“Every day, Mom,” I say with an eye roll.
I also discovered I had Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, or PCOS, a hormonal condition that can affect metabolism, fertility, and other reproductive dynamics. Taking the right medication, carefully monitoring what I eat, and working out regularly have made a tremendous difference.
“Loving this look, by the way,” Quinn says, eyeing my air-conditioned boyfriend jeans, fitted T-shirt, blazer, and stilettos.
“Thanks.”
“I bet Zo will like it, too,” Quinn says innocently with naughty eyes.
I reach to push my hair behind my ear, only to find it all scooped up in a topknot. Damn habit. One thing I’ve never grown out of.
“We’ll see,” I offer with a stiff smile. “I’m still getting used to being . . . public.”
“Well, you’ve been private for six months,” Quinn reminds me. “It’s a miracle you managed to keep it under wraps as long as you did.”
“Not a miracle.” I bite into my string cheese. “I was very careful. I still don’t know how to feel about it.”
“The fact that people know, or the fact that you’re dating Zo?”
“All of it.” I fiddle with the oversize gold hoop earrings Zo gave me for my thirtieth birthday. “What if this goes wrong? I could lose my biggest client and my best friend in one fell swoop. That’s why it took me so long to cave and go out with him. Now that it’s leaking, I just hope things stay as good as they’ve been.”
“You guys are great together,” Quinn reassures.
“We’ll see this summer, won’t we?” I take a deep breath. “He’s staying with me once the season is over. With the Titans being in Vancouver, we so rarely get real time together.”
Zo has a few business interests here in LA, but I know this will be a test drive for us seeing how it feels to be in the same place longer than a night or two every few weeks. I’ve been trying to ignore the unease that creeps in every time I think of us living together. Our friendship has always been so right. The thought of things going wrong with Zo because we’re dating scares me a little.
“You guys will be fine. Just focus on what’s real. All this,” Quinn says, waving her hand at the crowded arena packed with television cameras and fans, “goes away when the game is over. You have a real relationship with a real man. Not the image you help create.”
Image.
I actually hate how much I have to think about it, especially now that I live in LA. It was one thing living in New York, but the image consciousness goes up another level out here. I’m a double-digit chick in a single-digit town. I’ve accepted that. I’ve shopped with Quinn in exclusive boutiques where the salesperson immediately offered to show me their shoes or jewelry, assuming that was all that would fit. I’m over it. I’ve stopped trying to keep up and have just determined I’ll be the best Banner I can be. That doesn’t mean I’m immune to other people talking about my image.
Hey, Hollywood, a highly successful blog, seems to have taken a special interest in my relationship with Zo. The commentary has been some of the most vicious.
“You know Hannah from Hey, Hollywood called me Sponge Banner Square Pants last week?”
Quinn spits a little of her beer out.
“Oh my God, what?” Her eyes widen first with humor, then shock, then morph to narrow angry slits.
“Yeah, and I quote. ‘Is it just me? Or does Zo Vidale’s agent/girlfriend have a squarer than normal ass? Let’s call her Sponge Banner Square Pants.’ End quote.”
“That little bitch,” Quinn says hotly. “Criticizing every detail of other people’s appearance. Meanwhile we’ve never seen what that little twat looks like. And you can betcha bottom dollar it’s nothing like the avatar she hides behind.”
“Whatever.” I shrug, pretending the barb doesn’t still burn where it landed.
“Not whatever.” Quinn grabs my hand and forces me to look her in the eyes the same way I’ve done over the years. “You’re beautiful, Banner. And your body is beautiful. You’ve worked hard. You’re disciplined and healthy, and heredity and squats have given you a great ass that is not abnormally square.”
“Hey, what more can a girl ask for than a ‘within normal range’ square ass?” I quip sarcastically.
“Maybe Hannah’s just pissed because she doesn’t have a fine, rich boyfriend.” Quinn’s eyes crinkle at the corners and a saucy smile spills over her mouth. “Ohhh, but boyfriend or not, you gotta appreciate premium manflesh. Incoming. Check out fine and rich, if that Tom Ford suit is anything to go by, at two o’clock.”
“Where?” I turn my head slightly to the right.
“Don’t look,” she says hastily. “He’ll know we’re interested.”
“We aren’t interested. You are, so I’m looking. Also that wasn’t two o’clock. That was ten o’clock. Did you fail driver’s ed or what?”
“Driver’s ed?” Consternation crinkles Quinn’s smooth expression.
“Ten and two?” I demonstrate the hand positions on an imaginary steering wheel.
“Good grief.” Quinn laughs and gives an exasperated shake of her head. “Just look. But guard your ovaries. He’s got a kid. He was fine in the first place. Add his adorable little girl and no ovaries are safe.”