The Lighter Side of Large (8 page)

It’s a relief to get to the feminine products aisle. Now I just have to get through the check-out line and I’m home free.

“Hey there,” says a familiar deep voice. My stomach sinks right down to my toes: so much for avoiding him and the embarrassment of what just went down. I look up to find Jae standing in front of my cart.

“Hey again,” I reply meekly. I hold a super-sized box of tampons and set it in the cart.
What is he doing here? Men aren’t supposed to be on this aisle. Isn’t there some kind of unspoken social etiquette rule about this? Women don’t invade the man cave; men don’t invade the tampon aisle. Well, except for the reluctant blokes whose significant others ask them to pick up a few items on their way home from work. I feel my face turning red. If a gal isn’t safe here, where can she escape to?

“Bella,” Jae says - he remembered my name! - “I don’t usually stalk people through supermarkets, especially ones who can have me locked up for indecent groping, but I was wondering if you want to go skydiving sometime.”

“Skydiving?” I blurt.

Jae nods. “Or boating or four-wheeling or something. I need feedback on the services my new company provides and thought maybe I could use you as a guinea pig - if you don’t mind being used for non-laboratorial experimental purposes, that is. You don’t have to jump out of a plane on my account, but I would like a woman’s opinion on other recreational activities.”

The double entendre of his last words dawns on us at the same time. Jae turns beet red. “I apologise, I didn’t mean for that to sound like that.”

I hold onto my cart, I’m laughing so hard. “I’d love to - hee-hee-hee - do some experi-ha-ha-mental recreational activities–hee-hees with you.” Jae’s blush is replaced by a grin and soon he is laughing hard. “Sounds like a lot of fun,” I finally say.

Jae’s face brightens and I melt again. “Great. Here’s my number.” He hands me a slip of paper. “Give me a call when you have some time. We’ll make a whole day of it. I really appreciate this. You’d be doing me a big favour.”

I try, I honestly try, to not laugh. It doesn’t work. He catches it, too, and we snigger and snort. “I’m not in the habit of doing favours for strange men, but I’ll make an exception this time.” How can I not make an exception? A cute guy chases me around a store to give me his number.

Jae is still all smiles. “Terrific. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Bye,” I say as he turns to leave. I stare at the paper.
Jae Elliot – 021-084-5346
it says in bold script. I can’t believe it. I have the number to a cute guy I just met who wasn’t put off by the orange pyramid collapse or by my weight. An adventurous man who actually wants to spend a whole day with
me.

He’s gone by the time I roll up to the check-out counter. What a difference a few hours makes. The humiliation with Wesley and my subsequent depression melts into oblivion as I think about Jae’s smile.

The cashier hands me the receipt. “Thank you, ma’am,” I tell her cheerfully. Maybe a bit too cheerfully from the look she gives me. I push the cart through the automatic sliding doors and into the sunshiny, breezy day. I scan the carpark but Jae is nowhere in sight.
Darn,
I think. I had hoped to catch a glimpse of his vehicle. Probably a truck since his business was adventure tourism. But no matter: I have his number and all’s right with the world.

As I stash the groceries in the boot, I wonder what activities we will do. Skydiving is more than I want to attempt. Boating sounded harmless - unless I capsized the boat. Hiking and biking were out - I couldn’t keep up with him and no bike had a seat big enough for me. Four-wheeling and white water rafting - now those I can try.

I slam the boot shut, put the cart away in the cart corral and slide behind the driver’s seat. I roll down the window as I turn on the ignition. “I can’t believe I got his number,” I say and pull it out of my pocket for another look:
Jae Elliot – 895-184-5346.

And in a gust of wind, it’s gone. “Oh, no!” I cry as the paper sails through the air across the car park. I turn off the car and squeeze out, jogging a few steps to catch it, my boobs and flab rebounding with each step. The paper lands on the asphalt and I hurry toward it, but three steps away the wind picks it up and sends it whirling overhead, setting it down several yards away.

I’m puffing from the exertion as I jog, but as soon as I get close, it flies farther away. I pause to catch my breath, debating whether to keep after it or let it go. I really like what I saw of Jae and want to get to know him better, but I just can’t keep up the chase.

The paper lies tantalisingly on the ground for several seconds, as if it knows I decided to give up and therefore gave up as well. Then I take a step in its direction and the wind picks it up again.

I return to the car.

•

“Did you get everything you need?” Sands asks as I walk through the door.

“And then some,” I reply. Sands cocks an eyebrow at me in question. “I got the number of a gentleman who wants to take me skydiving.”

A smile slowly spreads across her face. “See? What’d I tell you? How about that.” She pauses. “Skydiving? When?”

My shoulders droop. “Never. I lost his number.”

“You did what? How?”

I start putting away groceries. Sands grabs a few items. “The wind blew it out of my hand and I couldn’t catch it.”

“What’s his name? We can look him up online.”

I stash the oranges in the refrigerator. “Jae Elliot. That’s Jae with an e. He runs an adventure tourism business.”

“Jae with an e? That’s weird. How many Jae Elliots with an e who run adventure businesses can there be?”

Before I can reply, the phone rings. The caller ID flashes Tiresa Vaega, the very last person in the world I want to talk to after this latest letdown.

I walk away from the phone. “Who is it?” Sands asks as she helps put away the groceries.

“Tiresa,” I grumble.

“Bella,” Sands says in her best mother voice, “what did I just tell you not one hour ago about sabotaging relationships?”

“Sands, I’m not in the mood to be told again that I’m not officially invited to their engagement party and how I need to keep a low profile there so I don’t embarrass her.”

“How do you know that’s what she’s going to say?”

“Because that’s what she said the last time we talked.”

“Maybe she’s trying to build bridges or wants to ask for your forgiveness.”

I laugh. “Tiresa doesn’t want my forgiveness and she burns bridges, not builds them.”

The phone stops ringing as the answering machine picks up:
You’ve reached the White residence. Leave a message and one of the crazy kids living here will return your call as soon as possible. Thanks and ta-ta.
Two clicks sound and then Tiresa’s voice invades my home: “Bella, I need to know what you’re wearing to the engagement party.”

I roll my eyes. “I love how she assumes that I am attending, like I can’t wait to celebrate her…”

“Shh!” Sands hushes me.

Tiresa continues: “A lot of my business clients and Mika’s attorney friends are invited and I can’t have you dressed in some cheap knit crap from the dollar store. So let me know what you have. I’ll buy you a decent dress if you don’t have one and you don’t have to pay me back. Call me.” Click.

I glare at Sands, who shrugs. “It’s not the most diplomatic way to build a bridge, but it’s a start.” She tries to sound hopeful.

I grab the box of tampons and storm to the bathroom. “That’s not a bridge. That’s a burn.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“The unexpected brings out the real us, the person we try to keep under a polished veneer of gentility and complicity.”

FROM BELLA’S BLOG
http://www.thelightersideoflarge.com/ch7

Cheap knit crap from the dollar store’,” I mimic Tiresa’s self-righteous tone. “’I’ll buy you a
decent
dress’.” I scowl as I examine the black dress which had been purchased for the date with Wesley. It was more than decent - in fact, it had cost a bit more than I could reasonably afford - and would fit in with Tiresa’s and Mika’s engagement party, which was certain to be on par with a black tie affair. Now I just needed a new pair of shoes since the heel broke off my sandal.

I park my car just off Trafalgar Street and make my way down the crowded sidewalk toward Hannah’s Shoes, where I hope to purchase the same sandals I bought for the date with Wesley. There weren’t many styles in my size, let alone ones that could accommodate my fat feet, so I often bought a couple pairs of the same shoes.

At a corner I run into Cat, who is wearing plastic bags over her boots. “Cat! How are you?” I ask.

I was the first to befriend Cat, who has lived on the street for a decade. Initially, I felt sorry for her and gave her an old winter coat of mine, which progressed to spare change here and there, then invitations to have coffee. Feeling sorry for Cat didn’t do any good, however. Her mind half-gone from alcohol, Cat survives quite well on the streets, her brutal honesty put to good use and her “It could be worse” attitude keeping her afloat.

She looks me up and down. “I see you’re finally off your face,” she comments.

“Uh, yeah,” I stammer. “Thanks for checking in on me the other night. It was a pretty horrible night.”

“Try living on the streets,” Cat retorts unsympathetically.

I sigh. Typical Cat: unsympathetic at best, uncouth at worst. “Where are you headed?”

She shrugs. “Nowhere, last I checked.”

“I’m going shoe shopping. Want to come along?” I invite. She falls into step next to me, both of us shuffling along, me from my weight and her because of the plastic bags.

“What’s with the bags?” I ask.

“Keeps the water out,” she replies, stepping into a puddle created by last night’s rain.

I bite my lip, wondering how I can find out what size shoe she wears so I can buy her some rubber boots. “So are you going to give me back my sleeping pills?”

“Nope. Sold those to a drug dealer.”

“You didn’t!” I no longer feel badly about her holey shoes. If she had money from a drug dealer and blew it on liquor, well, it was her life.

“It’s a living,” she shrugs and glances down. “What do you need new shoes for? Not going on another date, are you?”

“Tiresa and Mika’s engagement party.”

“Well, well, aren’t we the glutton for punishment,” she cackles.

I stop and stand aside to let another pedestrian pass by, the sidewalk is so packed. Most people avoid contact with Cat because of her smell and looks, but my size makes me a little harder to circumnavigate in a crowd. “I’m just trying to keep the peace in the family for Mama Rose’s sake. Otherwise I wouldn’t go near the place, not for a million dollars.”

“The poor can’t afford to be choosy,” she intones.

I accidentally jostle her when another pedestrian rushes by. “Oops, sorry. It’s not about poverty. It’s about pride. I can live with being poor, but I at least like to hold up my head with some dignity. Having my ex and sister publicly rub their affair in my face isn’t worth winning the lottery.”

But that is exactly what is going to happen,
I think to myself. They’ll be all smiles while I sit there in pain, toasting their happiness and pretending everything is fine.

“You have pride? Now I’ve seen everything.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand.

Cat looks into the distance. “You’ve got an embarrassingly loud laugh and a wide load to match it. You surround yourself with people who are just as embarrassing and messed up as you are, so there’s little chance of you being rejected or excluded. You’re a coward and that’s nothing to be proud of.”

My jaw drops. “Where is this coming from? I can’t believe you said that. I thought we were friends. Think of all the times I’ve help you, let you take a shower at my place, bought you lunches. And this is what you think of me? The embarrassing basket case?” We approach a shop with a rack of items just outside the door, making even less space on the sidewalk. I skirt around the street side of a post box because of the traffic jam the racks are causing. “I’m not a coward,” I add as I stumble into Cat and knock her into the street - and into the path of an oncoming bus.

The bus driver slams on his brakes and blasts the horn. Cat, like her namesake, springs out of the way with an agility which betrays her age. “Are you okay?” I ask breathless from the near-miss.

“Why wouldn’t I be? My friend tries to kill me. I’m fine,” she says, straightening her dirty cap.

“Sorry,” I murmur. “No, I’m not sorry. What you said hurts my feelings.” Nothing like a crazy, alcoholic homeless woman to make you feel badly about yourself.

Cat nods thoughtfully. “I guess this means you won’t buy me a cup of coffee?”

I open my mouth to give Cat a good tongue-lashing just as a dark-haired man comes around the corner, heading straight for us. It is Wesley. He’s on the phone, gesticulating wildly and talking in a very loud voice as if to prove he is important. He doesn’t so much walk as strut.