Fat Girl (18 page)

AT EIGHT O’CLOCK, I CALL it an early night, having managed to evade my friends’ questions about Mick. Once home, I unload my shopping bags and hang up my dress in the bedroom closet, lamenting that I allowed myself to be talked into such an outrageous purchase. Then, feeling unsettled by the entire day, I pile my hair on top of my head and take a soak. The claw-foot tub is just one of the old-fashioned features that made me fall in love with the house.

Sinking into the warm, vanilla-scented bubbles, I stay until the suds dissipate and the water cools. I towel off and dress for bed in flannel pajama bottoms and an oversize T-shirt. But I’m too wired to sleep.

The silence of the house gets to me. I’ve lived alone since I was eighteen and had gotten used to the lack of noise. But tonight it feels too quiet, too empty.

I check messages and find a text from Dwayde:

sry ms c 4 taking off i thought ud make me go back uncle mick said u were worried sry

Regardless of how much Mick dislikes me, I suspect he told Dwayde to apologize. That only amplifies my feelings of guilt about my own running away. But what else could I have done? I couldn’t see any other options at the time. I did what I had to, and my decision cost me dearly. Before I tear myself down any further, I turn my thoughts back to Dwayde and respond:

Tx for your apology. I would not have made u go back. I’m on your side. Trust me to help u. I’ll call tomorrow, so we can talk.

I take a seat at my desk in the spare bedroom turned home office and log on to my laptop. Though Lena normally does the research, I’m in desperate need of a distraction. I enter the online legal library and search for precedents involving custody disputes between foster families and extended relatives in Illinois. The documented cases are few and far between. In all except two, biology won, with aunts and uncles or grandparents being awarded custody.

I bookmark the two anomalies in which judges ruled that the removal of the child from the foster parents would cause greater harm, and log off. As the screen goes black, I sit there, thinking of my own foster family. Of the way
Maria would copy my every move, as younger sisters do. Of baby Gabi cuddling up next to me for a bedtime story, her chubby hand resting in mine. Of Victor ruffling my curls and calling me “brat” even though, quiet and self-contained, I was far from that. But it was his way of showing affection.

I remember as if it were yesterday, Mama T’s softly accented voice calling me her
preciosa hija—
precious daughter—and her warm hugs that would wrap around me lik
e a fleece blanket. The
sound of
Papa T’s laugh, deep and robust, and the scent of motor oil that clung to his shirts no matter how many times they were washed.

Every Sunday, we would have brunch, and if weather permitted, play softball in the backyard. Sundays were my favorites.

I didn’t believe families like the ones I’d seen in reruns of the
Cosby Show
and
Family Ties
really existed. In my world, fathers left and mothers couldn’t cope. The notion of a close family was a myth, a fantasy, to me—until the Torreses.

Swiping at the tears, I pick up the phone and start to dial the number in Springvale I still recall by heart. I stop. What would I say? Would Mama and Papa T even want to hear from me? Or do they despise me as much as Victor and Mick do? Those questions torment my psyche as I listen to the dial tone. Eventually, the recorded operator’s voice sounds in my ear, asking me to hang up and try my call again.

I set the cordless phone down in the cradle. Loneliness edges its way in deeper, taking me to the fridge three times. Open. Close. Open. Close. Open. Close. I try reading. Open. Close. I try watching television. Open. Close. But nothing helps. Before my willpower completely abandons me, I roll the yoga mat out onto my living room floor, light the candles for atmosphere, and put on a jazz CD.

Then, lying on my stomach
while Sade’s smoky voice sings of the safest hiding place, I inhale a long breath and transition into the Cobra position. Legs together, palms next to my rib cage, I press up through my arms, lifting my chest and arching my back. I hold the pose for twenty complete breaths, inhaling and exhaling, and then gradually lower myself to the mat.
Dr. Roland suggested Pilates as a way of teaching me to destress and redirect my anxiety, a trigger for overeating. I was skeptical at first, but it actually helps.

I inhale again and repeat the exercise several times before the doorbell rings. My quieted pulse picks up speed. Only one real possibility comes to mind as to who would be on my doorstep at ten o’clock at night.

The rational voice in my head hopes I’m wrong, even as some reckless part of me hopes I’m not.

Another ring of the bell beckons my feet forward, my pulse thudding with each step I take. I look through the peephole and find Mick standing under my porch light, running a hand through his hair. A nervous habit from youth that makes him less Micah Peters, ex–NBA star, and more the boy I once loved with everything I had.

The mere sight of him jars my heart and ignites my desire. No two ways about it—opening the door would not be a good idea.

Not when I’m feeling lonely and vulnerable. Not when my need is hot and achy. Not when I don’t trust him…or myself.

THE SIGHT OF LIGHT SHINING through her windows and her car parked in the driveway tell me Dee’s home. When she doesn’t answer after several seconds, shifting impatiently, I lean on the bell again. Finally, movement stirs on the other side, and I can feel Dee looking through the peephole, debating whether to let me in.

I get it. I wasn’t exactly nice to her on the phone. But hell, she pushed my buttons. As if twenty minutes of worrying about Dwayde’s whereabouts were anything compared with what her taking off had put her family…and me…through. So yeah, I got pissed. But continuing to sling mud at Dee wasn’t going to help Dwayde.

On the drive here, I sorted it all out. Even though she got under my skin, I was going to keep my temper and my libido in check. I would be conciliatory, amicable even.

I knock softly to prove my calm. There’s another moment of silence and then the click of metal as the lock is released and Dee opens the door a crack. Wariness suffuses the visible half of her face.

“Is Dwayde all right?” she asks.

“It’s been a tough day for him. That’s why I’m here. To talk about Dwayde. May I come in?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s late and I’m not dressed for company.”

“Look, Dee…” I exhale a tired breath and nudge the door a little wider. “I know my attitude toward you has been less than stellar. But I’ve done some thinking. For Dwayde’s sake, I’m prepared to leave the past in the past and call a truce.”

“Do you think that’s possible?” she asks skeptically.

No. Yes. Hell, I’m not sure.
I comb my fingers through my hair, wishing I had my cap on so Dee wouldn’t see the nervous habit.
“Dwayde comes first. And we both have a vested interest in him, so if we make that our only focus, we should be good.”

Her brow pleats, brooding for several moments. But as leery as she might be about my intentions, I doubt she’ll be able to ignore her sense of duty. I counted on that when I asked her to take the case, and I’m counting on it now.

“Fine. A truce for Dwayde’s sake,” she concedes and opens the door to me.

Okay, good.
I won that round. But when I step inside the foyer, which is little more than a narrow passageway, and get an up-close look at Dee beneath the hanging light, I know I have a bigger battle to win with myself.

In business attire, Dee’s professional veneer makes her seem almost untouchable. Not so in checkered pajama bottoms and a faded pink T-shirt. Though its bagginess consumes her, the wide neck has slipped off one shoulder, teasing me with smooth, honey-kissed skin. I’m reminded of the many times I traced the rounded curve with my lips. The sweet, addictive taste of her is forever marked in my memory bank. At eighteen, Dee filled my head with thoughts of hotter-than-hell sex and happily-ever-after, because with her—unlike any girl before or any woman since—I didn’t want one without the other.

“We can talk in the kitchen,” Dee says, pivoting on her socked heels.

Appreciating the sway of her curvy hips, I’m tempted to suggest that we head to the bedroom, but that wouldn’t be the way to start our truce. I follow her through an archway into a small galley with spotless white countertops and a table-and-bench set, built along the back window.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asks.

“Coke if you have it.” While I shrug out of my
jacket and drop it across the bench, I survey more of her place. Curious to see
what I can glean about the new life she’s built for herself. What she ran away to. Assemble the pieces of the puzzle that I can’t quite make sense of in my mind.

From the kitchen, I can see into the living room, where jazz is softly playing. The focal point is a red brick fireplace with a bunch of lit candles in front of it. A blue yoga mat lies on the floor, and I wonder if Dee was exercising before I got here. That would explain the messy topknot and her sexy, disheveled appearance.

Images of Dee’s luscious body contorted into all sorts of interesting positions dance through my head. I curse another bout of weakness and try to focus on the rest of the decor.

A cream overstuffed couch, scattered with colorful pillows, takes up most of the room, and abstract art covers her walls. In one corner is a shelf filled with knickknacks and books. In the other, green leafy plants seem to be growing out of the hardwood. The scene is warm and domestic.

“Nice place,” I say, attempting to keep the bitterness from seeping into my tone.

“Thanks. It’s small but it’s home.”

The term conjures up unwanted memories of the plans we’d made, right down to the white picket fence. I bite back the quick retort as a framed photo standing on the ledge that divides the kitchen nook and the living room catches my attention. I step forward for a closer look.

Dee and two other women are decked out in matching T-shirts that read “Good girls go to heaven. Bad girls go to Vegas.” They’re posing in front of Caesar’s Palace. Dee’s in the middle. The rare crooked grin she’s wearing knocks me further off center.

“Who are they?” I ask.

She glances up from filling a tumbler with ice. “Oh.” Her eyes
, a beautiful mosaic of brown, gold, and amber,
smile. “My best friends.”

That shocks me. Dee didn’t have them in high school. She had only me.

“Jordyn, on the left, talked Lexie and me into doing the tourist thing. I have to admit, I thought Vegas would be tacky, but we had a blast.”

My jaw muscle twitches as my agitation grows. The uncertain girl who wore baggy clothes to hide her body, who read the endings of her books first to circumvent the unknown, and who remained on the outside looking in wouldn’t go to Sin City for a good time.

Clearly Dee’s not that girl anymore. Her changes scrape at my barely suppressed temper like nails scratching across a chalkboard. It takes every drop of willpower not to grab her by the shoulders, shake her hard, and demand answers to the questions that have haunted me since the night she packed up her shit and snuck away without a trace.

It took me a hell of a long time to get over Dee—to stop looking for her in every woman I saw with dark curly hair, to function without a drink. But the anger over her disloyalty and abandonment are still there, now compounded by her happy, vibrant life.

Did I think that I’d find something here to suggest she had any regrets, that there’d been a gap without me? If so, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

“So you wanted to talk?”

“What?”

“Dwayde,” she says and adjusts her shirt, which has once again slipped off one shoulder. “You said you came here to talk about him.”

Shit.
I let her screw with my head and almost forgot my purpose. I turn my back on the picture and, clearing my throat, hold her gaze. “Dwayde’s threatened to run away.”

She doesn’t respond. Just blinks those spectacular eyes and waits for me to say more.

“He told me today that if a judge rules in favor of the Franklins, he will disappear.”

“He was upset.”

“This wasn’t an idle threat, Dee. Dwayde meant it and I’m not going to stand around waiting for that to happen. We both know the Franklins could get custody just because they’re blood relatives, despite the fact that Dwayde is better off with Victor and Isabelle.”