chapter twenty-eight
Can’t believe a guy that looks like that would date a chick like you. Guess some guys just like them insecure.
I’ve reread those words at least fifty times. Now they’re a permanent screenshot in my head. It’s a complete manifestation of all the thoughts I pictured going through Holly’s head when she realized I was Scott’s girlfriend. And there are thousands more similar comments, all from total strangers.
He’s with her for her Instagram money. He’s totally got side chicks . . .
He deserves so much better!!! He’s sooooo hot.
She could eat him for breakfast.
The sheer number of vile comments and DMs rolling in on this photo every second is unprecedented. Usually, my posts reach the height of their engagement within the first few hours they’re posted. But nearly twenty-four hours after I originally posted the beach photo, the barrage of notifications on my phone hasn’t slowed. In fact, this photo has received at least five times more attention than most of my Instagram posts.
My heart sinks lower and lower into despair as I continue to scroll through the thousands of comments and DMs. It’s like a twisted addiction. Like I’m willingly injecting poison into my veins, despite knowing the catastrophic consequences. The smart thing to do would be to turn off my phone and succumb to a good night’s rest. But I can’t tear myself away, for some sick reason. I read through the comments until the strain becomes unbearable. Until my eyes are heavy, dry and gritty like sandpaper.
After less than two hours of sleep, the first thing I do the next morning is sit up, grab my phone, and pick up where I left off.
I try to remind myself there are three times as many supportive comments as there are negative ones, but it does little to quell the sickness festering in my stomach.
OMG so happy for you!!
Beautiful couple
SMOKESHOW.
He is so in love with you, you can see it in his eyes.
Even as Tara prattles on about an awkward encounter with the wedding DJ last night while inhaling a Pop-Tart, I’m still glued to my phone at the kitchen table, hunched over like Igor in that ancient black-and-white Frankenstein movie, bracing myself for another abusive comment.
She ditches her plate in the sink and hops onto the counter, legs dangling. “Anyway, so he added me on Snapchat. When we got home last night, he’d sent me a snap of only his face. At an upward angle, which I’ll never understand. Why do you want three chins? And there wasn’t even an accompanying message. Like . . . if you want sex, you can at least say Hi. Or Sup.” She pauses, taking a breath. “Is this what I have to look forward to in the dating world? If so, I think I’ll go purchase the first of my thirteen cats.”
I give her an unenthusiastic shrug. “Nah, DJ Heavy J is definitely lazy.”
She sighs, examining her eccentric flamingo slippers. “Is Scotty coming over today? Do I need to put on a bra?”
“Maybe later tonight. I’m going to the gym with him when he gets off work,” I tell her, dazed as another nasty comment pops onto my screen.
Just the thought of seeing Scott tonight makes my gut clench. The last thing I want is to explain the photo. I don’t want him to see it, for the simple reason that I’m embarrassed. Not just about what people are saying about me, but about the comments directed at him, especially after he’s opened up about his childhood bully.
My stomach is riddled with unrelenting anxiety as I spend what feels like an eternity deep in the bowels of the comments. I’m consumed, with no sense of how much time has passed. Has it been one hour? Three? Who can say? I have zero desire to leave my apartment to do errands, or attend my session with Mel later today.
I try to banish the negative thoughts to the deep recesses of my mind, like I usually do. But it’s different this time. For some reason, they refuse to budge. There are too many of them, ping-ponging around in my head, sticking like burrs. They’re relentless. It’s like I’m drowning in them.
I’ve thought about deleting the post, but that would signal weakness. It crosses my mind to handle this like I usually do, mic drop a thirst trap and move on with my day. But the very thought of posting another photo of myself feels like pouring rubbing alcohol on an open wound.
Right now, the only strategy that seems semi-appealing is to take a hiatus on my account and ride out the storm.
Despite my decision to go dark until it all blows over, I’m still accountable to my clients. The irony of the entire situation sets in after I spend far too long struggling to draft a message to a client about the importance of loving herself, despite her perceived flaws. Is my self-doubt hypocritical? My brand’s very foundation is rooted in body positivity. So why have I allowed the comments of total strangers to make me doubt myself when I’ve come so far in loving my body?
I play back the worst comments and DMs in my mind, about how Scott is too good for me. About how he’s either cheating or settling. I keep thinking about Holly’s face. The way she looked me up and down, unable to comprehend my association with Scott.
As I head to the gym for Mel’s training session, I’m painfully aware of the self-doubt scratching its way to the surface, like a disease-ridden rodent burrowing through a crack in the wall.
Mel waves from her place stretching on the mats in her color-coordinated Gymshark outfit. She’s chipper and radiating effortless confidence, as per usual. “Hey, girl.” She stops a few feet in front of me and narrows her chestnut eyes, probably mentally eviscerating my latest haphazard ensemble. “You okay?”
I nod curtly. The last thing I want to do is talk about the photo for fear of breaking down in front of the ’roid-pumping frat boys in the Gym Bro Zone. “Just didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”
“Did Captain America keep you up all night again?” She bounces her perfectly shaped brows suggestively.
“Nah. Just tired from the wedding,” I say, unable to crack a smile.
“Tara sent me pictures. It looked like a blast. You guys all looked amazing. Your dress fit you so well.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, pointing to the shoulder press, in desperate need of a distraction.
She’s taken aback by my abrasiveness. I can tell by her expectant face that she wants to poke further, but she doesn’t. I purposely refrain from idle conversation so she gets the hint I’m not in the mood to talk.
I manage to make it through our hour-long session without looking at my phone, even though my anxiety is still bubbling under the surface, ready to boil over.
On our way out of the gym, Mel asks if she can come over to “lay low.” Apparently, her brother is finally moving out of her apartment today and she would sooner flash her boobs to all of Excalibur Fitness than do manual labor.
I tell her “Yes,” because her company is comforting, even if I have no desire to string more than three words together.
The moment we return to my apartment, I swap my going-out Lulus for my pajama bottoms. We sit in silence through nearly an entire episode of Real Housewives of New Jersey. Mel definitely knows something is up, because I’ve barely acknowledged the episode, which is a juicy one involving the pulling of a busted-ass weave, a nip slip, and a thrown birthday cake.
Usually, I’m right there with her, providing snarky commentary and judging Teresa’s latest atrocity of a dress. Instead, I’m watching my phone like a hawk as the comments and DMs continue to roll in, burying myself deeper and deeper into a spiral of sadness.
When the show ends, Mel finally turns to me. “Okay, your doom-and-gloom vibe is seriously depressing me. What’s up?”
“What vibe?”
She preens her lashes and levels me with a look that screams Cut the BS. “Oh, come on. We got full access to the window squat rack today. Usually you’d be all giddy and weirdly sentimental about it, acting like you’ve won the lotto. But you’ve been miserable all afternoon.”
I sigh. There’s no more avoiding this. Wordlessly, I turn my screen to Mel with the beach photo of Scott and me enlarged.
Her face lights up. “You finally posted it! You guys look amazing in that shot.”
I take a moment, biting my nail to the quick. Objectively, I know I look great in that photo. That swimsuit is flattering as hell. So why have I become so obsessed with the opinions of strangers? “Have you read the comments?”
“Do I need to cut someone?” She scoops up her own phone from the coffee table, already scowling before she begins to scroll, like the loyal friend she is. It warms my heart that she’s already righteously outraged on my behalf, and she doesn’t even know what’s going on. As she reads, she lets out a strangled gasp, shaking her head. “I am so sorry. These people are seriously messed up. Like psychologically messed in the head.”
I press my lips together. “You should see the DMs. They’re even worse.” I toss her my phone so she can see for herself. She reads a couple aloud, which only further cements their brutality.
She regards me for a moment. “Screw them. If they have a problem with our bodies, why should we care? I hope you’re not taking any of this to heart.”
“I guess not . . . I don’t know,” I lie, even though my heart is as raw as a bloody rare steak. I desperately wish I were tough enough to let the comments roll off my back like Mel does. But after seven years of having my account, my armor is worn and I’m fully exposed.
“Don’t let it consume you. And definitely don’t respond. It’s not healthy to engage with the haters. Trust me, I know.”
“I’m not. I’m not posting anything until I figure out how to handle this.”
“All influencers go through this and everyone comes back from it stronger than ever. Even the skinny influencers. Selena Gomez was fat-shamed a few years ago. I’m not trying to say it’s the same thing, but I do understand—”
“Yeah, it’s not the same thing,” I interject, tone sharper than intended.
She cuts me a stern look and crosses her arms. I’m officially an asshole.
My throat tightens with regret and I backtrack. “I’m sorry, Mel. I’m just a little overwhelmed.”
Her face softens as the seconds tick by. Eventually, her arms uncross and I’m thankful she hasn’t written me off as a complete asshat. “Does Scott know about this?”
“I don’t think so. He hasn’t mentioned it, at least.” Thankfully, Scott doesn’t regularly check his Instagram account. I also didn’t tag him in the photo in an effort to maintain his privacy.
“You’re going to tell him, right?”
I shrug.
“Crystal, you need to before he sees it himself. Tonight.”
“I know.”
Deep down, I know Mel is right. Scott deserves to know. My fingers itch to call him, but upon a brief glance at my phone screen, I see he’s already texted me a few minutes ago.
SCOTT: Excited for leg day? Think you’ll go for a personal best?
SCOTT: Also, I have a new high intensity workout for us. Promise I’ll go easy on you
The juxtaposition of his carefree text with the sting of the Instagram comments makes me feel even worse. It’s like someone has trapped me under a heavily loaded barbell.
The last thing I need is pity from Scott right now, despite how comforting I already know he would be. He’s seen the hateful comments on my other posts, and we’ve talked at length about them. But he’s never seen comments in relation to himself. He’s never straight-up read about how he’s into fat chicks, or how I’m so disgusting and unworthy. If the comments I’m so used to can affect me to the point of tears, how badly could they affect him?
And worse, could he start to believe them?
• • •
“I WAS THINKING, since you’re not feeling up for the gym tonight, we should just have a night in? I could even pick up some sushi,” Scott cheerfully suggests over the phone. He’s completely oblivious to the avalanche burying me alive.
He’s called me on his way home from work, just as I’m midway through reading a random email from a journalist at BuzzFeed News.
Dear Crystal,
I’ve been a longtime follower of your Instagram account, CurvyFitnessCrystal. I’ve been inspired by your journey and I couldn’t help but notice your recent post with your new boyfriend. I know you’ve received a lot of attention on the post and a lot of negative comments. I’m writing an article about it, if you wouldn’t mind answering a few of my questions? I have five hours for my deadline, so I’d like to hear your side of the story before the article goes live.
Best regards,
Daphne Jenkins
Health & Lifestyle Contributor
My eyes burn lasers into my phone. What fresh hell? An article about my photo? On BuzzFeed News? Is this a joke?
While this journalist appears to have good intentions, broadcasting the issue draws even more unwanted attention to the negativity. The very fact that someone has deemed it newsworthy only reinforces the ridiculous idea that me being with Scott is somehow “controversial.” So much for slinking away into the shadows.
My hands tremble again as I try to blink myself back to the moment. “Sorry. I zoned out. What did you say?”
“I asked if you want to stay in. You still in a sushi mood? You were saying you were craving it the other day.”
I cringe, hoisting my blanket up to my neck like a protective shield. I don’t want any company, particularly from Scott.
“I’m actually not feeling too well,” I say, panicked. My excuse to deny a sushi dinner needs to be believable, or Scott will be suspicious. I make a muffled retching sound, grimacing when it comes out like the distressed cries of a wounded cat.
“Are you sick?”
“I think so,” I say weakly, which is a half-truth. I’m void of all energy from the emotional roller coaster of the past day.
“Tell me your symptoms. I’ll come over and make you better,” he teases suggestively, obviously not picking up on my tone.
“Sore throat. Runny nose. It’s not a big deal.” I literally face-palm myself when I realize I’ve made a rookie mistake feigning illness. Scott has a paramedic certification as a firefighter.
“I’m about ten minutes away. Can you stay alive until then?”
“No,” I squawk. I’d rather swim in shark-infested waters than be face-to-face with Scott right now. I’m not ready to witness his humiliation, nor am I ready for the inevitable pity. “I mean, don’t come. I might be contagious. I don’t want you to get sick too.”
“I don’t care if you make me sick. I’m bringing you soup.”
“I don’t like soup.”
He snorts. “Yes, you do, you liar. You eat it all the time when we go for lunch.”
“Scott, listen to me. I don’t want it.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Okay, fine. You sure you’re okay? You sound mad. Did I do something to piss you off?”
“No, you didn’t.” My voice is pained. I almost wish he had done something so I could justify being such a frosty asshole right now.
“I obviously did. Are you upset I smeared icing on your cheek at the wedding?”
“I’m not mad at you,” I say, tone clipped.
“Okay . . . Is there anything at all I can do for you?”
“No. But I appreciate it. Really.”
More silence. “Uh, alright. I guess I’ll go back to my place?”
“Yeah. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” My entire body aches from that call. I can’t even fathom the thought of sleeping alone tonight, knowing this journalist is writing an article about me. I end the call, holding my phone to my chest.
I must have drifted into much-needed sleep, because when my eyes fly open at the sound of keys jingling in the lock, the living room is engulfed in a depressing darkness. I rub the sleep out of my eyes with my fists as Tara looms over me like some ominous ghost out of a horror movie. When my eyes adjust, I see she’s just come from work, based on her scrubs. She smells like chicken broth, which makes sense when I register the container of Whole Foods soup in her hand.
“Scott texted me and asked me to bring this to you”—she brings her hands up in air quotes—“for your sickness.” She levels me with a knowing look. Mel told her all about the Instagram comments. I know this because Tara sent me a million texts, in all caps, not five minutes after Mel left earlier this afternoon.
I take the soup from her hands, giving her a bored, exhausted chin dip. “Thanks. How are you?”
“I ate shit outside Whole Foods and burned a man. Thanks for asking.” She hikes up the pant leg of her scrubs to reveal a bloody gash on her knee.
I lean closer to examine it. It looks bad, but not deep enough to require medical attention, even though she’ll probably act like she needs it. “What happened? What do you mean, you burned a man?”
“I was walking out the doors with your soup and I shit you not, a guy who looked identical to the late Paul Walker—RIP, bless his beautiful soul—came out of nowhere. It was like a movie . . . he slammed right into me.” She claps her hands for dramatic effect. “But instead of a romantic moment of prolonged eye contact, the soup went flying.”
My eyes go wide. “No!”
She nods. “Yup. It all happened in slow motion. I dove forward . . . somehow under the illusion I could heroically catch the liquid with my bare hands and spare him. But I couldn’t. It splattered all over him and he screamed like he was being murdered. Not sure if it was because of the soup scorching his skin or the sight of me diving toward him . . . Anyway, he leaped out of the way and I went knee-first onto the pavement.” She grimaces at her knee again.
“Did you at least get his name?”
She shakes her head vehemently. “No. By the time all was said and done, he looked at me like I was a lunatic and ran into the store. And I awkwardly had to limp in behind him to get more soup.”
The story is objectively hilarious and quintessentially Tara. I’d usually be in stitches over it. But right now, the muscles in my mouth refuse to turn into a smile.
“You doing alright?” she asks, settling on the edge of the couch near my feet.
I shrug lazily. “I feel like shit.”
“How long will you pretend you’re sick? Scott’s not gonna buy it for much longer,” she points out.
“I know. I’m just not ready yet.” My eyes snap to a new text.
SCOTT: Did Tara bring you the soup?
CRYSTAL: She did. Thanks a lot.
SCOTT: Hope it makes you feel better. I really wish you’d let me come over. Heading into another double shift tomorrow and I miss you.
CRYSTAL: I’m fine. Please stop worrying. I miss you too.
SCOTT: Okay. Get some rest. Also, don’t ask me how I know this because it’s embarrassing, but those leggings you like at Lululemon are on sale.
CRYSTAL: Cool, thanks.
SCOTT: Ok, iRobot. I know you’re sick but would it kill you to send an exclamation mark? An emoji??? A GIF???
CRYSTAL:
SCOTT: That’s a tad aggressive, but I’ll take it.
I let the guilt of lying to Scott settle before I reread the email from BuzzFeed News. I google the reporter’s name and contact details to confirm she’s the real deal. And she is.
I seriously contemplate responding to the email, begging her not to write the story. I draft a response, which takes me the better part of an hour—most of my time spent deleting curse words and uncapitalizing full sentences so as to come across like the mature, emotionally balanced individual I am. But before I hit Send, my mind drifts back to my Size Positive campaign. Love yourself and ignore the haters.
I delete my draft email and close my laptop.
With or without my comment, this story is going viral. Tomorrow.