“I called Charlie.”
She nodded. I’d told her our basic story already. We’d gone out and he’d dumped me and I was sad. Now, on that couch, I thought I’d just tell her about the phone call. But then I kept going and recounted the entire conversation word for excruciating word. Then it was like I couldn’t stop, like I had diarrhea of the mouth, and I told her about the jar of sand, which I’d dumped into the trash in a fit of anger before I went to sleep, along with the House of Pizza plastic ring and the poster. I’d meant to toss the brass ring in the trash too, but when I’d reached for it, I couldn’t get myself to take it off. I showed it to Mary now, rubbing it with my thumb like I always did. And, like it always did, it calmed me down a little.
When I said, “It’s my fault we broke up in the first place,” Mary put her notepad aside and gave me a look that said, I was listening before, but now I’m REALLY listening.
I’d worn a dark blue sundress that night. I’d bought it just for our date. I’d borrowed Mom’s gold necklace that dangled almost to my belly button, and painted my toenails a matching blue so they’d look good in my favorite pair of brown strappy wedge sandals.
Charlie had dressed up, too, in a navy-blue blazer and green Vineyard Vines tie with little swordfish on it. He’d texted earlier in the day, told me to be ready at seven, and to wear something nice. No occasion, he’d said when I asked. Just because. It was all very romantic. And then, when he picked me up, he looked so hot that I decided right then and there. It was time.
We’d come close to having sex a couple of times, but I’d never felt ready. Two weeks earlier, when we were messing around in his room, I’d stopped him at the last minute. “I’m sorry,” I’d said.
“It’s okay,” he’d responded, whispering into my hair. “It has to be right.”
But a few days later he’d tried again when we were fooling around on the giant sectional couch in his basement. I’d moved his hand just as he reached for the zipper on my jeans. This time, when I said no, he’d groaned and said, just a little annoyed, “It’s okay if you’re not ready. I get it.”
I’d said I was sorry, and he’d sighed. “No, I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t push you.”
Now, as we walked to his car, I imagined how excited he’d be when I told him I was ready. Then I pictured myself naked next to him and shuddered.
I can’t.
You can. You have to.
“Where are we going?” I asked in the car, raising my voice over the radio.
“You’ll see!” he said, smiling. Music blaring, he threw the car into drive and off we went. Summer air rushed in through the sunroof and rippled my hair, and I felt like I was flying.
And then we rolled up to the Navigator Room. It was the fanciest restaurant in town. Dad took Mom there for her birthday dinner every year. This had to be a punishment from the universe. My stomach cramped. Breathe, Elizabeth. You can get a salad. But I knew that wasn’t true. You didn’t get just a salad at a place like the Navigator Room.
“Are you okay?” Charlie put his hot hand on my bare knee and squeezed.
No. Not there. I have lots of fat there.
I tried to smile. “Oh yeah, I’m fine. I just got some dust in my eye, that’s all.”
Charlie let out a short, tight breath and shook his head a little. He’d been doing that a lot lately.
He’d made a reservation, and the hostess led us to a big table with a white tablecloth, a vase with a single white rose, and wineglasses. I immediately pictured the table loaded down with food and couldn’t sit still. I started jiggling my foot, a preemptive strike against the calories I knew I was about to consume.
Charlie pretended not to notice, but I know he did. “It’s my treat, okay?” He was trying hard.
“Wow. Thanks.” Him paying made everything worse. I didn’t want to waste his money, but I couldn’t eat the food on this menu. Salmon en cro?te. What the heck was that? Chicken with browned butter. Breaded pork chops. Veal. Everything came smothered in sauce, or was fried, or was fattening.
“Elizabeth?”
“Huh?”
“Elizabeth, you’re so pale. Are you all right?”
I spoke faster than I should have. “Totally. Sorry. It’s just that everything looks so good I can’t decide what to order.” I scanned the options again. Manhattan clam chowder. Tomato-based broth. No cream. Yes! “I think I’m going to have a cup of the Manhattan clam chowder and maybe a house salad.”
His face fell.
I panicked. I could feel his disappointment from across the table. I’d been feeling it more often lately. I tried again. “You know, actually, the salmon sounds good. I’ll have the salmon.” I didn’t want the salmon. But I didn’t want to upset Charlie more.
He exhaled. “Cool. I’m getting steak. Oh, and fried calamari. Do you like calamari?”
I had, once. “I love it!” I said.
We ordered, and when the menus were gone, I relaxed. Charlie told me funny stories about sailing and his summers on the Vineyard, and before I knew it I was having a good time.
And then the waiter brought the calamari, and the night came to a shuddering halt. Charlie didn’t notice. “Awesome,” he said, practically drooling over the plate of golden tentacles and rings in the waiter’s hands. “Thank you so much.”
Charlie offered the plate to me first. “Take some,” he said. “This stuff is so good.”
I plucked one ring off the overwhelming pile. “Oh, come on, take more than that,” he said, and shoveled a greasy heap onto my plate. Then he bulldozed an even bigger pile onto his plate and dug in, swishing each piece in the tartar sauce it came with.
After eating almost his whole plate, he looked at mine and frowned. “Aren’t you going to eat yours?”
No. “Of course! I love calamari. Seriously.” I picked up a ring and held it to my lips. My fingers already felt greasy. I nipped at it with my front teeth. “Mmmm,” I said, “so good!” I took a second nibble. Then I scraped the crust off the remaining bit, making sure to get even the tiniest crumbs off the inside of the ring. Next I dabbed at it with my napkin to get the remaining oil off, and finally put the rest of the slimy piece in my mouth. I chewed. I swallowed. I exhaled.
One down. Only about twenty more to go.
“Elizabeth.” Charlie’s voice caught me by surprise. I’d almost forgotten he was there. “Please eat.”
“I am, silly! I just ate one.” I touched his hand. He yanked it away.
“Barely. Have you been eating at all?”
“Yes! Of course,” I snapped, but a part of me wanted to tell the truth, to say, All I ate was one apple and four Diet Cokes today. And I’m scared. But I couldn’t. “I’m fine,” I said instead.