Crushed (24 page)

Having an older sister who was the
smallest
size.

Once I got my driver’s license, I put the kibosh on that shit. I’d happily wave my mom and Kristin away as they drove off to the mall, pretending it didn’t bother me that they had some mother-daughter bonding while I tried to tell myself that I loved my body and sneaking the bag of Doritos my mom kept on the top shelf of the pantry into my room.

Still, Mom didn’t entirely give up on me. I think she knew the real reason I didn’t want to go wasn’t so much disinterest in fashion as disinterest in looking like a whale (must have been her mom Spidey sense), so she’d always try to give me her credit card and say that I should “pick up some things for myself sometime.”

In high school, I did this as little as necessary. Most people thought I had a shit ton of school spirit, but mostly I just stuck to the blue hoodies with the school logo because nobody questioned their bagginess.

I got a little less ridiculous about it in college. I finally got wise to all of those “Dressing for Your Body Type” articles in
Cosmo,
and did the best I could with what I had (read: lots of tunic tops that were long enough to cover my butt, and shiny, wide belts to distract from the muffin top).

But today . . . today is a first for me.

I actually
want
to go shopping for back-to-school clothes.

No. I
have
to.

Nothing in my closet fits.

Now, don’t freak out on me. I haven’t gone all anorexic. I’m not living at the gym, or subsisting on celery. I’m not trying to morph into Kristin.

I just . . . I feel
good
.

I’ve been working out five days a week at this fancy gym in Dallas where my personal trainer is a fabulous bald ex-boxer with a gold tooth. Seriously.

And I’ve learned to like salads, while still occasionally enjoying fries. I just don’t eat them every day, multiple meals a day.

The girl who’s been helping me raid Nordstrom knocks on the dressing room door. “Chloe, it’s Denise. How’s everything fitting?”

I shift so that I can see the way the dress looks from the back, and scrunch my nose. “I dunno. Nothing is looking quite right.”

“Can I see?”

I shrug. Why not?

I open the door, and Deb, a tiny black woman with fabulous hair, motions for me to turn around. “It’s too big. It doesn’t fit right.”

“It’s not too big,” I say automatically.

It’s already a size smaller than my clothes at home.

“It is. Let me grab a smaller size,” she says, reaching out and experimentally pulling at the fabric where it gaps at my waist.

“I don’t wear a smaller size,” I mutter.

She gives me a funny look. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you, honey. This dress doesn’t fit you right because it’s too big. What about the rest of the stuff?”

I glance at the discarded pile of rejects, all of which had been just a little too baggy. I’d assumed it was because they just weren’t a flattering style, but . . .

“Okay. I guess I can go down a size.”

Two hours later, my shopping bags barely fit in the trunk. There went my shopping budget for, like, the next decade.

But it was worth it.

Turns out I did need a smaller size in that dress. In fact, I have a whole range of sizes. As Denise pointed out (with no small amount of envy, if I might brag), my hourglass figure necessitates smaller clothes in some styles, larger in others.

And I’m okay with that.

I am healthy.

I am strong.

I am fit.

I . . . should totally thank Michael St. Claire for it.

I wonder how my miserable
nonfriend
is doing. I haven’t seen him since the day I stormed out of his apartment in a good old-fashioned (but totally gratifying) snit.

Is it bad that I thought he’d call? Apologize? Need me?

Yeah, it’s bad. Michael St. Claire doesn’t
need
anyone. He’s made that quite clear.

Of course, that didn’t stop me from texting Devon and suggesting that he reconsider his stance on his newly discovered half brother, but he was about as receptive to my interference as Michael was, because all I got was a terse
Stay out of it, Chloe.
 

Guess this is what you get for caring about a bunch of a-holes.

Not that Devon’s an a-hole. But . . . I haven’t been seeing much of Devon. We text, occasionally, but we haven’t seen each other since Kristin got back.

On the flip side, he hasn’t seen Kristin, either, that I know of.

Kristin
.

So, she’s back. Yay.

If anything, she somehow managed to become more self-centered while she was away. Her short fling with the Seattle musician repaired any damage done to her ego, so she’s been even more prima donna since getting back.

We leave for school in a couple weeks, and it can’t come soon enough.

I
always
look forward to going back to school. But this year, more so.

I need to get out of the soap opera that has been this summer.

I pull into our driveway and then curse, because I’ve forgotten to go to the grocery store. My parents are out of town for a week, which means it’s just me and Kristin. And considering Kristin thinks cucumbers count as a meal, getting
real
food is all on me.

My arms full of my Nordstrom bags, I awkwardly make my way through the garage and open the door to the laundry room with my hip.

I pause when I hear laughter. Kristin’s laugher, followed by the low rumble of a guy’s voice.

Oh, joy. She has another conquest.

I freeze when I get into the kitchen and see who’s sitting on the bar stool next to my sister.

Michael.

My eyes lock on his, and he lifts an eyebrow.

“Hey, Chloe,” Kristin says, her voice full of sugar.

Save it,
I want to snap.

“Hey,” I say unenthusiastically.

Her eyes take in the bags, and her nose scrunches in confusion. “You went shopping?”

I glance down at the half dozen bags in my hands in fake surprise. “
What the
. . . is
that
where these came from?”

I think I hear Michael snort.

She frowns at me. “You hate shopping.”

I ignore her. “What are you doing here?” The question’s directed at Beefcake.

Kristin interrupts again as she gets off her bar stool. Her white shorts barely cover her butt, but it doesn’t matter. She’s tiny.

My weight loss seems much less of an achievement next to her size 2.

“I wanna see.” She’s already peering in my bags.

“Hey, you know what’s more rare than me shopping?” I snap. “You caring about what I do or what I wear.”

I jerk the bags back, and her eyes narrow before they shift from the bags to me. I’m wearing one of my old, ill-fitting outfits: flowy pants, a boxy top, and flip-flops.

I don’t know why, but ever since Kristin’s been back, I’ve kind of gone out of my way to disguise my weight loss. It’s just instinctive . . . like I know if and when Kristin ever starts to see me as competition, she’ll make my life miserable.

Her eyes apparently see what they want to see—dumpy, overweight Chloe—and she shrugs dismissively.

Michael sits on the bar stool, looking completely bored by our little sisterly squabble. “Why are you here?” I ask again.

“Chloe!” Kristin chides. “Jeez.”

He ignores her, his eyes never leaving mine. “Hey. Friend. You want to grab dinner?”

My heart flips.
Damn it.
“Me?”

His eyes crinkle. “Yeah. You.”

I think I can actually
hear
Kristin’s jaw drop.

I smile and he smiles back. And I know what’s happening here. Michael St. Claire is apologizing.

Michael St. Claire wants to be my friend.

My heart soars.

“Let me put these bags upstairs, then I’m ready. BBQ?”

“Let’s do it,” he says pushing back from the counter.

“Wait, you’re leaving?” Kristin asks, her voice whiny and incredulous.

Neither of us pay her any attention.

Chapter 27

Michael

I don’t know why the hell Chloe’s hiding under those terrible clothes that don’t fit her, but one thing is clear: Despite the fact that she’s a hell of a lot fitter than when we first met, she still loves food.

I’m glad.

Because the thought of Chloe changing kills me a little.

She’s one of the most real girls I know, and I’d give anything to have her stay that way, just as she is.

“God, that was good,” she mutters as we head back toward my car. “If I could eat ribs like that every day . . .”

I open the car door for her and she breaks off in surprise. “What is this?”

“Manners,” I mutter, gesturing her in. “Hurry up.”

She pats my chest and slides into the car. “Don’t worry, I’ll never tell.”

“Home?” I ask, starting the ignition.

She purses her lips. “What are my chances that Kristin’s asleep?”

I glance at the clock. Eight p.m. “Slim to none.”

Chloe sighs, and bonks her head back on the headrest, her curls bouncing. “You’re lucky you don’t have siblings.”

“I don’t think all siblings are like yours,” I say as I put the car in reverse.

She turns her head to look at me. “Did you finally realize that her personality’s not worth the boner?”

I laugh. “Jesus, Chloe.”

“I’m serious! When we first met, you and Kristin were doing some gross pre-mating thing. Not that she’d have acted on it.”

I look at her out of the corner of my eye.

She looks at me aghast. “No. Did you—”

“No,” I say, interrupting her. “But at her lesson the other day, she was . . . forward.”

“
Forward?
I swear to God, Beefcake, every now and then you slip in a word that makes me think you’re a nineteenth-century butler.”

“Yeah? You like? What if I slip a British accent in there?”

Chloe fans herself. “Don’t you dare. I’ll swoon. I mean it.”

I’m smiling as I pull out into traffic. She’s good at that. Making me smile.

“If you want, we can go back to my place. Avoid the inquisition from your sister about the dirty deeds we did.”

She looks at me. “Um, wouldn’t going back to your place fuel her theory that we’re on a date?”

“Maybe. But I need to talk to you.”

I expect her to badger me about what I want to talk about, and why I didn’t bring it up in the restaurant.

She looks out the window and is silent for a couple minutes before speaking again. “Scott Henwick called me.”

It takes me a second to place the name. Right. The skinny guy from the Fourth party who had a crush.

The one I told her to flirt with to make Devon jealous.

Not one of my better moments.

“Oh, yeah?” I ask.

“Guess he heard a rumor that you and I ‘broke up.’ Not sure how he even got the message that we were together. Anyway, wanted to know if I wanted to go out before we both head back to school.”

I glance at her, but she’s still looking out the window, so all I see is hair. “What’d you say?”

“I said I’d think about it.”

I ponder that. “Are you? Thinking about it?”

She lets out the tiniest of sighs, and there’s a hint of sadness to the noise that makes my chest squeeze. “Yeah, I’m thinking about it.”

I frown. “Thought he didn’t get your lady parts juicy.”

She snorts. “He doesn’t. But . . . maybe it’s time to move on.”

I turn onto my street.

“From Devon,” she clarifies, when I don’t say anything.

“Yeah, Chloe. I figured you meant from Devon. He’s the only guy you’ve cared about since you realized that boys and girls had different parts.”

“They do? I thought some of you men just had misshapen vaginas.”

I parallel park on the street outside my place. “Get out of the car, weirdo.”

Once inside, I drop my jacket on a chair, and Chloe plops herself on the couch like she owns the place. “Don’t you ever make your bed?”

I head to the fridge, grab two beers, and pop the cap off both. “Sometimes. When I’m expecting company.”

“I’m company,” she says, accepting the beer and turning to face me as I sit next to her.

“Yeah. But you’re not that kind of company.”

I instantly regret it, remembering her words last time we were in my apartment together.

I want to be wanted by you.

But instead of getting all weird, she just scrunches down on the couch, propping her flip-flop feet on my coffee table. “True, true. So tell me, Beefcake. Why bring me back to your lair if not to ravish me when I’m wearing this super-sexy outfit?”

She runs a finger down the front of her chest jokingly, drawing attention to her ugly, too-large shirt that looks like something an out-of-style grandma would wear.

She means it to be self-deprecating, but as I follow the line of her finger, I have a flash of wondering: What does she look like under that?

I mean, I’d seen it for a split second in bikini Chloe. But she’d been tense and self-conscious then. I’d practically had to bribe her into it.

If I ever got to see naked Chloe, and I wouldn’t . . . but if I did, it damn well would be because she wanted to show me.

Fuck
.

“I went over to the Pattersons last night,” I blurt out, desperate to change the course of my thoughts.

She freezes, then sits upright, setting her beer on the table. “Seriously?”

I nod. “Devon came to me. Suggested it . . .”

She reaches out a hand to grab my wrist, her face intent. “Was it okay? Tell me it was okay.”

I glance down at where her fingers wrap around my wrist, her fingers pale compared to my tanner skin, her nails neat and short and unpainted. She has pretty hands.

I meet her eyes. “Yeah. It was okay.”

She licks her lips and searches my face. “So you told Tim.”

I take a sip of beer. “Yeah.”

Chloe shakes my arm in exasperation. “Details, Beefcake.”

I glance at her. “You could get them from Devon.”

“And I will,” she says, tucking her legs up beneath her. “But first I want to hear them from you.”

I sigh and relent. Only it’s not really relenting, because this is why I’d brought her over here in the first place.