Chapter 19
Confession: I hate roller coasters.
I went on one once, on my thirteenth birthday, when my mom took me and Taylor to Knott’s Berry Farm.
It was one of the wooden ones with an endless climb to the top of the first drop.
And while rationally, even then, I understood that you needed that climb, I hated every second of the tick, tick, tick up.
My stomach was in knots and my hands had started to twitch and all I wanted to do was yell get it over with already.
I never tried another ride like that again.
I tell Theo as much when he tries to convince me on our drive that this place Gravity Hill is similar to a roller coaster.
“This one is less death-defying,” he offers.
“That’s not my problem. I’m not afraid of heights or anything like that.”
“Then what is it?”
I shrug. “The anticipation, I guess. The way I can’t make things go faster or change course or whatever. I’m just”—I lift my shoulders again—“stuck in that seat, along for the ride.”
His eyes are on the road, but he cocks his head like he’s staring at me. “What if you got to drive the car?”
“That would be different. I’d be in control.” The minute the words are out of my mouth I understand what he’s getting at. I grumble, then shoot him a half-hearted scowl.
Really, though, what’s going on in my body has nothing to do with irritation that he’s right about me. Those hot dragon wings are searing my insides again, and I feel all swimmy. I met this guy barely a month ago and yet, he knows me.
He’s paid attention to me.
I never think people see me. Unless it’s to make fun of me.
I don’t hate how I look. Except for growing boobs and my waist defining itself a little bit more in the last few years, I’ve always had this round body.
Wide hips and thighs, a soft belly, thicker arms, a large chest. Just like all my aunts on my dad’s side.
And my cousins on that side too. Most days, I look in the mirror and I think I look cute.
I’ve developed a bit of a quirky style that suits me.
I love my hair. My skin tone works with any color, and like Taylor always says, I “have the lips for lipstick.”
But I was practically raised on TV and movies and books and video games.
My parents both worked full days, sometimes not getting home until seven or eight at night.
After school, I’d do my homework and then Taylor and I would couch-rot until bedtime, reading or streaming shows or whatever.
I so rarely saw anyone who looked like me on the screen or the page.
And especially never in a relationship. After a while, I just sort of accepted that plus-size people didn’t have those kinds of experiences. We didn’t get the big love stories.
Or any at all.
And sure, Taylor is plus-size, but all our bodies don’t look the same.
She has an hourglass shape. Meanwhile, I have a belly, and some rolls on my back.
Nothing looks smooth and streamlined on me because that’s not how I’m built.
So while Taylor and I would both identify as fat, we definitely don’t share the same fat experiences.
Plus, Taylor doesn’t let anything get in her way.
In the best sense, she’s a bulldozer. So of course her life would defy pop-culture logic, while mine confirmed it.
Which is fine. Love requires trust. Faith. Things that ask you to believe in what you can’t see. To let go.
To lose control of yourself. Like a roller coaster with no end in sight.
That’s what it feels like right now, in this car, with Theo glancing at me like he can see more of me than I meant to let him. Like we are climbing toward a drop that’s out of sight. “Why do you need to be in control so much?” he asks.
Gripping my seat belt, I close my eyes. And I let myself fall off the cliff.
“I’m never good at talking to people.” My voice gets stuck and I have to clear my throat. My hands are rocks on my thighs. “I always say the wrong thing. Or I take too long to say anything. Or I clam up entirely. I make things awkward.”
He shakes his head, but I hold up a hand to quiet him. If I’m going to do this, I need to get it all out. “And I know I’m weird. I crochet dolls. I know useless historical facts, and I really enjoy debating things.”
I sigh. “Until high school, my best friend, Taylor, and I went to different schools. She lived in the house behind mine, so she was my home friend, and then I had my school friends: Marjorie, Lauren, Kyle, and Teddie. We’d been friends since elementary school.
I felt like the kids I saw on TV with their big BFF groups.
” It had meant so much to me to be a part of things.
Back then, my social anxiety hadn’t been nearly as bad.
Sometimes, after we’d hang out, I’d cringe at things I’d said, or wonder if I was being too chatty or clingy or making too many jokes, but those fears would fade as soon as a new group message hit my phone.
“I was so excited when Taylor enrolled at our high school. I figured we’d be adding a sixth to the group.
Round us out. And of course they loved her right away.
But Taylor didn’t seem as jazzed about my school friends.
At first she made excuses like she didn’t know them well enough yet, or that she felt a little on the outside, which is why she never hung out with us, but a few weeks into the school year, during our weekly Friday night movie-and-sleepover, Taylor told me flat out that Marjorie and the rest of them weren’t my friends. ”
“What the hell did they do?” When I look over at him, Theo’s gripping the steering wheel like he’s trying to cut off its oxygen.
I drop my head back to stare at the ceiling of his truck.
It’s on the older side, and some of the fabric above our heads has torn.
My eyes burn, and I do my best to blink the tears away.
I’m so ashamed that I never noticed. That I was so happy to be a part of something that I let people treat me like garbage for a decade.
I haven’t talked about this with anyone since I got out of therapy. Not even Taylor. It’s too painful.
I can’t explain why I feel so compelled to share with Theo, but the words won’t stop.
“Taylor showed me these text messages from a group chat I wasn’t a part of.
They used it to laugh at me. She stayed in it just long enough to be able to show me what was going on, but she said it seemed like they’d been doing it for years.
They’d quote me and then mock what I said and call me names.
They made fun of my body a lot too. And my clothes.
I was the only fat one”—I appreciate that Theo doesn’t flinch at that word, like he recognizes, the same as me, that it is a neutral descriptor and doesn’t have to be anything more—“so I guess it was easy. None of them understood what it was like to try to find plus-size clothes when you’re eleven or twelve—even fourteen.
Most stores don’t carry plus-sizes for anyone, never mind kids.
I used to have to shop in the adult sections and nothing ever fit right or hit trends.
Now I have half my clothes custom made.”
Theo’s heavy brows have sunk deep over his eyes. “We could take a detour,” he says softly. “I could have a chat with them.” Something about his tone gives me shivers. In a not-at-all-scary-but-absolutely-terrifying way.
“To California?” I laugh. Though really, I’m digging my fists into my thighs because he sounds so…protective.
“I’m game.”
I grin at him. “Just…send a ghost after them or something. Don’t waste the gas.”
The worst parts were when they would talk about how they liked hanging out at my house. I had the “good pool” and my mom was always happy to feed them, and I didn’t really have a curfew. They never hung out with me for me.
That was when my social anxiety began to eat me alive.
I’d have panic attacks before going to events with crowds or calling in a food order.
I had to talk to a therapist once a week for a year.
And now I keep everyone but Taylor at arm’s length because I never want to let someone else break me like that.
Until Theo, I guess.
“You know you’re not the issue here, right?” He cuts his eyes to me and there’s more resolve in them than I’ve seen even when he’s talking about Mercy Harlow. “You’re amazing. They’re assholes.”
Shrugging, I twist a few strands of hair around my index finger, then shove my glasses up the bridge of my nose.
The frames are wet from a few tears that managed to sneak through.
“Maybe. But it’s easier for me to accept that I am weird.
If that’s not why they were jerks to me, if their decision to pick on me was purely random, that’s not okay. ”
“It’s not okay either way.” Theo’s voice is a low rumble like thunder. He’s glaring at the windshield like he wants to end its life. All the boyish charm has been swept from his face.
I groan. “This is what I mean. I can never say things right.” I blow out a loud breath.
“I don’t mean it’s okay, like people are allowed to be mean to someone if they think they’re weird.
Or that I forgive Marjorie and everyone for what they did.
It’s more that I can package it up neatly, make sense of it.
And that makes me feel more in control.”
I cross my arms over my chest. I’m wearing an oversized T-shirt with a wide V-neck that hangs off one shoulder and my favorite pair of jeans. I am far from naked, but I feel that exposed.
Theo shakes his head. “First of all, fuck them.”
“Agreed.”
“Second”—he cuts those moss-colored eyes to me—“no more talking about yourself that way.” I go to shrug, but he angles his arm so our biceps are pressed together, blocking my movement.
“How we talk about ourselves matters. I know that we haven’t known each other that long, but none of the words you’ve used to describe yourself match how I see you. ”