expecting this. “Well, you’re a dumbass if you think they hadn’t already memorized your body from head to toe long before this article. They know what your body looks like, Ireland, and they worship it. I promise. Also, look at me!” She gestures to herself. “Do you think I would have dated them—lived with them—for years if they were capable of that kind of behavior?”
Her eyebrows are arched in challenge, her mouth pursed in a knowing smirk. She looks like the kind of woman who wouldn’t stand for any hint of dickish behavior.
“No, I guess you wouldn’t have,” I say. A new thought occurs to me. A new fear. “Do—do they only date girls like us? Like a fetish or something?”
The thought makes me deeply unhappy. What if all the wonderful, sexy, ecstatic moments we shared were because they had an unhealthy fascination with my body—not because we were simply Ireland and Caleb and Ben?
“Okay, A of all, I don’t like the way you said the word fetish,” Mackenna responds, doing this thing where she aims her pointer and middle fingers at me and waggles them. “It’s very kink-shamey, in general, and I don’t stand for that. B of all, I don’t understand this need to pathologize people who find fat folks attractive. You wouldn’t be asking me if they only dated brunettes or Catholics, so why do we have to label normal desire as something twisted just because that desire isn’t for a thin body? And C of all, no.” She drops her fingers. “They don’t only date girls like us. I went to college with them, and I can tell you they’ve dated all kinds of girls—even dated a boy once.”
I let out a long breath.
“D of all,” she says, “I feel like you’re asking all the wrong questions.”
I’m chewing over all the things she’s said to me, so it’s in an absentminded voice that I ask, “What are the right questions, then?”
“Will your boss give you the afternoon off, and how fast can you get back to Holm?”
My chin quivers with the force of unshed tears. God, if only it were that easy. “You don’t understand. I’ll make their lives harder.”
Mackenna rolls her eyes again. “You won’t. But also, that’s not your choice to make. What if you did make their lives harder…and they still choose to be with you anyway? What if Ben would rather have zillions of one-star reviews and have you in his arms? What if Caleb wants you in his life no matter the cost? Give them a chance to choose you, because, spoiler alert: they will.”
I press my fingertips back into my eyelids again, but it’s too late, the tears are everywhere.
Mackenna’s voice softens. “You’re thinking right now that you don’t deserve it. That you don’t deserve to be chosen. And I’m not telling you to believe it or to feel like it.” I hear her stand up and walk over to me, putting a sisterly hand on my shoulder.
“I’m only telling you to act like it,” she says. “Fake it ’til you make it, gorgeous. Act like you deserve to be loved, and I promise, everything else will work itself out.”
And then she leaves.
I try to hiccup a goodbye or a thank-you, but I know it only comes out as incomprehensible syllables. All my choices are flickering through my mind like the world’s most depressing movie, fueling more and more tears.
Leaving the farm.
Dating a man who made me feel awful about myself. Letting my sister make me feel the same.
And possibly the most life-altering choice I made before I met Caleb and Ben: turning down the photography scholarship.
I’ve lied to so many people about why—I’ve said it was because I wanted to stay close to home, because I wanted a marketable major—but the real reason is because I went to visit the campus that spring, and everywhere on the grounds and in the halls were girls who looked like artists. They were slender and bohemian. They had long, coltish legs coming out of adorable, spaghetti-strapped rompers and hipbones that jutted above distressed jeans. I was the only fat girl in sight, and suddenly everything about me felt fraudulent. I didn’t look like I belonged there, and what if that meant I actually didn’t?
I wouldn’t have fit in—and I felt that on a literal level as well as a social level—and so I tearfu
lly turned down the scholarship and hid myself someplace safe. Someplace invisible. Someplace where I hoped my body wouldn’t matter.
I robbed myself of my own future because I was terrified of what people would think of me in the present.
It’s only now, after talking to Mackenna, that I realize I’m about to do the same thing. I’m giving up everything I ever wanted from love because I’m scared. Because I think I don’t deserve it.
But you don’t have to believe you deserve it. You only have to act like it.
I know I’ll have to try to find Mackenna online somewhere to give her a proper thank-you. Because her words…her words have freed me from somewhere I didn’t even know I was trapped. They’ve electrified someplace deep inside, and what I feel burning at my fingertips now is not a feeling or even a belief. It’s something much, much more powerful.
It’s a decision.
I push away from the table with tears still wetting my face and go find Drew.
“I need to take the afternoon off,” I say, swiping at my eyes and in general trying to look like a professional person. “And maybe the day after that too.”
“Of course,” he says, his ginger eyebrows drawing together. “Is everything okay?”
“Not yet,” I say honestly. “But I think it might be.”
Sympathy floods his face. “Do you want me to help? I can call Caleb—”
“No.” I’m shaking my head. “Thank you, but I think I need to do this myself.”
He nods. “Okay. Take all the time you need—you’ve got plenty stored up.”
I give him a teary smile and then go back to my desk to grab my purse and my keys. I’m practically vibrating with all the new parts of me Mackenna has helped unlock, thrumming with the near-violent need to find my men and tell them—what? That I believed the worst of them? The worst of myself?
Yes. I need to be honest about why I left. But I’ll also tell them so much more.
I’ll tell them how desperately I love them and how my days at the farm were pure magic and my nights in their bed were pure heaven. I’ll tell them I don’t want any future without them, and if they’re willing to jump into this with me, then I’ll jump in too. Feet first, eyes wide open, just like I should have done at the pond.
So long as I’m with them, I’ll jump anywhere.
I’m practically running down the stairs of the building to get to my car, wondering if I should call first or just show up at the farm, and it’s when I get to the first-floor doors that I hear a sound so achingly familiar that the tears nearly start up again.
The happy, chipper yap of a dog followed by the rattle-bang of an old truck.
I push open the door to see Caleb’s truck wedged awkwardly between two electric cars plugged into charging ports, Greta-dog sticking her head out the window and barking wildly at the silver streetcar gliding by. Caleb and Ben climb out of the truck, looking like Kansas versions of Adonis, with their broad shoulders and narrow hips, and when they catch sight of me frozen in the doorway, they freeze too. They both have big bouquets of buttery yellow sunflowers in their hands.
None of us move for a long minute—a minute when I quietly panic that I’ve ruined everything and I’ve ruined it so thoroughly that they’ve driven two hours just to tell me they never want to see me again.
Hi, is what I should say.
Sorry, is what I should say.
“I love you,” is what comes out. So softly that I’m not even sure they hear it.
And then they’re loping toward me with big, half-jogging strides, and I’m suddenly crushed into two sets of strong arms and pressed between two hard, warm chests, the sunflowers crushing in there with me. My chin is taken between Ben’s firm fingers, and my face is turned toward Caleb. I’m kissed—passionately, tenderly—with a scratch of soft beard, until my knees weaken and I can barely stand. When I start whimpering against Caleb’s lips, Ben turns my face back to his and rewards me with a long, thorough kiss of his own.
“Fuck, I missed you,” Caleb groans into my ear, hugging me tighter as Ben continues to conquer my mouth with his. “Missed you so damn much.”
We break apart with a gasp, and I’m shocked to see Ben’s eyes are just as red-rimmed as mine probably are. I reach up and touch the corner of his eye, where even now a tear is beading. The touch of it is scalding—burning me with regret.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper to them both. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“No, we’re sorry,” Caleb says, pressing his face into my neck. “We started this whole mess. We should have never told that reporter we were dating if you didn’t want us to. If you don’t want to be openly dating two men at once, we get it. We’ll have you however you want.”
“That’s not—” I take a breath and pull back enough so I can see both their faces. “That’s not why I left. I’m ready for the world to know I love two men. I was a little surprised by it coming up during the interview, but when I chose to pose for that photo, I chose to be ready. I’m proud to be with you.”
I receive two dazzling grins in response to that.
“No, it was more like…I was worried you wouldn’t be proud to be with me. That even if you were, it would mean subjecting yourself to all kinds of things…” I trail off because Ben’s expression has grown stormy and Caleb’s thick eyebrows have pulled together in confusion. “The comments people were leaving on that article, the things my ex said…and Ben, your Yelp page…”
“What’s Yelp?” Ben asks, his storminess giving way temporarily to puzzlement. “Is that on Twitter?”
“It’s a thing on the internet for reviewing restaurants and stuff? Super popular?”
He shrugs, his face getting dark and thunderous again. “I don’t care what happens on a Yelp. Do you think the people in Holm are having drinks at the tavern because of reviews on an internet site?”
Having grown to know the people of Holm over the last month, I have to admit it’s unlikely. I shake my head.
“Even if loving you meant selling everything I own and going to work at the meat-packing plant in Emporia, I’d do it. I don’t give a shit about what people say or do, as long as I have you. As long as we have you.”
Caleb’s nodding in agreement, pressing his face to the back of my hand, as if he can’t bear not to touch me for even a moment.
“Ireland,” Ben continues, his voice growing raspier, more pained. “It kills me that you’d ever think we wouldn’t be anything other than ecstatic to be with you. I don’t know what it’s like to be fat”—he uses the word in the same mild, casual tone Mackenna did—“and I can’t pretend to know all the ways society makes your life harder because of it, and that means I’ll be learning as we go sometimes. But I do know how I feel. I don’t love you in spite of your body. I love you with it, as you are, and I’ll never be anything but fucking proud to be yours.”
Caleb assents to this last with a nuzzle of his face against my hand and a murmured, “Me too.”
My heart lifts. I knew Mackenna was right about everything, of course, but having it confirmed nearly makes me break into tears again.
“You mean all that?” I whisper to them.
They nod solemnly at me.
“We mean it, peach,” Caleb says. “And we’ll beat the hell out of anyone who says different.”
“And we possibly have,” Ben says.
I look up at their faces, mischievous and possessive all at once. “Oh, you didn’t.”
“We just paid your ex a little visit is all,” Ben answers mildly. “He won’t be bothering us again anytime soon. And he says he’s sorry, by the way.”
“I feel like I should scold you,” I tell them, shaking my head, “but I have to admit, I’m not sorry.”
“Good!” Caleb grins. “Neither are we.”
Greta barks and prances around our feet, as if trying to signal that she’s also not sorry.
I take in the happy dog and these two perfect, amazing men, who are currently trying to kiss me around thei
r hug-crumpled sunflowers.
“Let’s go home,” I say, kissing them back. “Let’s go home together.”
And we do.
Epilogue
Caleb
Christmas Eve
“Greta! No! Bad Greta!”
My dog has grabbed the end of Ireland’s long scarf with her teeth and is trying to tug it free of its owner, growling a little at the red fabric when it doesn’t do as the dog likes.
Laughing, I come over and pry Greta’s teeth off the scarf and then banish her to the kitchen to her bed by the wood-burner. Normally we don’t get much snow in December here, but as an early Christmas surprise, the skies darkened and rumbled and dumped a good eighteen inches onto our hilly stretch of the plains. Enough snow to cover the long grass on the hills that crest around the farm—more than enough to sled on.
And sled we did, Greta-dog bounding through the drifts around us as we took turns on my childhood Flexible Flyer, and we went down the hill so fast that even Ben giggled.
Ben. Giggled.
And now we’re back home, red-faced and snow-crusted, and I know exactly what I want to do with the rest of my Christmas Eve. I unwind the rest of the scarf from Ireland’s neck as she pulls off her hat. Clouds of silky dark hair glisten with specks of powdery snow, and as she tosses her hat onto the table, I can see several big snowflakes still caught in her eyelashes.
Beautiful.
Ben catches on to what I want to do right away and joins me in undressing our woman. He tugs off her gloves, slowly, finger by finger, and then kisses her red, cold-nipped fingertips until she’s shivering from something other than cold. We unzip her jeans and peel the denim from her legs, and I drop to my knees and press my face against the cold skin of her thighs while Ben takes off her sweater.
“Your beard tickles,” she says, but her laughter changes into a soft gasp when I mouth the soft triangle between her legs, letting my warm breath blow over the silk that cups her pussy. Even after all these months, she still gets this hitched, surprised breath when I touch her there. It goes to a man’s head, all that wonder. And the look on her face when I make her come? Makes me feel about eight feet tall.
Misadventures of a Curvy Girl Page 17
