Heartstrings & Horizons (Oak Ridge #1)

Prologue - Paige

If you go down (I’m goin’ down too) - Kelsea Ballerini

“Ok bitch, you can do this.”

I stare incredulously at my best friend, mouth agape as she taps submit on the online dating profile we meticulously curated just 30 minutes ago over a charcuterie board and too much wine. My best friend, Maggie, is my polar opposite. She’s a social butterfly who’s instantly best friends with everyone she meets. With her long chestnut hair, deep amber eyes, and a naturally small figure, Mags is stunning in a pixie hollow kind of way.

She’s the antithesis of the introverted best friend she claimed on orientation day at our college dorm. Where Maggie resembles a pixie, I’m more of a Hobbit; where she’s perpetually carefree, I have an anxiety gremlin living somewhere inside of me, casting aspersions at the slightest inconvenience. It would be annoying if I didn’t love my best friend so much.

“Great, I can’t wait,” I deadpan. Mags coerced me into joining the newest online dating app, RateMate, where prospective dates rate each other on a scale from 1 (absolutely repulsive) to 10 (would definitely stick my dick in it). I’m positive I’ll fall somewhere around the 6 mark — perfectly adequate.

“What are you so afraid of, Paige? You’re fucking gorgeous, funny as hell when you want to be, and the kindest person I know — you’re a catch! When’s the last time you went out and had some fun?”

“How much wine have you had, Mags? Besides, we’re having fun now. Why does it have to include some dude with a small dick and a fetish for big girls?”

I’ve been on dating apps in the past, and there are two distinctive types of guys who are likely to direct message a plus-size woman. First, you have the guys who want to fetishize you and truly have no desire to get to know you beyond your body.

Then there are the guys who don’t actually want a big girl; they’re usually narcissists who crave validation.

The latter will inevitably tell you to go fuck yourself if you display even the slightest hint of self-worth, often followed by something highly offensive and fat-phobic because nothing says ‘but I’m a great guy!’ like hurling insults when you’ve been rejected.

If you can’t get it past the cheeks, just say that.

Objectively, I’m not entirely unattractive but at a whopping 5’3” and a size 22 on a good day, I’m often passed over in favor of someone smaller. I’m the friend who gets handed off to the wingman as a diversion tactic while his friend shoots his shot with my friend — I’ve accepted my role, if a little begrudgingly.

Mags, on the other hand, has entirely too much faith in my sex appeal. I’m not a 22-year-old virgin, but my sexual encounters to date have been lackluster at best and not particularly memorable unless you count losing my virginity in an alleyway during a drunken threesome with my high school best friend and some guy with a mohawk named… Jake? Jeff? The details are fuzzy.

These days, I prefer to indulge in some one-handed reading with my battery-operated boyfriend. I recommend something with multiple functions.

As a plus-size woman, I often hear “you have a beautiful face”, or “you’re pretty… for a big girl.” Every compliment comes with a stipulation. Frankly, it’s exhausting. I’ve learned to embrace my jiggly bits, dimples, back rolls, belly, and all. Don’t get me wrong, I still struggle with some insecurities; I think most people do, in some way. It’s part of being human, and when you’re raised in a world where fat bodies are demonized and belittled, it’s hard to overcome that way of thinking.

“I can see the self-deprecation seeping out of your pores, Paige –”

“HA,” I cut her off with a loud snort, “I’m willing to bet my left tit that nothing good will come of me joining this hellish app.”

“I mean… you do have great tits and I could use some help in that department,” she chortles. “I can’t wait to prove you wrong.”

Content to leave it at that, she turns back to the TV where Patsy and Eddie are getting wasted at a wine tasting.

I shake my head. “Let’s watch AbFab and open another bottle.”

An hour later, we’re scrolling through profiles on the app, drunk and giggling.

“Why do they all have pictures holding up dead fish?” Mags giggles.

“Fragile masculinity. The patriarchy. Internal - internali- internalized missionary?” I stumble on the words, the same way I know I would be physically stumbling if my ass wasn’t firmly planted on the floor where I fell down laughing 10 minutes ago.

“Big words, babe, but I think you mean misogyny.”

“That’s the one,” I say, pointing a finger a little too close to her nose, my words coming out slurred.

“Oh, this one is at least a 9,” she says, pointing to some guy named Miles. “Never mind, he’s not local.”

“Oooh, cute,” I say, sliding myself back onto the couch where she’s still perusing the profiles. “I’m not sure if blonde is my type, but I’ll try anything once.”

“Proximity matters.”

“In that case, maybe we should date each other? I mean… I already love you and we live together so points for proximity. The only thing we don’t do is smash our lady bits together. I can’t say for sure if I'd like it one way or the other.”

“Go home, Paige, you’re drunk.”

“I am home, silly.”

“True. Go to sleep, babe.”

“Okay.”