14. Chapter Fourteen
Chapter 14
Leslie
T hree o’clock rolled around.
While Dot rested in her room, I navigated through the hospital to my appointment.
Tasha’s interior office had no windows. Instead, an overhead skylight flooded the space. The sun’s warmth a welcome relief after the hospital’s frigid AC. Vivid, poster-sized dioramas of vineyards, beaches, and forests gave me an eerie sensation of stepping through a fairy portal. It was all I could do to not touch the plants extending past the frames to see if they were alive.
“I’m sorry, but this is a really cool office.” My face dipped close to the garden boxes and detected both humidity and a subtle floral fragrance. “These are real?”
“No, but they remind me of the beauty beyond my four walls.” Tasha gestured to one of the two chairs nestled against a small, round table under the beach scene. We both sat.
“Many of my clients live in larger bodies, and they feel the outdoors are reserved for those who are trim. But nature is open to us all. There is no litmus test of worthiness to enjoy it, least of all weight.”
Tasha was right. Images depicting outdoor activities were anchored in a specific body type: Slim, young, usually white people. That stereotype relegated everyone else to intruder status. It might be unintentional, but it had the same chilling effect. It was so easy to internalize these messages and use them to fuel limiting beliefs. Which brought me back to why I was in Tasha’s office.
“I’ve been digging into a lot of information about diet culture.” I laid my phone on the table between us. “Okay if I record this interview?”
“Sure,” Tasha said.
I tapped my voice memo app and opened a new recording file. “Your hospital profile described you as a Healthy Bodies practitioner. Can you explain what that is?”
“The medical and dietitian fields have been huge contributors to the negative culture around body size. We are trained to look at fat as a disease, instead of treating clients equally, regardless of the package they come in. Too often, this leads to poor health outcomes and misdiagnoses because we’re focusing on the wrong thing.”
“You’re saying that fat isn’t a problem?” I hated the disbelieving tone of my voice, but this was all so mind-boggling.
Tasha reached into a nearby drawer to pull out a glossy flyer with bar graphs and pie charts. “This study by the US Department of Agriculture followed a group of obese women for two years. Half dieted, half were encouraged to follow a Healthy Bodies approach. They ate when hungry, learned to appreciate fullness, were encouraged to choose nutrient-dense foods and find a way to move that they enjoyed.”
I shifted in my seat. “No dieting? Sounds like a dream.”
Tasha pulsed an eyebrow in amusement. “At the end of the study, the participants all weighed about the same. The dieters had lost weight, but then gained it all back. The Healthy Bodies group had healthier blood pressure, lower cholesterol, and were more physically active than the dieting group. Other studies show the significant metabolic harm caused by yo-yo dieting. Over time, dieters routinely get less healthy than those who adopt more positive lifestyle behaviors, not focused on getting smaller.”
“What about all the studies that show obesity causes death? I think I read something about an American Medical Association study?” After finding that, my enthusiasm for my aunt’s approach flatlined. Based on Centers for Disease Control data, the study found that nearly 400,000 people a year died from obesity. If that was true, then everything I was hearing was as much a fairytale as Tasha’s wall art.
“You’ve done homework. That’s good. Let’s correct the record, because those rarely make headlines. When the CDC learned its methods were faulty, it redid the study. The corrected methods found that only 26,000 overweight and obese people died. The same data set showed overweight people lived longer than those with normal weights. Underweight people fared the worst, dying more often than overweight or obese people. Experts decry the ‘obesity epidemic.’” Tasha air-quoted. “But as our weights have increased, so has our life expectancy. And what is the end goal of dieting, if not to live longer, healthier lives?”
I’d landed in upside-down world. Fat people lived longer? How did that compute?
“Can you share the studies with me so I can verify all this?”
She scribbled a few study names on the pamphlet between us, having memorized the details and researchers. She slid it in front of me. My eye landed on the chart about the better health outcomes for the non-dieters.
I knew where I fell on the continuum. Based on what I learned, I’d been starving myself for decades. And according to the CDC, I would die sooner than the full-figured woman across from me. Suddenly, this investigation wasn’t only about humoring my aunt. It was about saving lives. Maybe even my own.
I’d never made the connection between my meager food intake and my overall health. Yet food was fuel. Denying this truth was kidding myself that I didn’t have a serious problem with how I thought about my body. I tapped the voice recorder off.
We sat in silence. Tasha, being a trained professional, graciously allowed me to gather my thoughts.
“I’m going to be in town for a while. Would you mind if I made an appointment? I’ve got some questions. Personal ones.”
“My door is always open. Happy to talk.”
After Dot ate her dinner at the hospital, I headed back to her house. I’d been reeling ever since my meeting with Tasha. Now I found myself curled up on the sofa, glued to my computer screen, confirming every damn thing the nutritionist said. And then some. Study after study disproved the connections between weight and health. It led me to a professor at a college nearby, whom I emailed for an appointment. That left me simmering in misery about my own circumstances.
How could I have been so impossibly wrong about nearly everything to do with weight and food? I’d suffered for so long, and in the process, I’d become my fucking mother. A joyless woman so petrified of getting fat that she’d pushed away everyone in her life. That realization chilled me. After struggling to have a relationship with Mom, I turned around and did the same damn thing. How many family holidays had I skipped? How many dinners had Risto made me, preparing my favorite dishes with love, only to have me eat two bites? The hurt in his eyes seared into my memory. In rejecting his passion, I rejected him.
Is that why we broke up?
Had I left him long before he left me?
The rattle of Risto’s garage door opening launched me pin-straight where I sat.
He’s home. Oh my God, he’s home.
My heart throbbed in my chest. Then sank.
We weren’t a couple. I’d rushed out after my shift at the restaurant, too embarrassed to speak to anyone. Neither of us called or texted, and why would we? There was no reason to talk and certainly less reason for him to come over. But I needed to see him. He had to know how sorry I was for screwing up yesterday. And for not being more supportive of his career. For letting my stupid food hang-ups drive a wedge between us.
Leave the man be. He’s had a long day and probably wants to be alone.
Maybe? Maybe not.
I tiptoed to the rear sliding doors to peer out between the vertical blinds. Visibility hampered, I moved to the far end, pressing my face against the glass.
Bingo. A clear view of his dark, empty deck.
Would he step out for a nightcap?
Then what?
I could go apologize?
If I went out, he might see me and follow?
I rested my hand on the door handle just as Risto emerged on his deck, triggering his motion light. He sipped from a green bottle of beer.
Shit.
I jumped back, sending the blinds swaying wildly. He turned my way, a smile erupting on his face as he brought the beer to his lips.
Fuck. He absolutely saw me spying on him.
I bit the bullet and stepped out into the crisp evening air. Cricket chirps brought me back to the last time the two of us were together on a night like this. A clear evening with warm breezes and mesmerizing stars. Hopefully, tonight would end better than that one had.
“Hey,” I said, slipping my hands into my jeans pockets as I leaned against the deck rail.
“I saw the light on.” He brought a second bottle of beer out from behind him and wiggled it. “Care to join me?”
Of course. Risto knew me better than I knew myself. He probably also knew I wanted to knock him over and smash lips. But my poor showing at his restaurant meant that might not go over too well.
Yet we had a passionate history between us. A lot of love and amazing memories. That had to count for something.
I stepped down my aunt’s steps and padded barefoot across the cool grass to where he stood.
He handed me the dewy bottle, his finger grazing electricity up my arm.
My eyes shot to his. Dark brown, purposeful, and sexy as hell. Just as they’d always been.
Damn him and his gorgeousness.
He’d ruined me for anyone else.
“You were a train wreck last night.” He chuckled. “Haven’t you ever worked in a restaurant before?”
“I barely eat in restaurants. Why would I work in one?” I swigged my beer, then wiped sticky foam off my lip with the back of my hand.
“Fair enough. I appreciate the effort, though. Dot’s shoes are hard to fill.”
There was the understatement of the century. Trying to be helpful, she’d programmed in customer preferences, anniversaries, kids’ names, travel plans, and more. I couldn’t keep it straight, but all the other servers knew it cold. Kayla rescued me from placing a dish with almonds in front of someone with a nut allergy. They hadn’t mentioned it because Dot always got it right. I drowned memories of my pathetic performance with another swig.
“Back to the hospital tomorrow?” he asked through wet, glistening lips. Not that I noticed.
“Yeah, I’ll hang there and keep her company. If we’re lucky, they’ll let her come home soon. She’s doing great already.”
“What do you think of her new place?” Risto gestured to Dot’s house with his bottle. “It’s a lot smaller.”
“Seems perfect for her. Less work and closer to the restaurant. Congrats again on the expansion. You’re absolutely killing it.”
His mouth curled up on one side. A proud papa, unable to contain his joy.
“It’s a dream. As many tables as we add, guests fill them. A restaurant critic from Philadelphia was so pissed that he couldn’t get a reservation that he stormed my kitchen, unannounced, demanding to eat.”
“Seriously?!”
“Yeah. I swept him into my office, sat him at my desk, and let him eat his fill.”
“That’s ballsy,” I said. “What if he saw a mouse or something?”
“In MY kitchen?” He waved me off.
Risto had always been neat as a pin. At home and everywhere else. We’d watch that show called Kitchen Nightmares , and he’d leave the room in a fit of rage. A bit triggering for a professional neatnik.
“Did the critic like the food?”
He tilted his head toward the house. “I’ll show you.”
I followed him inside, which was the mirror image of Dot’s place. But that was where the similarity ended. We passed through his top-shelf kitchen into his sleek living room. Black leather sofas curved around a circular smoked glass coffee table at the center. Framed family pictures hung in a perfectly aligned display on the wall above. An enlarged color picture of the two of us featured prominently among them. Our teen selves squished into an amusement car ride meant for smaller children. Risto had just put his arm around me and planted a kiss on my cheek as our car swung past my dad’s camera lens. We were in focus, but the rest of the image blurred into a carnival kaleidoscope of perfection.
I set my beer down to stare at our former selves.
“I love that one,” he said. “But this is what I wanted to show you.”
He put down his beer and lifted a printed email off his coffee table with the upcoming issue of Philadelphia Metro magazine. Risto would be on the cover. The headline read, “The Chef that Put PR Cuisine Back on the Map.”
Chills ran down my spine.
He’d done it.
He fulfilled his ambition of becoming the celebrated chef he used to dream about.
“Oh, Risto!” Unlike yesterday, I flung my arms around his neck and drew him into a tight hug. “That’s incredible!”
As I hugged him, drinking in his scent, I noticed he wasn’t returning my embrace.
Shit.
I stepped back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… It’s exciting, that’s all.”
His broad chest stretched his T-shirt as his arms hung tense at his sides. Twitching muscles betrayed that his desire was the same as mine.
“Ah, fuck it.” He wrapped me in his arms and planted a longing kiss on my hungry mouth.
His earthy scent filled every void in my body. The hands he used to work culinary magic were now tangled in my curls, tinged with lingering wisps of the garlic and herbs forever mashed into his fingertips. Our mouths melted together, every moment of loneliness and wanting from the last many years healed in an instant. Risto cupped my head like a delicate flower as he pulled away. But instead of the expression of love I expected in his eyes, his face morphed from ecstasy, to recognition, to horror. He jumped away.
“I’m so sorry. I… shit.”
“No, really. It’s okay…” I pleaded, hating the desperation in my voice.
God, I’m pathetic around this man.
Risto folded his arms across his chest defensively as he leaned against the top of his sofa. His expression shifted again, sadness taking over where joy had been seconds before. His eyes searched mine.
What do you want? Just tell me.
Was he sorry he kissed me because he regretted it or because he thought I did? For the record—holy shit—I did not regret it. It took all my restraint not to club him over the head and drag him upstairs myself.
Chest still heaving, I feared that saying anything now would drive him away. But it didn’t matter. The passion evaporated, awkwardness growing in its place. And not in a good way.
Risto scratched his neck. “So, I…”
So, I what? I love you? I'm sorry? I want you back? I waited for a pledge of enduring love, but all I got was silence. I debated letting it linger long enough for him to realize how much he wanted me back, but pride got the better of me.
“It’s late. I should be going.” I hiked a thumb over my shoulder.
“Sure. See you tomorrow? At the restaurant?”
I headed toward the door, glancing back at him sitting alone in his living room. Once again, Risto chose to be alone over being with me.