29. Intervention
INTERVENTION
Dahlia
“Maybe we should stage an intervention.” Alejandro muses aloud.
I shuffle through the various racks of clothes in my closet, fishing around for a skirt whose waistband has at least a little bit of give.
“She seemed so distraught last night…” his brows pinch together as he continues his steady pacing of the dressing room. “Even Abuelo noticed.”
“Abuelo notices everything.” I spot a dress that might work instead and hold it up for him to see. “Do you think this makes my hips look too wide?”
He leans against the middle island and picks at the grapes and orange slices on my breakfast tray.
I had an early start to my morning and Dona Ana brought my meal up for me.
Shamefully, I ate all the pastries and none of the fruits or eggs.
At this point I’ll be lucky if I fit into a pair of sweatpants.
“Aren’t you concerned in the slightest? Karina and Diego are getting divorced.”
I release a frustrated sigh. “Yes, I heard.” I wave the dress. “Hips. Wide. Yes or no?”
He bites into another orange slice and winces. “These aren’t very good.”
“Ugh!” I toss the dress aside and continue pilfering through every article of clothing I own.
I’ve never been thin; being as tall as I am has made it nearly impossible.
A slimming down would have me looking more like Jack Skellington than a 90s supermodel.
For years, a fluctuation in weight has always been a mood signifier for me.
I was thin as a rail after my mother died, put on the freshman fifteen during college, lost weight during the stressful finals period, and gained all of it back and then some during the first year I lived in Barcelona.
Oddly enough, I was in the best shape of my life the summer after Alejandro and I broke up.
Must’ve been all the dancing and the Adderall habit I picked up but that may as well have been a lifetime ago. Now, I’m happy.
Too happy. The joy is expanding around my waist and my fucking jeans will not zip.
“Oh God,” I whisper in front of the mirror. I keep trying to yank the low-rise denim over my backside but the fabric won’t give. “Please don’t do this to me…these are vintage Levi’s.”
“Do you think couple’s therapy would work for them? I know they aren’t technically a couple,” Alejandro rambles behind me. “But they parent Lela well together.”
I hop, wiggle, and kick in front of the mirror, praying the denim Gods don’t punish me for an overindulgent honeymoon.
“It’s not my fault,” I say to my reflection. “For Christ’s sake, the street food vendors in Singapore have Michelin Stars.”
Alejandro throws a hand up as if he’s had a brilliant idea. “A trip. They should go away. Have some private family time.”
I let out a cry of frustration and collapse onto the floor. A thought occurs to me and I lie down while sucking in my stomach. I saw my mother and aunt do this once after a particularly carb-heavy holiday season and if they were able to zip up their low-rise jeans in 2005, then so can I.
“This is what I get for eating all that sapin-sapin in Manila…and the ube puto with all that flan…oh my God, and the otap. That otap was sooo good.” I pause to catch my breath. “These jeans aren’t going to zip. Fuck.”
Alejandro’s in the middle of a long-winded tirade but I haven’t heard a word.
I’m too anguished over my expanding waistline and the loss of my favorite jeans.
If these don’t fit me, I am so astronomically fucked because that means almost nothing else in my closet is going to fit.
All the work I put into squeezing into a wedding gown with a cinched waist has gone done the drain after a two-month honeymoon.
I suck in one last time and attempt to get the button through the loop but when it slips through my fingers, I scream out loud and collapse in defeat.
Alejandro comes around the island and looks down at me with a perplexed expression. “What are you doing?”
“I’m about to ship myself off to Brazil, that’s what!
” I exclaim. “And getting all of this—” I jab aggressive fingers into all my problem areas, body positivity be damned.
“Dissolved! Massacred! Cut off, gone! I want every ounce of fat sucked up into a machine and burned in a sacrificial fire and I mean every last ounce. I want my hips shrunk, my gut gutted, my ass liposuctioned within an inch of its life, and breasts so small I can go braless in a white tank top and look chic! And you’re a man so you won’t get it but nothing looks more fashionable than an itty-bitty shirt and no bra! ”
He stares for a moment, hazel eyes raking up and down my figure, a look of pure horror and confusion transforming his face. He’s as lost as he is concerned.
“If you do that I might actually kill myself.”
An ugly, unrestrained laugh breaks free and I smother a hand over my mouth.
He shakes his head, eyes narrowed. “What the Hell is the matter with you?”
“I can’t button my jeans! Ugh,” I laugh a bit and glance at my reflection in the mirror, taking in how ridiculous I look. “This is horrible.”
“I think you look fine.”
“I look like I ate too much on our honeymoon.” I rub my throbbing temple. “None of my clothes are fitting properly.”
He rests a hand over his abdomen, flat and chiseled under his button down, and glances at his profile in the mirror. “So did I. Diego took my weight the other day and I gained a whole four pounds.”
I snatch up a skirt I discarded earlier and throw it at him. He chuckles and kneels down on the carpet beside me to kiss my forehead. “If it’s any consolation, I hardly notice the difference.”
“It’s not. You’re a man.”
“What if I said the hips and the great ass are my favorite things about you?”
I sigh heavily. “Well…at least there’s that.”
“You also have amazing breasts,” he consoles, as if the thought just occurred to him. “Perfect, actually.”
“At the rate I’m going, I’ll be the size of a pernil by Christmas.” I tell him. “We can just roast me for dinner instead.”
“I wouldn’t mind having you for dinner. In fact,” he grips the waistband of my jeans and starts to tug them down. “I wouldn’t mind having you right now.”
I laugh and push him off me as I sit up. “Don’t you have something to do with Dimitrio this afternoon?”
“That’s the afternoon.” His kisses my neck and reaches behind me to unhook my bra. “This is now.”
I make a halfhearted attempt at pushing him off me but he snakes an arm around my waist and holds me close. I feel silly and giddy when his fingers coast down the length of my spine, each touch in tandem with the press of his lips against my neck.
“Alex, really,” my voice hitches when his hand travels up the back of my neck. Once his fingers are tangled in my hair, he tugs and twists at the root, pulling me back to face him. “I have so much to do today and—”
He brings his mouth to mine, silencing me. My stomach twists and flutters at his proximity. The expert stroke of his tongue against my own sends a rush of heat through me and I blush from my hairline to the tips of my toes.
“Lift,” he murmurs against my mouth and I obey. He hooks his fingers into the belt loops of my jeans and tugs them, and my underwear, down the length of my body. “Now turn around.”
I’m not sure what he means. I half expect his other arm to come around my waist and for him to lift me into the air as he carries us to bed. He surprises me by leaning against the middle island and taking me with him.
We’re within view of one of the full-body mirrors. Sunlight from the bathroom floods through the doorway and I watch as his open palms move down the length of my thighs. I gasp and squeeze my knees together.
“Alejandro—”
“Open your legs for me,” He sits up and pulls me flush against his chest. “Now.”
Color blooms across my cheeks. I wouldn’t say I’m insecure—I’m well aware of what I look like and how attractive I am but that doesn’t mean I spend exorbitant amounts of time admiring my naked body in the mirror.
Every time I think I’ve abandoned the innocence of youth and inexperience, Alejandro finds a new position to put me in.
Ones where I usually have to confront some part of myself, whether it be willingly or otherwise.
I keep my arms crossed over my chest, suddenly feeling exposed. He positions his leg under my locked ones and forces them apart.
“Open.”
Heart pounding, I unlock my knees. When he slips a hand between my thighs I close my eyes but I immediately feel the unforgiving grip of his strong fingers on my jaw as he forces my head forward.
“No. Watch.” He orders quietly. “I want you to see how beautiful you are.”
I don’t feel very beautiful in this position. Exposed, yes. But not beautiful.
Desire twists in the pit of my stomach as he slips a single finger inside of me.
My breath catches as he finds a steady pace.
I want to let him carry my weight as the pleasure washes over me but every time he senses I’ve lost focus, he squeezes my jaw a little tighter and I’m forced to keep my eyes open and watch.
One by one he adds another finger, stretching me as far as I’ll go.
“I love to watch you.” He whispers against my ear. “I love watching your skin flush with color and the rise and fall of your breasts becoming more erratic the closer you get to climax.”
I have no idea where to focus; on the sight of his fingers moving inside of me, the look on his face, the look on mine?
His fingers make a slow withdrawal and he rubs against every ridge and sensitive muscle as he goes.
A little gasp of pleasure leaves me as he does and a surge of heat rushes through my body when his thumb rolls perfect circles around my clit.
His hand glistens in the light as it moves up and down the length of my wet sex and I become dizzy with the need to finish but he keeps release just out of reach.