chapter eleven
9:34 A.M.—INSTAGRAM POST: “SIZE POSITIVE CAMPAIGN—MYTHS ABOUT BEING CURVY” BY CURVYFITNESSCRYSTAL:
Nothing grinds my gears more than the stigma against people who are curvy. Here are a few myths I’d like to address.
1) Curvy people must be unhealthy—Even health professionals get this one wrong. I can’t tell you how many times doctors have blamed an injury on my weight, even though my twisted ankle had literally nothing to do with it. Did you know you can have a BMI in the “healthy” weight range and still be unhealthy af? My sister (sorry, Tara) is a size six and her personal diet consists solely of potato chips.
2) Curvy people are lazy and unmotivated—Whether someone is “lazy” and “unmotivated” has nothing to do with size. Anyone, regardless of size, can struggle with binge eating or could be going through something that causes them to lose the motivation to live a healthy lifestyle.
3) Curvy people are sad, lonely, and have low self-esteem—Sorry, but size doesn’t define who we are. I don’t live my life thinking about my weight all the time. People of all sizes have varying degrees of confidence. Look at my girl Lizzo.
4) Curvy people only exercise to lose weight—I hold this one near and dear to my heart. Just because you see me in the gym doesn’t mean I’m there to burn a calorie deficit and lose weight (and no, I’m not saying that shouldn’t be someone’s goal). But I personally hit the gym to lift heavy things. Period.
Comment by trainerrachel_1990: PREACH GIRL
Comment by rileyhenderson: Agreed. I get weird looks at the gym and people always offer to help me, assuming I can’t do things because I’m fat.
Comment by Cafi80: Your platform is totally great! Don’t get me wrong! But I feel like it’s targeting us skinny girls. I work so hard to achieve my abs and my body . . . I work harder than people who are overweight, because I’m seeing results and obviously others aren’t. I feel like your platform discounts all my discipline.
Comment by Arthur.Dilstraa: lmao kk keep kidding urself
• • •
I STUDY THE generic fruit bowl painting above Grandma Flo’s head. It’s bland, understated, and uncontroversial, the ideal décor for a medical clinic where emotions tend to run high.
Case in point: we just witnessed a scary lady with a bleached blond pixie cut verbally assault the receptionist for not having her updated home address in the system.
“Grandma, are you sure you don’t need me to drive you home after this?”
Grandma Flo waves me off, casting a disapproving stare at Pixie Woman, who is now mumbling vague threats under her breath as she stomps to a seat across from us. “Oh, honey, I’m fine. Martin is picking me up,” she says flippantly, as if this had been the plan all along.
Pixie Woman glares at us, lips pursed. “This place is a zoo. Run by incompetent floozies.” She’s hoping Grandma and I will join her on the soapbox and air our grievances too.
I flash her a sympathetic smile of solidarity in an effort to ensure our safety. Her scowl and twitchy eye tell me she’s a loose cannon, ready to cause bodily harm to anyone who dares step in her way. I turn back to Grandma. “I really don’t mind taking you home. It would save Martin the trip.”
She shakes her head again, catching the September 2019 edition of Oprah magazine before it slips off her lap. “He wants to bring me to the craft store afterward to pick up that wool—”
The little bell hanging above the entrance behind us chimes, alerting the receptionist that someone has entered. The scowl all but disappears from Pixie Woman’s face. When I dare look at who has turned her into a swooning teenage girl at a One Direction concert, I meet a familiar pair of green eyes.
“Oh. Hey, Crystal.” Scott waves. He’s wearing a casual navy-blue T-shirt that reads Boston Fire Department in bold letters. His jeans hug him so perfectly that I’m convinced mere mortal eyes aren’t worthy of this view.
Grandma Flo beams. If I didn’t already know she was seventy-seven years old, I wouldn’t believe it after witnessing her spring out of her seat like a jack-in-the-box to pull him into the throes of her embrace. I can’t help but smile at how massive he is compared to her tiny five-foot-two frame. “Scotty, thank you so much for coming.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask, casting an accusatory glare at a mischievous-looking Flo.
Scott’s gaze flickers to Grandma Flo as he unknowingly sits next to Pixie Woman, who is shamelessly gawking at him like he’s a Magnum ice cream bar. “You called yesterday and said you’d need someone to take you home from the clinic.”
“Oh, did I?” Grandma Flo places her palm on her cheek.
I nearly crack my neck whipping my head in her direction. “I thought Martin was picking you up?”
She shrugs, unable to stop grinning. Her acting skills are appalling. “You know me, I get a little mixed up in my old age,” she says, as if she isn’t of sound mind and doesn’t know the answers to eighty percent of the clues on Jeopardy!
“Florence McCarthy,” Brandy, the nurse, calls from the doorway leading to the examination rooms.
Grandma clasps her hands and stands, gleefully exiting the awkward situation that is entirely of her own making.
I roll my eyes, making a concerted effort not to give her a piece of my mind ten seconds before she’s about to undergo a cholesterol and heart test. “Want me to come in with you?”
She nods, glancing at a very confused Scott. “Both of you should come. It could take a while.”
The nurse leads us down the stark white hallway into an equally sterile examination room.
I can tell by the furrow of Scott’s brow that he hadn’t the slightest idea about this little “run-in” Grandma Flo orchestrated. I feel guilty she’s wasted his time. I wonder if he’s had to rearrange his entire schedule to drive in from downtown. It also feels awkward, given I turned him down via text only yesterday.
Brandy gets Grandma set up in the chair and begins to roll up her sleeve. “Remember what I told you last time? We’re going to do some routine bloodwork to check those cholesterol levels.”
Scott and I stand near the wall side by side as Grandma and Brandy chat about this morning’s episode of Live with Kelly and Ryan. When his arm nearly grazes mine, I internally scream, unable to still my fidgeting. I keep bouncing back and forth between adjusting my shirt and my hair, and picking my nails to stubs, all of which do little to dull my anxiety. Must he stand so close to me? Is personal space a foreign concept to him?
My body is in turmoil, unable to decide what it wants to do. Part of me is dying to get half an inch closer, to feel even just a fraction of the electricity of our changing room encounter. But I’m still bothered. Just because Scott Ritchie turned out not to be a vicious cheater doesn’t take away the fact that I don’t do hookups anymore, especially not with my gym nemesis—a guy who waltzes around the gym like he’s the second coming of Christ himself. That kind of arrogance doesn’t sit well with me.
“I can’t believe her,” I mutter in displeasure.
Scott chuckles, arms folded against his broad chest. “She thinks she’s so smooth.”
“Feel free to leave if you want. I can just bring her home.”
He shakes his head, meeting my gaze. “Nah, I’m good.”
“Well, there’s no point in both of us hanging around.” Realistically, him leaving is better for the both of us, as well as the state of my makeup, which is melting off my face like the Wicked Witch of the West when doused with water.
His expression remains unbothered. In fact, his lips are curled up ever so slightly. I think he might be enjoying this. That makes one of us, at least. I seriously wish I’d doubled up on the deodorant this morning. I try to sneak a look at my armpits, but I’m directly in Scott’s peripherals. There’s no way to do this discreetly.
We’re standing in identical crossed-arm poses, listening to Grandma rattle off her diet and exercise routine over the past month.
Scott’s easy smile doesn’t leave his face. Until Brandy brings out the needles. When she wraps the little rubber band just above Grandma’s elbow, Scott sucks in a deep breath, loud enough for me to hear. As Brandy raises the needle, he immediately sways, turning to face me. His complexion has turned unusually pale. In fact, it’s ghostly white.
“You alright?” I ask, elbowing him in the ribs.
He nods, averting his gaze upward as she begins to insert the needle. “I, uh, just really hate needles.”
I’m silent for a moment as I register this completely unexpected fact. “Scott Ritchie has a fear of needles?”
He nods, eyes still fixed on the ceiling, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Really?” I ask, expecting him to snap out of it and admit he’s joking.
When he accidentally catches sight of the second needle, he nearly gags.
“Scott, dear, do you need to leave the room?” Grandma asks from the chair.
He shakes his head, reaching for the nearby sink, gripping the edge. “Nope. I’m good,” he says through clenched teeth.
“What is it about needles you don’t like?” I ask.
He contorts his face, as if I’ve just asked an outrageous question, like why would one dislike diarrhea, or STDs? “They hurt.”
“Says the guy who fights fires.”
He hunches his shoulders. “I wear fireproof gear.”
I eye him for a moment, unconvinced that fighting fires and needles are remotely comparable. “I think you should go sit in the waiting room.”
Grandma Flo nods. “Yes, why don’t you go with him, Crystal? Make sure he’s okay.”
I may not like Scott as a human, but I don’t want him passing out in public over a tiny needle. I roll my eyes as I lead him out of the examination room.
He takes a deep breath when we reach the relative serenity of the waiting area. I direct him to a chair out of Pixie Woman’s line of sight. She leans around the drywall column to catch another thirsty glimpse of Scott. He plunks into the chair, covering his eyes with his hand, his long legs outstretched.
I bend forward in front of him to examine his face. It’s still pale. “I’ll be right back.”
Ronnie, the receptionist, glances up at me with a bored stare, as if people nearly passing out in the office is just a typical day, which it probably is. “Can I help you?”
“Do you guys have anything for grown men who feel faint? Something sugary?”
She gives me a silent nod and wheels her chair backward. Without even standing, she reaches into the mini fridge and produces a juice box.
“That’s perfect. Thank you.” I gratefully pluck the tiny box from her limp hand.
I haven’t physically held a juice box since sixth grade, before it became wildly lame to bring a packed lunch to school. I’m amazed at how tiny they are.
“Here, this might make you feel better.” I insert the tiny straw, tossing the plastic on the side table for now.
He opens his eyes, squinting. “Apple juice?”
“It’ll help. Shut up and drink it.”
He complies, drinking quietly from the straw. I’ll admit, watching a six-foot-two alpha male fireman drink a children’s juice box is strangely attractive. Why am I more attracted to him when he’s vulnerable and in need of medical attention? I push that thought aside. It’s a deeper issue for another time.
Within three sips, he finishes it to the last drop. “Thanks, Crystal.” He manages a weak smile.
“Do needles really affect you that much?”
He places his fingers over the bridge of his nose. “Yup. I avoid them. At all costs.”
“Is it the blood you don’t like?”
“No. I’m fine with blood. It’s the needle itself.”
“You’re telling me you never get the flu shot? You’d prefer worshipping the porcelain God, puking your brains out, over a measly needle?”
He nods.
I pull back from him dramatically, giving him a funny stare. “You’re an anti-vaxxer, aren’t you?” I whisper conspiratorially.
His color is back now. He gives me a half smile, which makes my heart flutter. “Definitely not. I believe in modern medicine. I just really hate needles.”
“Never would have expected that.”
“See? I come full of surprises.” He holds me captive with his dimples.
I don’t know if it’s the juice box, or the fact that he’s terrified of needles like a young child, but I’m marginally charmed.
He waves a hand toward me. “It’s only fair that you tell me something you hate.”
“When people don’t clean the machines at the gym,” I say pointedly.
He shakes his head, unsatisfied. “Nope. Doesn’t count. I already knew that.”
I sigh, succumbing to the temptation of learning more about him. “One for one?”
“Sure.”
“Okay . . . I also hate restaurants with laminated menus. They’re always sticky and it freaks me out.”
He runs a hand along his chin in deep thought. “Related, I hate bumper stickers.”
“The last sip in a water bottle.”
“When I’m trying to send someone a GIF with an accompanying message and they send a message before the GIF goes through and it’s all out of order.”
I can’t help but cackle at that one. “Facebook friend suggestions. Like, no, ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend. I do not want to be friends.”
“People who floor it at green lights. What’s the rush?”
I interrupt our game, nodding toward his well-fitted T-shirt. “Did you come here straight from work?”
“Nope. Got the day off. I usually work three or four twelve-hour shifts and then get the rest of the days off.”
I cringe, feeling guilty yet again that Grandma schemed to get him here on one of his days off.
“What do you do when you aren’t fighting fires?”
He runs his hand over his jaw. “I mostly spend some quality time with my dog, Albus, get my groceries, go to the gym, catch the odd game with friends. You?”
“That sounds awfully adult.” I silently appreciate the simplicity of his answer while purposely not reciprocating my response.
He gives me an easy smile. “I’m a thirty-year-old man. I’d hope so.”
“How long have you been at the fire department?”
“You’re suddenly very interested in my life.”
I make a concerted effort to flatten what I assume is a borderline manic grin. “No. I’m not. Just trying to learn your weaknesses so I can exploit you.”
He shrugs. “Fair enough. I’ve been with the fire department since after college. I was lucky and got in pretty much right away.”
“Did you always want to be a firefighter?”
He crushes the juice box in his fist and closes his left eye, aiming it into the trash can across the room. It lands with a perfect clunk. He glances at me triumphantly. “My grandpa always talked about it, so it was in the back of my mind. But I didn’t think about it seriously until high school.”
I cast a stealth glance at his biceps, unable to stop the question from rolling off my tongue. “Have you ever been in one of those naked first responder calendars?”
The corners of his lips turn up. “Why? Want a copy for your wall?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I scoff, refraining from requesting this potential calendar enlarged in poster size.
Before I break down and inquire, Grandma Flo comes striding through the lobby, her monstrous red purse draped over her elbow. Her gaze narrows to Scott. “Scotty, are you alright?”
He stands, as good as new again. “Yup. Nurse Crystal healed me.” He flashes me a wink.
“I gave him a juice box from reception,” I explain, standing to follow them toward the exit.
She pats him on the bicep affectionately as he graciously holds the door open for her. “I’m terribly sorry to have troubled you, Scotty. I get all mixed up with the plans sometimes with so many appointments, you know? But I’m perfectly fine to have Crystal bring me home.”
I expect him to be visibly annoyed that he’s just wasted an hour of his time, was presented with his phobia, and nearly fainted in the process. But he doesn’t appear rattled. When he gives her an easy smile, I wonder if anything truly fazes him. “No worries, Flo. You can always call if you need me.”
We’re on the sidewalk outside the clinic. Scott looks frustratingly relaxed, in no rush to go anywhere. As the two of them make small talk about the weather, all I can think about is that calendar. Is he in one or not? I make a mental note to google it the moment I’m in private. And then I chide myself. Stop thinking about how his eyes look like blades of grass on a summer day. Or better yet, his cut biceps. It’s irrelevant. All of it.
Scott is arrogant. Impossibly charming without being smarmy. Probably a player who’ll go back to his ex after getting what he wants from me. Exactly the kind of guy I don’t want to touch with a ten-foot pole.
“Well, tell Gramps I say hi,” he says to Grandma Flo, hands in his pockets as we head toward my car.
I’m walking at a brisk pace compared to a meandering Grandma Flo because I’ve got shit to do today, like filming a nutrition Q&A. I don’t have time to dillydally making forced conversation with my enemy in a parking lot.
“Oh, that’s right. He wanted me to remind you to come over for the Blackhawks versus the Bruins next week. If you’re off,” Grandma tells him.
“I’ll be there.” He dips his chin as she gets in the car.
I twist my keys around my fingers before opening the driver’s side door. “You’re a Blackhawks fan?”
“Is there any other way to live?” he deadpans.
“Reason number five,” I mutter.
A pleased look overcomes him. “I find it fascinating that not one of those five reasons actually includes not being interested in me. So far, all I’m hearing are weak excuses.”
I try my hardest to maintain a chill façade. So much so that I’m left with absolutely zero chill on the inside. I hate myself for getting flustered over him and his persistence. His cockiness is growing old. Our eyes lock and I clear my throat. “Fine. Reason number six: I’m not interested in you.”
“If that were true, I’d accept it. But I’m not convinced.” That makes two of us. He searches my face for a moment, giving me a chance to backpedal.
“Don’t hold your breath, Scott. I don’t date guys like you. Period.”
He lets out a strangled laugh, glancing at a car passing by. “But you’ll accost me in changing rooms, though, right?”
I freeze, anger spiking. It’s bad enough he won’t let this go, but to say it in front of my conservative grandma? I scowl and shut the car door so Grandma Flo can’t hear us. “We aren’t talking about that. Stop bringing it up.”
“Are we just acting like it didn’t happen?”
It’s not necessarily that I want to act like it didn’t happen. But talking about it seriously affects my resolve. If I’m going to survive the four months until Flo and Martin’s nuptials without breaking my vow to myself and diving headfirst into trouble, I need to squash this sexual energy between us, and quick. “Yes. We are. As far as I’m concerned, it didn’t happen at all.”
He snaps his head back, his jaw tensing. “Alright. Fine.”
“Fine.”
He shakes his head, unable to leave it. “I am curious, though. You made such a big deal over me having a girlfriend, which means you care on some level. Am I wrong?”
He may not be a cheater, but it certainly doesn’t exclude him from being a player. Scott’s flirting is so natural, it must be the result of ample practice. And realistically, he has every right. He’s a single guy. He can do what he wants. But nothing positive can come out of this for me except inevitable tears and heartbreak. Just like with Neil.
I level him with a hard gaze. It’s time to drop the truth bomb. “Scott, you’re arrogant. You’re used to getting what you want in life because you’re hot and you know it. And the only reason you’re getting rattled right now is because I’m telling you no and you don’t wanna hear it. Either that or you’re too much of a Neanderthal to take the hint.”
His jaw is slack in bewilderment, as if I’ve said something insane. “Is that what you really think?”
“My opinion hasn’t changed in the last three seconds.” I struggle to spit those words out, because I remember how he’s petrified of needles like a child, and how he was kind enough to pick up my grandmother from her appointment on his day off. Unfortunately, all of that is clouded by his cockiness.
He scoffs, hands on hips, stance wide. “It’s funny . . . you’re making snap judgments about me when you preach this message of self-love and no stereotypes. You’re a hypocrite, Crystal.”
I flinch at his words. He isn’t wrong. But I can’t forget his asshole attitude when he refused to leave my squat rack, among his series of affronts against me. It’s not my fault his personality happens to match the stereotype.
He starts stomping off, but after a couple angry strides, he pivots. “And by the way, you can rest easy knowing I’m not pursuing you. My Neanderthal brain got the hint. Loud and clear.”
• • •
GRANDMA FLO IS stark silent when I haul ass into the car and slam the door. She’s definitely overheard our argument through the window. She knows something happened between Scott and me, and I’m embarrassed. I brace for a lecture on the drive back, but she doesn’t say a word about it. Instead, she prattles on about her wedding plans, which include having Tara and me as her bridesmaids. Apparently, I still get the pleasure of donning the ill-fitting peach maid of honor dress I purchased for Tara’s wedding. Lucky me.
“Thanks for the ride, dear,” she says when we reach her driveway. “Remind me, next time you come in, I need help with my iPad. I can’t figure out how to turn off those darn dings every time I get a message. Scares the jeepers out of me every time.”
I muster a fake smile. “Sounds good.”
Just as she’s about to close the passenger door and wave me off, she pops her head back in. “You know, you weren’t very nice to poor Scotty in the parking lot.”
And there it is. “He’s not always nice to me either.”
Her glare is terrifying enough to scare a hardened criminal into submission. “That’s not an excuse.”
“But—”
“Apologize to him, Crystal.”