“I didn’t know what size to get, so I got a variety. I thought maybe you’d prefer to try them on in private and not have to deal with the whole store dressing room thing.” Mom looked a little nervous, like she was afraid I’d hate everything she’d picked out. “I can just return whatever doesn’t fit.” She cleared her throat and rubbed her hands on her pant leg. “What do you think?”
I touched her arm. “Thanks, Mom.” I wanted to hug her and cry at the same time. Hug because she’d done this for me, and cry because all these clothes were sizes that, just a few weeks before, I’d have gladly dismissed as too huge for me.
She took a deep breath and nodded, relieved. “I’ll give you some privacy,” she said, and slipped out my door.
I dumped the bag out on my bed and pulled on a pair of dark skinny jeans with zippers at the ankle. They were way too tight. They were my pre-Wallingfield size. I kicked them off.
I shook off the depression lurking in my corners. I’d deal later. Tristan was going to be here in, like, five minutes. I pulled out another pair, bigger this time. They buttoned easily. I avoided the label. Then I put on the bigger white shirt and the smallest blue sweater, which was thick and warm. I brushed my hair and then, as an afterthought, put on lipstick. Real lipstick. Pale, skin-colored lipstick, but still. It was a step up from ChapStick.
I opened my door and took a deep breath. You can do this, I told myself. I stepped in the hall, hyper-aware of how the jeans hugged my legs. They’re supposed to fit that way. That’s what skinny jeans do. I breathed in again. Tristan was going to be there any second. Get yourself together, Elizabeth!
I hustled down the stairs and into the living room, where I could watch for Tristan through the picture window. “Mom, Dad, I’m going out!”
Mom came in and her face lit up. “Oh, wow! You look great! I am so glad some of those things worked.” She seemed genuinely pleased, and I felt better.
The voice in my head came out of nowhere. Tristan is going to think you look so fat.
I shook my head, as if that would make a difference. Shut up, I pleaded with myself. Just shut up.
I got my fleece out of the closet. Mom helped me into one of the sleeves, like when I was little. “Now, what are your plans?”
“I’m going to hang out with Tristan. You know, from school? He’s picking me up.”
“Tristan McCann?” Mom asked.
I nodded, heart sinking. I’d totally forgotten that Mom had worked on the school fund-raising committee with his mother.
“When did you get to be friends with Tristan McCann?” She looked so pleased. Too pleased. I picked my words carefully.
“At Wallingfield. His sister is a day patient. I hung out with them sometimes.”
“Oh? That’s right. I’d heard his sister was having some problems. How is she doing?”
“Fine, I guess.”
“I should reach out to her mom.”
“Please don’t.”
A car pulled into the driveway, its headlights cutting through the dark room like flashlights.
“I gotta go. Bye, Mom.” I grabbed my purse and made for the door, hoping to escape before she asked the inevitable.
“Isn’t he going to come in and introduce himself?”
And there it was. “Mom, this isn’t a date, okay? We’re just friends.”
She hesitated before answering, so I bolted, making it all the way out the door and down the steps before she said, “Elizabeth! Your snack! Come get your granola and cheese!”
Ugh. For once I wished that I could just leave my anorexia behind. I turned around and grabbed the baggie and red wax–covered cheese out of her hand. I shoved them both in my purse.
Tristan stood next to the Jeep, holding my door open for me.
“Hey. How’s it going?” he said as I hopped in. The car smelled like cologne and for a second my eyes watered. Tristan’s hair was a little damp; he must have just showered. The ends curled over the collar of his coat.
“Hey,” I said, settling in and clicking my seat belt. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” He threw the car in reverse and backed down my driveway, and we were on our way.
My thighs spread out across the seat. I hated the way that felt. Before I even realized what I’d done, I pointed my toes, which lifted my thighs about an inch off the surface. They looked a little slimmer that way.
Tristan turned on the radio. “This is a great song,” he said. “I love Radiohead.” I didn’t recognize it. I wished now I’d paid more attention to Margot when she talked about music. Maybe I would have had something to say.
Traffic was light, and we flew down the highway. When Tristan took the exit for Route 60, a two-lane highway lined with oil change shops, used car dealerships, strip malls, and the occasional Dunkin’ Donuts, I knew where we were going. “Are you taking me to the airport?”
He kept his eyes on the road and nodded.
“Are we going to the Bahamas?” I said, trying to joke. “I should have worn my bikini!” He didn’t laugh.
“I was just kidding,” I said. “I didn’t really think you’re taking me to the Bahamas.”
“I know,” he said.
God, this was so awkward.
We passed a sign officially welcoming us to Logan International Airport. Tristan pulled into a parking garage and didn’t say anything as we wound our way up through the middle of the concrete maze, passing spot after open spot as we went. “You’re missing a lot of open spaces,” I said, and immediately winced. I sounded like Mom.
“I see ’em,” he said. One last ramp and we were on the roof, which was nearly empty. He pulled into a spot facing the runway and killed the engine and headlights.
In the sudden dark, the lights of the airport, the inky black ocean, and the lit-up Boston skyline stretched out in front of us. The air filled with the white noise of distant plane engines, taxiing and landing and taking off.
“Why are we here, exactly?” I asked.
“To watch planes. Come on.”
I followed him out of the car and around to the front. “Let’s sit,” he said, and helped me up onto the hood. The engine was warm, which dulled the feel of the cold November night air through my fleece. I wondered why we couldn’t have gone to the movies or coffee or something else like regular people did.
“You’re cold?” I hadn’t realized I was shivering. “Here,” Tristan said, taking off his wool coat and wrapping it around my shoulders. “Wear this.” It was still warm, and despite the strong cologne-and-cigarettes smell wafting out of the navy fabric, it felt heavy and cozy. I snuggled into it.
Tristan sat next to me and I figured we’d talk then, but he pulled out his phone and started tapping instead. Had he brought me all the way out here to check messages?
“Ready?” he said after a minute, his eyes on the screen. “Look out at the runway.”
I heard the roar first. The massive thunder rumble of a jet engine. As the noise got louder, the lights got closer and a plane—“It’s a 747!” Tristan yelled over the noise—accelerated down the runway like a giant white bullet. The engines screamed and blocked out my thoughts and then the nose lifted, the rest of the plane following, its lights flashing. When the plane was safely in the air, it banked left, and I could see its entire wingspan, stretched like an eagle’s.
“Wow,” I breathed. “It was so close.”
Tristan half smiled and consulted his phone again. “That one’s either going to Dublin, Amsterdam, or Frankfurt.”