Good Enough to Eat (13 page)

“I’m sorry, Nate, I . . .” He stops me with a kiss.

“Don’t you ever dare apologize for being you, or for being honest. Thank you for a lovely evening, and a wonderful meal. I will talk to you tomorrow.”

And then he is gone.

 

 

I busy myself, cleaning the dishes, straightening the kitchen. Then I go into my bedroom, get undressed, and put on my robe. I run a hot bath for myself, and while it fills, I let the robe drop to the floor and look at myself in the mirror. I have a good face, not beautiful, at least not to me, but reasonably attractively put together, handsome. But my body bears the scars of a lifetime of obesity. White stretch marks line the front of my stomach, my thighs, striate my breasts, which were once a lush 42DDD and are now a 36D, hanging deflated, defeated. The skin of my upper arms, my inner thighs, and over my abdomen is loose, and while there is excellent muscle tone underneath, the skin, which once was taut over soft pillows of fat, now slides in waves over the space I worked so hard for so long to create. There is my appendix scar, from when I was fourteen. The four little scars from my gallbladder removal. My butt, which once loomed in a massive shelf jutting out from my lower back like the stern of a proud sailing vessel, has somehow dropped into a sad double teardrop. In clothes, I’m a fit and healthy size 6 or 8. With the right bra, I have a great rack. But naked, naked I look like a newborn bird without feathers; something is not quite finished about me. I never wanted to get the excess skin removal surgery; it is costly and debilitating. But I also never really thought about being here. In this place. Alone and wanting a man and thinking that he would be disgusted.

I never felt like that when I was fat. Because when you are fat, really fat, everyone knows it, and any guy who goes to bed with you knows he is going to bed with a fat girl, so I never thought about it. And Andrew loved my fat, apparently that was really all he loved, so I was free and easy in bed with him. I have a large sexual appetite, as with all my appetites, and all I can think about is Nathan, his tall strong body, how good it feels to be in his arms, how much I want him inside me. But I feel like a fraud. Because however good I look dressed, however normal I appear to be in public, once you strip me down, I have essentially the body of an old woman. And what man wants that in his bed?

I turn off the bathwater and pull the drain, too tired to think about getting in. I leave my robe on the floor, slide into my bed, and turn off the light. Lying down, I let my hands roam my body, my breasts splayed to each side, my skin mobile and elastic. My hand crawls between my legs, exploring the wetness still there from my earlier exhilaration. I remember Nathan’s kisses, the weight of him on me, his hardness pressed against me, and quickly, furtively, bring myself to a shuddering, empty orgasm. The tears are hot on my cheeks, sliding into my ears, and I bring my hand to my mouth, grateful for a small taste of something.

 

 

The next day, the phone rings just as I am putting the last of the platters into the case. I grab the counter extension.

“Dining by Design.”

“Hello, beautiful.”

Sigh. “Hello, Nathan.”

“How are you this fine morning?”

“Fine. Just getting ready to open the doors.” I pause. “How are you?” I’m completely ready for him to break up with me. Last night has been replaying in my mind on an endless loop. I slept fitfully, and this morning at the gym all I could think about was sending him home and wondering how many more times I would be able to do that before he bailed on me.

“I’m great. I wanted to thank you for a spectacular evening last night. Really wonderful.”

It doesn’t sound forced or fake, but his words cut me to the quick. His kindness is salt in the wound. “Well, thank you for coming, it was really good to see you.”

“I was wondering if you were free tonight? Late supper?”

My stomach turns. It’s one thing to space out the dates, limit the time together to postpone the inevitable, but the more time we spend together, the sooner I’m going to have to either decide to sleep with him, or to end the relationship.

“I, um, tonight’s not so good, I have some stuff I should take care of, and . . .”

“Okay, no big deal. How about tomorrow?”

“Yeah, um, well, maybe, I, um . . . Can I call you? This is just sort of a crazy week, and I get so exhausted by the end of the day I’m not terribly good company . . .” Why am I making a million excuses to not see a man I love spending time with? What the fuck is wrong with me?

“I know your workday must be a bear. I’m just thinking maybe something quiet . . . You could come over for a little nosh and we could watch a DVD or something.”

I take a very deep breath. “Okay, tomorrow will probably work for that. Why don’t we do it at my place? I’ll just bring stuff home from the store for us to eat so we don’t have to cook. You can bring a movie.” I’m not ready to be with him in his apartment, on his turf. At least at my house I can use Nadia as an excuse.

“That sounds terrific. Any movie requests?”

“I’m easy, I haven’t seen a movie in ages. Whatever you want to see will be great, I’m sure.”

“Okay, then. Nine?”

“Should be fine. I’ll call you when I’m done at the store.”

“See you tomorrow, beautiful. Have a great day.”

“You too.”

 

 

“Psst. Mel . . .” I can feel the kiss on the top of my head, and I open one eye. I’m on my couch, wrapped in Nathan’s arms, and the credits are rolling on the screen.

“I missed the end.”

Nathan’s laugh rumbles in his chest. “You missed the middle.”

I stretch out of his arms, and turn to him. “I told you I get tired on weeknights. Was it a good movie?”

He reaches forward to pull me into his arms for a long kiss. “I would watch test patterns if it meant I could have you in my arms.”

I melt against him. My heart beats with equal fear and desire. He lays me back on the couch and I will myself to let him, but I can’t. I sit up.

“Nathan, I . . .”

“Shhh.” He kisses me again, and stands. He reaches out a hand and pulls me off the couch. “You go get in bed before you wake up too much to get back to sleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Before I slip back into sleep, I wonder if he left to protect my need for weeknight rest, or to avoid my asking him to go. And wondering if I will ever be able to choose him, to choose happiness.

 

 

After a fitful night of bad dreams, dreams of falling not flying, trying to run with leaden feet, trying to scream but no sound coming out, I drag myself out of bed and to the gym for a lackluster workout. I shower and head for the store, hoping that work will clear my head a bit. I’m checking yesterday’s receipts, trying not to think about last night, when the phone rings, and I grab it absentmindedly. “Dining by Design.”

“Happy birthday, Mel.”

My heart stops. Andrew.

“Um, thanks.”

“How are you?”

Why the fuck is he calling me? “Fine. How are you?”

“We’re fine. Thanks for asking.”

We. We’re fine. Hey there, birthday girl? Have a wound? Here’s some salt!

“Was there something you wanted?”

“There’s no need to take that tone, Melanie. I was just calling to wish you a happy birthday. To see how you were holding up.”

“Oh, I see, you assumed that I’d be, what? Falling apart? That the idea of turning a year older without you would put me into the pit of despair? I’m fine, Andrew. Better than fine. I love my life. I love my friends and my work and my
new boyfriend
, and I think this may be the best birthday I have ever had.”

I hate the venom shrillness in my voice. I hate that by saying these things I am revealing how much I still hurt, how tender my emotions still are. My mom once said that there are certain things that you cannot respond to when people accuse you, because every proof you offer that they are wrong makes it sound more and more like they are right.

“Jesus, Mel, it doesn’t have to be like this. I was just calling to wish you a happy birthday. To reach out. You were a very important part of my life for a very long time, I know that I hurt you, and you have every right to be angry, but this isn’t some agenda. I really did hope that we could be friends again someday. I know that I would really like that.” He pauses, and I can feel myself softening. “I know that Charlene would really like that.”
Whoosh
, so much for soft.

“Andrew, you were a very important part of my past. I appreciate your reaching out to wish me a happy birthday, but frankly, what makes it most happy right now is your profound absence. I don’t know if I will ever not feel that way, but I assure you that if I do decide I am ready to be friends with you, I’ll let you know.”

Andrew sighs deeply, the sound of an adult accommodating a petulant child. “All right, Mel. Whatever you want. I wish you all happiness, I do.”

“Good-bye, Andrew.”

“Good-bye.”

I let the phone slide out of my hand into the cradle. I take a deep breath and wait for the tightening in my chest to subside.

 

 

The noise is deafening. “Happy Birthdaaaaaaaaaaaaayyy Deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeear Mellllllanieeeeeeeeeeeeeee. Happy Biiiiiiirthhhhhhhhhhhhday toooooooooo youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!”

I lean over the enormous confection, ablaze with candles, and look around. My friends are looking at me expectantly, Nathan is smiling, and suddenly I realize that I really don’t have much left to wish for. I close my eyes. Some success for the business, just enough to give me some financial breathing room. And the continuation of this small window of happiness. I fill my lungs, and blow. All forty candles obligingly go out, and the assembly applauds.

We are at Kai and Phil’s, and they have outdone themselves. Kai enlisted the help of some culinary students for prep work and serving, and pulled out all the stops for this party, skipping the sit-down dinner in favor of endless little nibbles, sort of like tapas or a wonderful tasting menu. Champagne laced with Pineau des Charentes, a light cognac with hints of apple that essentially puts a velvet smoking jacket around the dry sparkling wine. Perfect scallops, crispy on the outside, succulent and sweet within, with a vanilla aioli. Tiny two-bite Kobe sliders on little pretzel rolls with caramelized onions, horseradish cream, and melted fontina. Seared tuna in a spicy soy glaze, ingenious one-bite caprese salads made by hollowing out cherry tomatoes, dropping some olive oil and balsamic vinegar inside, and stuffing with a mozzarella ball wrapped in fresh basil. Espresso cups of chunky roasted tomato soup with grilled cheese croutons.

The food is delicious and never-ending, supplemented with little bowls of nuts, olives, raw veggies, and homemade potato chips with lemon and rosemary. Nathan is at ease, flattering Delia and asking for her recipe for sweet potato pie, flirting with Kai and Phil just enough to prove his comfort, stopping well short of being creepy or obsequious. He chats with Nadia about her jewelry, with Janey about whether taking yoga would help with some of his joint pain. He checks in with me consistently, everything from meaningful eye contact across the room, to bringing me refills on my drink.

Kai slices the cake, his version of the banana cake I have always talked about. He has made a vanilla sponge cake, soaked in vanilla simple syrup, and layered with sliced fresh bananas and custard. There is a central layer of dark chocolate ganache with bits of crispy pecans and toffee, and the whole thing is covered in chocolate buttercream, with extravagant curls of chocolate and chocolate-dipped banana slices piled in the middle. I accept a thin slice, savoring the flavors, both of the cake, and of simple joy.

Nathan escorts me out to his car, a battered Land Rover that must be at least twenty years old, carrying my booty, since despite the fact that I was specific about not wanting gifts, my friends have ignored me completely, and there are gaily colored bags and beribboned boxes. I’m flushed with food and wine, a little bit tipsy.

“Did you like your party, birthday girl?” Nathan asks as he pulls out of the parking space and heads for his place.

“It was perfect.” I sigh contentedly and lean back in the seat. “Thanks for being my date.”

“Thanks for letting me be your date. It was a wonderful night, and your friends are really amazing people. I had a great time.”

“Well, they all seem to approve of you as well. A rousing success all around. Pity it took being this OLD to make it possible.” I’m actually not really bothered by getting older. It just seems the thing to say.

“You still seem to have some miles left in you, from where I sit,” Nathan jokes. “I mean, SLOW miles, but miles nonetheless!”

I laugh. “Getting slower every day!”

“Hey, are you exhausted, or can we go have a drink at my place?”

“I could probably have one drink.” My heart jumps.

“Great.”

We sit in companionable silence the rest of the ride. We pull into his parking lot, and take the elevator up to his condo.

His place is exactly what I imagine, an extension of him: warm woods, leather furniture with great patina, film equipment and work materials. A huge old farmhouse table covered in papers with mismatched chairs. I hang my coat on the back of one of the chairs, and Nathan takes my hand to give me the tour. It is sort of a semi-loft, open-concept living room/dining room/kitchen, and then two bedrooms in the back. I try not to look at the rumpled king-size bed, to imagine myself in it with him. He leads me back to the living room and gestures for me to sit on the couch, and then heads off to fetch drinks. I can hear Nathan futzing around in the kitchen. I kick off my shoes, my feet unused to heels after so much time in clogs and Crocs. Nathan appears from the kitchen with two snifters of Armagnac, and curls up beside me on the couch. We sip the warming liquid as he massages my shoulder gently.