Chapter 40
When Cherry was a girl—when she was eight, when she was twelve, when she was sixteen—she figured that she’d lose weight someday.
That she would reach some point, and there would be a transformation.
That was the story arc of every fat girl in fiction—of every good girl who was ever overlooked. There was before and after. At some point, you changed. You blossomed. (Or tightened into a bud.) You assumed your true form.
Cherry believed in herself. And she believed in hard work. And she really believed that someday she would flip a switch and
she’d master her weight. She’d put it behind her. Her face and body would sharpen into focus, and she would step into her
after.
She came to her senses earlier than most women.
The evidence around her was stark, and Cherry wasn’t prone to magical thinking.
There was no after.
No switch.
No amount of hard work or self-control or even self-abuse that would change her.
This was her true form.
This was the body that would carry her through the world. This was her only vehicle for pleasure.
Cherry refused to dream skinny dreams.
For anyone.