An hour later, Eddie pops bottle number three of the most delicious Moscato d'Asti. Maybe it was our overly buzzed minds, or the fact we had covered both our faces in a mud mask, but when the door snaps open with a loud bang, we both scream. Hilariously, Eddie sounds more girlish than I do, causing me to double over in laughter.
Kirby walks in and stops dead in her tracks. “You two bitches started without me?”
I look over at Eddie, his lips moving in a weird pucker-like pout as his mask cracks around his lips. Each visible crack makes his pucker grow until he looks absolutely ridiculous. I’m sure my own mask is well beyond ready for me to wash off. Just seeing him make that face makes my lips twitch until I’m copying him. Both of us start laughing again when we see our faces contort as the mask cracks around our movements.
Clearly, we had started without her, but I stupidly look back over at my other best friend, still laughing. “Uh … no?”
Her violet blue eyes narrow more until they’re just tiny slivers. “Uh … yes! And you’ve so obviously gotten a head start on drinking since you two are drunker than a skunk. It’s a good thing I brought dinner,” she grumbles and finishes walking into my apartment, kicking the door closed with her booted foot. “I got Stanzo’s, Will. I know how much you love their eggplant parm.”
Well, isn’t that sobering.
I don’t let my inner cringing show; I give her a smile and walk over to give her a hug. “Awesome. Let me just go wash this off,” I tell her, walking to my bathroom. I’m going to need to run myself into the ground tonight to burn off Stanzo’s.
I closed and turned the lock before walking over to my vanity to stare into the mirror. With a quick twist of the tap, I continue to look into my eyes as the water warms and the mouthwatering scents of the best Italian mom and pop restaurant around fills my nose.
My breathing speeds up, and I do everything I can to mentally talk myself back up. Every Friday night, it’s the same. We have the best time during our ‘girls’ night’ fun of beautification, but it always ends with me having to talk myself into playing the part of carefree Willow. The one who hasn’t had to give up just about all the foods I used to love and replace them with salad just to shed some pounds. It’s so easy to hide this part of myself when we’re together at work, but here … it isn’t as easy to sweep things under the rug. They notice too much.
Just get in there, eat slowly, and wait for the wine to continue to flow. You can go to the gym when they leave and work it off.
I continue to repeat those words to myself as I bring a warm, wet washcloth to my face and start rubbing off the overly dry mud from my skin.
Small bites. Move the fork around, a lot. Small bites. Make sure their glasses stay full. Then move the food around some more. Gym later.
Tonight is one of the more challenging meals. Most of my favorite meal is easy to make disappear with a few calculated shifts of my fork, but because it’s basically one lump of food, it’s harder to make it look … eaten.
But if they’ve remained clueless this long, I doubt tonight will be any different.
Keep the wine flowing. Eat slowly. Small bites. Fork shifts. More wine. You’ve got this, Willow. It’s only one night a week of pretending. Tomorrow, it’s back to salad and water.
I take a few cleansing breaths, and with a small nod, I make my way out of the bathroom toward where my two best friends are laughing around the kitchen table.
God, that food smells like heaven. But I know better. Nothing good ever comes from indulging. It might smell like heaven, but it’s a package sent straight from hell. A package that has been my greatest weakness. But I’m in charge now. I’ve worked too hard to lose the weight I have to allow old habits to bring it all back.
“I grabbed you a plate, Will,” Eddie says, looking at me a little too long for my liking.
Slow bites, Willow. Just take it slow. Keep the wine flowing. You could probably last four hours at the gym and still be able to function tomorrow at work. Who needs sleep?
“Thanks, honey.” I sit in my seat and look over at Kirby, starting the first dance of my fork against the devil's temptation sitting in front of me. “How was soccer practice?” I question, picking a small sliver of my dinner and placing it between my lips. It takes everything in me not to moan at the explosion of flavors that hit my neglected taste buds.
“Good, good. Alli is a rockstar, like always.” She brags about her eight-year-old daughter.
“When’s her next game? I missed the first couple. Work’s kicking my ass,” Eddie complains.
“Yeah, Mister Hotshot Photographer. If you would stop shooting all those gorgeous men for two seconds, then maybe we would see you more often.” Kirby laughs, taking another huge bite of her food and making my mouth water a little more.