Fat Girl (16 page)

SITTING IN FRONT OF MY iMac, I curse the creative muses, which have once again deserted me. I haven’t typed a single word in thirty minutes.

I look at the animated screen saver, a starburst of colors exploding onto the screen—vivid and tangible one minute, fading out and elusive the next—and think of Dee. It bothers me that I can’t get a fix on her. What’s going on beneath that cool, aloof exterior?

She was all buttoned up today in another dark suit, as conservative as the one she was wearing on Wednesday. But if I close my eyes, I can still remember how soft her body felt when I pressed my hand to the deep, sexy dip in her lower back. How the scent of perfume and Dee drifted up to greet me. It was all I could do not to lean in closer and taste the sensitive spot beneath her ear.

Jesus.
I give my head a mental shake. What kind of man can’t get the woman who left him cold out of his system after fifteen years and a steady diet of anger and resentment?

Hell, I know I’m not the only poor sucker to ever have my heart fed through a meat grinder. People get dumped all the time and eventually they move on. But it’s the way she did it—so heartless, so callous—that has this stranglehold on me that won’t let go.

Before I can come up with any more excuses for my pathetic weakness, there’s a knock at my door. The only people who have security access to this floor are authorized staff, the Torreses, Dwayde, and my neighbor. If it’s Lisa with another proposition, I just might take her up on it this time. Prove I’m no longer that pussy-whipped, lovesick eighteen-year-old. But it’s not Lisa.

The boy I open the door to looks miserable, and dried tears have left salty tracks down his light brown cheeks. That Dee would drop him off like this just to avoid me only adds to the laundry list of her many transgressions.

“Dwayde,” I say, closing the door behind him. “What happened?”

He tries to speak. Instead, a quiet sob comes out, and all thoughts of Dee and her wrongdoings vanish. My impulse is to say something that will take the hurt away, but there are no words. So taking a page from Papa T’s book, I hug him to my chest and wait patiently until he’s all cried out.

Several minutes pass before Dwayde’s sobs abate and his thin shoulders stop shaking. Sniffling, he steps out of my arms and wipes his face and runny nose on his sleeve. Head hanging low, he mumbles, “Sorry for acting like such a baby.”

“Hey, everybody’s entitled to cry once in a while. You were overdue.” I put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “How about I make us something to eat?”

He shrugs and taking that as a yes, I allow him space to compose himself while I head into the kitchen. It’s a culinary cockpit of metal alloy countertops, ebony wood cabinets, and built-in stainless steel appliances, including a chef’s stove, which is wasted on me. Not that I can’t cook—Mama T made sure all us could fend for ourselves—it’s just that I don’t bother cooking for one.

I grab what I need for two triple-decker BLTs. While I wait for the skillet to heat up, Dwayde trudges in and climbs up on a stool at the breakfast bar. As I toss the bacon into the pan, out of the corner of my eye, I watch his fingers move with purpose on the countertop. Sketching with his fingers. His expression reveals nothing but anger. I remember my own rage as a kid and the way I turned to writing as an outlet. Art served the same purpose for Dwayde in surviving his bleak and desperate existence on the streets.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“What for?” he spits out. “I saw them and it was shit.”

Aware of my own animosity toward these strangers threatening to take Dwayde away, and my guilt that he’s in this mess because of me, I deliberately keep my tone impartial. “What made it shit?”

Without answering, he keeps sketching whatever vision he has in his mind. I wonder what clues it would reveal.

Accepting that Dwayde’s not yet ready to talk, I pop six slices of bread into the toaster and resume the task of preparing the sandwiches. Minutes later, I join him at the bar. Taking the stool beside him, I bite into my BLT. Dwayde doesn’t touch his. I wasn’t much for talking as a kid—my secrets were too big to share—so I understand his need to close off. But I also know that keeping all that anger in is a taxing burden. “Sometimes it helps to get it off your chest,” I say.

Dwayde shrugs and stares glumly at the floor. I continue eating, waiting him out.

“He tried to give me some stupid shirt from his farm,” Dwayde finally reveals, his voice thick with contempt. “He said it was my legacy. Like I care. I don’t want nuthin’ from them, not their stupid name or their stupid farm.”

My appetite gone, I shove my plate away. “I’m sorry it was so rough on you, Dwayde.”

“I hate them,” he wails, “all of them. If a judge makes me g-go live there, I’ll disappear. I-I swear it. I’ll run where no one will ever find me.”

A fist squeezes inside my chest. This isn’t the idle rant of a scared twelve-year-old. He has the street experience to make good on his threat.

“Dwayde, look at me.” He does and I see his face twisted with sheer loathing, his huge eyes bright with fresh tears. “No one’s going to take you away from us. Understand?”

“You p-promise?”

“I promise,” I say, a thread of steely determination running through my vow.

I CAN’T HOLD OFF ANY longer. After twenty stomach-churning minutes, I still haven’t found Dwayde. He was supposed to call his uncle after the visit to pick him up, but I have no way of reaching Mick. My only option is to contact Victor and Isabelle. If Dwayde has run away, knowing the streets as well as he does, the sooner the police are out there looking for him, the better. As a detective, Victor will know what to do.

I lift my phone to make that dreaded call just as “Chariots of Fire” begins to play. The screen flashes
private number
.

“Hello?” I answer breathlessly…hopefully.

“Dee, it’s Mick.”

“Please, tell me Dwayde’s with you.”

“He is.”

“Oh, thank God.” I heave a sigh, but my limbs are still shaking. “How is he?”

“Upset…angry. He arrived here about twenty minutes ago in tears,” Mick says, lowering his voice.

“I knew he’d have a strong reaction. But I didn’t expect him to run. He took off so quickly,” I ramble, postfear relief pumping the words out of me. “When I went to find him, he wasn’t there. I had no idea where he went…I started thinking the worst—”

“Feels like hell, doesn’t it?”

His sharp, accusatory tone is an arrow through my heart. I open my mouth to defend myself, but with what? If I put my foster parents through even a fraction of the worry and panic I’d just felt, I deserve censure. “So you made me wait as punishment?”

“No. I assumed you dropped Dwayde off. The minute he told me that he left without telling you—something he knows better than to do—I called.”

“Thank you for that,” I manage to say because Mick could have left me hanging. “May I speak with Dwayde a moment?”

“Not right now. I’m about to take him home.”

“I would just like to—”

“I said not right now. Dwayde needs his family. Not legal advice.”

Wow! That hurt.
“Of course,” I say aloud, swallowing to steady my voice. “Please tell Dwayde I’ll call him tomorrow.”

The phone abruptly disconnects and I’m left standing there, still shaking, feeling rejected and lonelier than I can remember feeling since fleeing Springvale.

Growing up, all I ever wanted was a family.
Once upon a time, I thought I could have that with the Torreses…and with Mick. Not just the temporary kind that had been on loan to me, but a big, happy family of my very own.

Over the years, I resigned myself to a life with a successful career and good friends. I told myself it was enough. But now I know I’ve only been fooling myself.

I SKIP LUNCH AND TAKE comfort in a nonfat latte instead of the hot fudge sundae I’m craving. At two o’clock, I arrive outside the dress boutique on North Michigan Avenue. Lexie and Jordyn greet me with searching eyes.

“I’m okay,” I assure them before they ask, and fashion a smile that’s as fake as it feels. “We’re here to help you dress shop,” I say to Lexie, “and that’s all I want to think about.”

Knowing me well enough not to push, they let it go at that, but I expect to be grilled later.

As soon as we enter the shop, a striking woman of about forty-five with a sophisticated updo and expertly applied makeup approaches. “Good afternoon, ladies. Welcome to Ellegant. I’m Elle.”

Smart play on her name, I think, as I look around at the gorgeous gowns pinned on size 0 mannequins.

“How may I help you today?”

“We’re looking for something cocktail length,” Lexie informs her.

“What’s the occasion?”

Lexie tucks several strands of her glossy demibob behind her ear. “My birthday next Friday.”

“Happy Birthday!” The store owner gives her a hundred-watt smile. “Where are you celebrating?”

“At the Lemon Lounge.”

“Oh…very nice,” Elle comments, seeming to be impressed that her customer has secured one of the most exclusive party venues in the city. “We have a lovely selection of cocktail dresses.” She turns her gaze to Jordyn and me. “Are you ladies shopping as well?”

“We’re all shopping,” I hear Lexie answer.

“Not me,” I say. “I already have something to wear.”

“What?” Lexie asks skeptically.

“My black dress with the bolero jacket.”

“You wear that to
networking
functions
,” she hisses, her fashion sensibilities offended.

“It’s a classic,” I reply. “Plus, I have chandelier earrings that will jazz it up.”

“Come on, Dee,” Lexie cajoles me, “treat yourself to something new.”

I glance over at Jordyn, seeking reinforcement from her because she hates shopping as much as I do. But I find none. “It won’t hurt you to take a look.”

Traitor.
Cornered, I mutter, “Fine.” I’ll take a look, just a look, assuming they even carry my size.

Delighted, Lexie gives me a bright smile, and we follow Elle over to the rack of dresses. My slim friends are shown to the front while I make the walk of shame toward the back, past the row of single digits to the small selection in the latter teens. I find exactly four dresses: a black wraparound that might work. And an electric-blue sheath, emerald-green strapless, and ruby-red halter, all of which definitely won’t.

“What do you think?” Lexie asks, holding up a stunning one-shouldered dress in dark purple, which accentuates the violet in her eyes.

We all approve. Long and lean, Lexie is one of those women who could wear a garbage sack with panache. She holds up a few more options and adds those to her selections. Even Jordyn, whom I’ve seen only once in a dress—and that was for her brother’s wedding—finds three she likes.

When I display my choice, Lexie scowls at the black wraparound and walks over to assess the rejects.

“They’re not my style,” I tell her as she browses through the rack, giving each one a critical appraisal.

“How do you know what your style is when you limit yourself to black, navy, and gray? Look at these!” Lexie lifts the green and red dresses under my chin. “They work great with your olive skin.”

It’s not matching my skin tone that I’m worried about.

“Give them a try.”

Dreading it, but going through the motions so I don’t ruin this for her, I take both into the dressing room and draw the curtain around me. With my back to the mirror, I strip down to my thigh slimmer pantyhose and nude minimizer bra. The green dress has zero give. It takes some doing to squeeze my proportions into the strapless mermaid number.
Ugh!
I grunt, feeling like an overstuffed sausage.

“How’s it going?” Lexie asks through the adjoining curtain.

“Terrible!”

“Why?”

“The green’s too tight.”

“It’s supposed to be tight.”

“Not this tight.”