Fat Chance (12 page)

"It felt good to make fun of yourself?" he asks, arching an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Not necessarily," I answer, insecurity blooming up inside me all over again. I pull the pillow from under my arm and hug it to my lap. "What felt good was taking him by surprise, watching his expression change as I took away his power to hurt me."

"Well!" he exclaims, clapping his hands together as if I've just finished an impossible ballet. "Congratulations, then. And how have you felt since then? Is your confidence higher? Lower? Do you feel more sense of self-pride?"

"I really do. I've even started going with my sister to her yoga class," I say, nodding my head. I'm proud of myself, but at the same time, I'm embarrassed that I needed him to be my cheerleader, that I allowed myself to sink so low. I'm embarrassed that it took him what seems like no time at all to bring me back up, and now I'm more cheerful than I've been in a long time.

I feel like a part of me has grown up and maybe that's why I felt so horribly large before. It feels like my inner child was still looking out at the world from behind my adult face, seeing a too-old face and a too-large body that are totally wrong and misplaced in my mirror. As if I somehow have failed to fit, not just into the world, but into my own reflection.

Acknowledging how hurt I was as a young adult, and taking steps to heal those wounds, leaves me feeling almost as if I've grown into myself in some way, and because of this, I haven't felt quite so fat lately, though my weight has not changed other than the generally expected fluctuations. This sense of rightness in myself means the world to me, and when I tell Dr. Caswell I’m feeing better, I say it honestly, knowing that I mean it.

"Oh no," I mutter, walking a little faster. I've just finished my therapy appointment, and I'm supposed to meet with Renee for yoga, so I'm in a little hurry. I need to get home and change so I can get to the studio on time, but as I walk up, I notice that one of the tires on my car is totally flat.

I've never changed a tire. I mean, I have a spare, but I don't know if I can lift it because I've never had to. I have a jack but I'm not terribly sure how to work it, and I don't have a clue how to work a lug nut.

"Thank heavens for roadside assistance." As I pull my cell phone out of my purse, I squat down next to the tire to see if I can tell why it's flat. With everything in my hands though, I can't really see, so I stand up and unlock my car, throwing my phone into my purse and my purse into the seat.

"Okay, let's see what there is to tell, and then I guess I'll have to call and just deal with spending the roadside money. Arrrgghh," I grumble to myself, slamming the car door and walking back to squat next to the tire again. Grimacing because I'm about to have nasty hands, I gingerly run my palm over the tread of the tire, trying to find a screw or nail, a cut, something that will explain the flat.

As I find the head of a nail buried to the hilt in my tread, the car beside me shrilly announces the arrival of it's owner, and the sound surprises me. I jump, and my fingers slip over the back edge of the tread, where my palm finds the tip of the nail sticking out from the side of the tire. Since I'm already jerking back in surprise, it doesn't really shock me when I feel the skin of my palm rip open, though it burns and is, of course, painful.

"Dammit," I mutter, holding my hand away from myself so it won't bleed on my dress. I guess I'll be skipping yoga today for sure. It doesn't look too bad though.

"Can I help you?" Spinning around, I forget the injury to my hand as I come face to face with the other patient from Dr. Caswell's office.

"Um," I stammer, my eyebrows coming together.
What is he doing here? How has he not left yet?

"I know," he laughs. "This seems to be happening a lot huh?"

"Yeah, it definitely does," I answer nervously, still stupidly holding my bloody hand out because I have nowhere to put it. He notices my hand, and there is an instant change in his demeanor; the troubled but easygoing guy vanishes completely, and suddenly the man before me is all business.

"What happened to your hand?" he asks, stepping forward to take hold of my wrist.

"I had a flat," explain. "There's a nail in my tire, and I found it right when you must have hit your key fob or something. Kind of surprised me, I guess. I was just going to call roadside."

"Oh, they take forever," he says, pulling a roll of gauze from his pocket and ripping into the plastic.
Who the heck keeps gauze in their pockets?

"Why don't you let me help?" he asks, as he tears a strip from the gauze and uses it to press into my palm. Gasping at the pain, I can't seem to do anything but stare at him.
Gauze? In his pockets? Who is this guy?
He's finished blotting, and is now wrapping my hand, tucking the ends of the gauze neatly under the very fresh and professional looking improvised bandage.

"Help?" I ask, trying to remember what he was talking about. His green eyes have locked with my dark ones; he's still gently holding my wrist in his hands, and suddenly, there isn't enough air around me.

"With your tire?" He can see the effect he's had on me; he winks, and his mouth widens and curves into a lazy grin. "Roadside will take a while to get here, and they can't fix the tire anyway."

"And you can?" I have become aware that I am a damsel in distress, and this man is offering to play the role of the hero.
Is that what I want?
I'm not that needy, please-help-save-me type of girl. Still, it might be nice, for once, to sit back and let a strong man take over for a while.

"I can," he says. "I can change a tire without any trouble at all, if you've got a good spare. And my brother, Michael, owns the tire shop down the street. I actually just came from there; I walked up after my appointment with Dr. Caswell to check over a gash on his leg. And when I come back, here you are. Really, don't waste your day on roadside, let me help you."

"Okay," I smile.
I guess that explains the gauze.
My hand hurts, I'm frustrated because I really had been looking forward to yoga, and I'm not sure I can afford a new tire, though I know I have money in savings.

Right now, I'm just going to enjoy having someone else here with me, someone who wants to be helpful. "I'm Cassaundra. I guess if you're going to spend your afternoon being my tire man, you should at least know my name."

"Cassaundra," he murmurs. "It's unusual. I like it. I'm Drew. Andrew Kingsley." He turns, and I follow as he walks to the back of his SUV. Popping the hatch open, he digs out a jack and a tire iron; I ignore the urge to tell him that I have one of my own.
Is that a gas mask, tucked under the back seat?

"You know," I say, rethinking the wisdom of taking up with a strange man from my therapist’s office, who has a gas mask in his SUV. These days, you can't be too careful. "I can really just call roadside. It's no big deal."

He puts his stuff down next to the flat tire and signals for me to engage the trunk pop. I mutely hit the button; he lifts the spare tire to the ground, closes the trunk, and drops to slip the jack under my car. "It's a big deal to me," he says. "I can't leave a pretty girl stranded."

A pretty girl? What?

"Oh," I say, quietly. "Well, uh, is there any way I can help?"

"Just look pretty so I can enjoy it, and agree to dinner with me," he says, loosening the lug nuts on my tire.
Dinner with gas mask man? Where, his favorite little diner, Chez Terrorist?

"Uh, what?"

"Don't worry about the pretty; I noticed you have that down, right from the start," he laughs, raising my car with his jack. He lifts the flat tire from the car easily, the way I lift a pen or the phone. "But the dinner is so that, you know, I can, um, keep an eye on your hand."

"Pardon me?" Gingerly, I cross my arms over my chest, backing up a step. Now I'm wishing I had my phone in my hand so I could call for someone less odd, or that I was thin enough to be a fast runner in case he decides to pull something. Or that my stupid tire hadn't picked up a nail and this would never have happened.

"Mmhmm," he says, matter-of-factly. "Classic signs of shock. It's obviously a vicious cut you have there. I should keep an eye on it." He winks at me again, lifting the spare tire into place and spinning the lug nuts on.

"Are you serious?" I ask. "Do you seriously just ask out women after oh-so-casually bandaging gashed hands and revealing the freaking gas mask in your car? Like a gas mask is an every day accessory? It's not a scarf, Drew."

"It kind of is, sometimes," he says, glancing over at me as he lowers my car. "If you're a cop."

"You're a cop." Now I'm completely frazzled, leaning against his car with one hand on my hip. "You're a cop?"

"I'm a cop. Been a cop for years."

"Oh." Now I really feel stupid. He's a cop.

"So, now that we've established that I'm not planning to blow up the mall. Dinner? It's really the least you can do, Cassaundra, after thinking what you were probably thinking."

Crap. Is he right? He can't be right. Is he right?

"I guess you're right," I mutter. Well how about that? I'm going on a date. Hmm.

"Thank you," he says, stepping forward to take my good hand in his. "I promise not to bring anything creepy. Just myself." His eyes are laughing at me, and I can't help smiling back at him.

"I should think that would be creepy enough," I laugh. He laughs too, releasing my hand and going back to my car. He squats to gather his tire iron and the jack, still chuckling.

When he stands and comes back over to his own car, he warns me, "Now you'll want to back away. When I throw this stuff back in the hatch, you may get a glimpse of other stray work gear. I've heard my gear can be rather terrifying."

"Oh, smart. Very smart. I bet your brother Michael thinks you're just hilarious, hmm?" I cross my arms again, and strike a pose that I hope is flirty. He grins, so I guess I'm doing it right. I like him; he's fun.

"Oh, no. Michael taught me everything I know," he teases.

"Good God, he's not coming to dinner, is he?" I widen my eyes in mock surprise, and raise my hands up as if in surrender.

"God? I guess he can come if you want. But I'm not inviting Michael." He winks again, and I'm sure I'm in for a really entertaining dinner, Michael or no Michael.

"Why don't you ride with me to my brother's shop, and I'll have him fix your tire up. We can plan dinner on the way," he continues.

I'm sure I should resist. I'm very sure that I should at least drive my own car, that I can take it from here and just see him whenever I see him. But as he looks at me, and for the first time I'm seeing light in his eyes, I just can't tell him no. Every time I've seen him, he's had a heavy air of grief surrounding him, and if sparring with me cheers a public servant in need, who am I to deny him?

I've lived most of my adult life in fear and insecurity, and because of that, I spend a lot of time alone. Just this once, I'm throwing caution to the wind, and hoping for the best. I can't wait to call Renee later and tell her about all of this. In the meantime, I'm getting to know a handsome man who can't leave a pretty girl like me stranded.

"Okay," I say, reaching into my car for my purse. "You win me over. For now."

"Challenge accepted," he laughs, opening the passenger door of the SUV and waiting while I climb inside.

I'm pretty sure that if I could see her right now, I'd be watching my sister, Renee, jump up and down with glee.

"Oh my goodness, oh my goodness," she says again, and again, I am reminded of Tessie, from Annie, the musical. I can't help laughing.

"Only you would be proud of me for standing up yoga over this," I say, sitting confidently on one of my new dining chairs. Today I'm drinking black coffee, loving the strong nutty flavor of the drink.