Chapter 42
Now that Tom was back in town, he was coming by the house almost every day after Cherry left for the office.
And leaving before she got home.
One day Cherry came home, and there wasn’t a single Post-it note left on the main floor. There were two new boxes labeled
Tom sitting on the dining room table, and everything else was back on the shelves or in the cupboards.
It looked like Tom had dusted, too, and vacuumed. The house still looked patchy and sad, with Tom’s toys gone and Tom’s pictures
off the wall. But it didn’t look turned inside out.
Cherry skimmed through the new boxes. There was nothing in there that she’d contest. Tom had taken some vintage drinking glasses
and mugs—the ones he’d always used when he was home. She was glad to see him staking a claim on something. He’d set aside
a teapot he’d always liked. If he were staying in Omaha, or if they were both still broke, maybe he would have taken more
of the practical things—a few plates, some of the furniture. But Tom could buy anything he needed. So could Cherry. They could
both start over fresh. He was only taking things with sentimental value . . . He was only taking things that tugged at her.
Cherry left a Post-it note on the boxes—Thumbs up, thanks.
The next day, the boxes were gone. All of Tom’s boxes were gone.
She wondered where he was keeping them.
Cherry went to the Western Alliance Christmas party at Meg Jones’s house.
She wore an off-the-shoulder gold brocade dress with a floral pattern—red roses and green leaves.
The dress pinched in at her waist and fell to the floor.
It was the fanciest thing Cherry had ever owned.
She’d bought it from a dressmaker on Etsy after she got her last bonus. It was prettier than her wedding dress.
She wore her hair pinned up on one side, falling like water down her back. She looked like a fat Disney princess. She took
a photo in the mirror to send to her mom.
When Cherry got to the Christmas party, she avoided the back room, where the agency people hung out. Doug and Wallace were
at the party; she said hello and gave them a hard time. Wallace was retired now. Cherry was Doug’s boss.
Everyone asked her about Tom—except for Meg Jones, who asked about Russ.
“He’s been in Los Angeles,” Cherry told everyone, “working on the movie.”
“He couldn’t make it,” she told Meg.
If Tom were at this party, he’d be on his best behavior, pretending not to hate everyone for Cherry’s sake. Keeping his mouth
full, so he didn’t have to talk.
If Russ were here, he’d be introducing himself and making connections. Thriving.
They’d both ask Cherry if she needed anything. They’d both keep an arm around her.
Cherry was a tricksy kind of unlovable . . .
Men could love her. Men would. They’d touch her. Listen to her. Maybe even marry her. But they didn’t love her in a durable way. Not in a way she could
trust. That would hold her weight.
(Cherry had trusted Tom. She’d taken him for granted—she’d thought that she was supposed to. She’d believed they were a settled
question.)
Cherry worked the party. She said hello to everyone and their wives and husbands. She ate canapés. She gave Meg Jones a box
of expensive candy from Budapest.
Tom had been walking Stevie every weekday. He told Cherry that she could assume Stevie was walked, unless he told her otherwise. He never told her otherwise.
Stevie’s coat was always brushed. She had a new collar and a new leash.
“You’re very beautiful,” Cherry told the dog while they watched TV together on the couch. Stevie looked up at Cherry with
big brown eyes. “You look like a woman in love.”
Cherry went to Stacia’s Christmas party.
The house was full of beautiful people. Cherry wore a very cute corduroy jumpsuit—striped pink and green and ice blue. It
wasn’t very slimming, but it made her butt look big in a nice way. She plaited her hair and twisted the braids into a crown,
then wove in tiny jingle bells. She wore pink lipstick.
She was the only person at the party who wasn’t wearing black or white—except for Stacia’s daughters, who were wearing matching
red plaid dresses.
Cherry talked to Stacia’s dour mother-in-law and her reed-thin mom friends. She talked to Stacia’s husband about a red-light
therapy that reduced inflammation. “It stimulates your mitochondria.”
Stacia finally cornered Cherry by the platter of almond flour crackers and cheese. “I was hoping you’d bring him . . .”
Cherry stacked some cheese on a dessert plate. “There’s no more him.”
Stacia’s face fell. “Really? Why not?”
Cherry shrugged. “It just wasn’t a good fit.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Cherry looked up at her. “We got into a fight.”
“About what?”
“My weight.”
Stacia’s outrage was immediate. “What? What did he say?”
Cherry looked down again. The bells in her hair tinkled. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Why would Russ Sutton even ask you out if he had a problem with your weight?”
“He didn’t ask me out,” Cherry said pointedly. “That’s not how this started. We just slept together.”
Stacia hmphed. “I’m really disappointed in him.”
“Don’t be.”
“I am. I didn’t think he was so shallow.”
Cherry huffed out a laugh, looking back up at her. Stacia was wearing a white jersey dress with a gold chain belt. She looked
slender and expensive. “Didn’t you?” Cherry said. “He’s only ever dated beautiful women.”
Stacia looked fierce. “You’re a beautiful woman.”
“Right,” Cherry said.
“You are.”
Cherry shrugged again. “I’m very pretty for a fat girl. It’s like being very pretty for someone with three eyes or no nose.
Or very pretty for a malamute.”
“What’s a malamute?”
“It’s a dog.”
Stacia’s eyes got big. “You’re not a dog, Cherry.”
Cherry glanced away. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“Of course not.”
Stacia was shaking her head. “I hate that he made you feel this way. You’re normally so confident.”
“This is how I always feel, Stacia.” Cherry’s voice was flat. “I just don’t bother you with it.”
“You always feel like a dog?”
Cherry rolled her eyes. “No, I always feel like—” Her voice came out shrill. The bells were ringing over her ears. “I mean, I know that I’m fat. I always know what that means. It’s not shocking that Russ cheated on me—it’s shocking that he went out with
me in the first place!”
Stacia pulled her chin back. “Wait, did he cheat on you?”
“No. That’s not what I meant.” What did Cherry mean? Why was she letting herself get so upset? “I meant . . . it’s not shocking that he doesn’t want to be with me.”
“Did Russ say that?”
Cherry set down her plate. Her head jingled. She reached up to take out the bells. “No, he said I should lose weight. And
you know what?” The bells were tangled in her hair. She left them. “He’s not even wrong! I’m sure that’s what everyone thinks.”
“I don’t think that.”
Cherry shook her head. The bells rang. She tried again to take them out. “Come on, Stacia.”
“Cherry, I never even think about your weight!”
It was Cherry’s turn to be outraged. “That’s a lie.” She waved a hand at Stacia, the hand that wasn’t in her hair. “We talk about your weight constantly!”
“Well, that’s mine!”
“So you’re haunted by the tiny amount of flesh on your stomach, but you never notice the eighty extra pounds that I’m carrying?”
“You’re not eighty pounds overweight, Cherry.”
“I am. Actually. Depending on the actuarial table.”
“Why are we even talking about this?”
“I don’t know!” Cherry could feel herself tearing out hair along with the bells. “Because you asked why I broke up with Russ
Sutton!”
“Did you break up with him?”
“It doesn’t matter!”
“I thought you really liked him.”
“I did . . . but I can’t . . . I just can’t.” Cherry felt tearful. One of her braids had come unpinned.
“Here.” Stacia took the braid from Cherry and pinned it back in place. “Do you want the bells in or out?”
Cherry dropped her arms. “Out.”
“You should leave them in. They look cute.”
“Maybe I’m tired of looking cute.”
Stacia pulled the bells free. Some of Cherry’s hair came with them.
“I’m going to head home,” Cherry said.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Stacia said. “Stay and play spades.”
“I don’t think I can be good company.”
Tom had finished cleaning out the garage. And possibly the cellar. The dumpster was gone from the driveway.
Cherry came home from work early on a snowy, slushy day, and Tom was standing in the foyer, rubbing Stevie with a towel. He
was still wearing his coat and boots.
He looked up when Cherry walked in the front door. “Sorry. I was just drying her off. I’ll get out of your hair.”
“You’re not in my hair.” Cherry stomped her feet and leaned over to unlace her snow boots. Stevie broke away from Tom to sniff
at Cherry’s legs and headbutt her cheeks. “Hi,” Cherry said to her. “I know. You’re always so concerned.” Stevie nosed at
her face. “You don’t like it when I’m upside down, do you?”
Tom laid the towel over the kennel.
“The garage looks great,” Cherry said.
He nodded. “All that’s really left is the closets and, uh . . . the bedroom.”
“Oh.” Cherry stood up. The blood rushed from her head.
Tom’s face was tense. Unreadable. “You can just pack my things if you want.”
“No. Just . . . give me a few days to straighten up.”
“Sure.” Tom was moving past Cherry toward the door.
“How was Los Angeles?”
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll just get out of your hair.” He was halfway out already. “See ya.”
“See ya.” Cherry stepped out of her boots.
There was no way to clean or straighten or prepare their bedroom for Tom to walk back into it.
Like, Cherry couldn’t put enough of herself away.
It made her skin crawl to imagine Tom in here, seeing her jewelry and face creams. Looking at their bed. Maybe she should just pack his things . . . and get it over with.
She opened the top drawer of Tom’s dresser. She’d never looked through his drawers, even when they were together. He kept