When Size Matters. Carly Laine

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      BY THE NIGHT of number eleven I’d already had a thousand first dates. Let me make sure that’s right. Let’s see, a thousand first dates calculates out to about a hundred and eleven first dates every year since my first soul-shriveling date with Cal Richardson when I was fifteen. That would mean at least two first-dates every single weekend for the past nine years…Okay, no, not a thousand, then. But however many there had been, I had a tight, blue rubber band around my heart from each one of those disasters. Pity I couldn’t just look inside and count the bands. Like rings on a tree.

      Sadly, my second dates numbered somewhat less. Like maybe ten. Steady, long-term relationships had not been my specialty.

      If somebody else told me that about themselves, I’d guess the problem was something subtle, not immediately apparent. Like maybe misplaced nipples or braided nose hair. So what was it with me? My super-helpful friends had offered their theories: I was too cautious, I was scared of being left, yada, yada, yada. I had no idea what the problem was, either, but I did wonder why I kept trying. ’Cause it kept getting harder.

      Cal Richardson was my first first date. Cal was fairly typical of the guys at my high school—walking hormones with lips. I was so flattered that Cal-oh-my-God-Richardson had asked me out that I floated on air the week before the big date. My feet didn’t once touch the ground from the time he called until the disastrous end of the date when I had to put one foot in front of the other as I stumbled to a pay phone to call my mom to come get me. I went out with Cal because he was gorgeous, intelligent and had crystal blue eyes. Cal went out with me to see if my boobs were real. Apparently he and his jock friends were unaware of the phenomenon of girls maturing suddenly and dramatically over the few months of summer vacation. They nicknamed me Mammy, short for mammary. It stuck for a long, long time. And, okay, I’m not going to think about that anymore.

      The day of number eleven, I’d already had one thousand and one and counting first dates—okay, really, some-big-number-less-than-a-thousand plus one with Matt. The guy who wanted to be friendlier than friends. The guy who didn’t rescue me. A perfect Dylan-style first date. And like so many before it, a date that would have no second date follow-up.

      So there I was, searching the reception for Matt, Dr. Nice Guy, trying to think what excuse I’d give for dumping him and running off with Brad the Magnet. Because that’s what I was going to do. While I’d been shaking my head “no,” feet firmly nailed, I’d started thinking about Brad standing on the dance floor, asking Groom Daddy to dance, heels together, arms extended. My last head shake kind of morphed into a nod, and I heard myself saying, “Yeah, okay, I guess.” I tried not to feel that sizzle of fear in my veins after opening myself up like that. I smoothed my face into complacency so he wouldn’t think I was flaky, or rather, wouldn’t know that I was.

      As I looked for Matt, my head kept asking me, How are you gonna pull this one off? Without lying? And then he found me.

      “Dyl, are you okay? You want to go home?” he asked, putting his arm around my shoulders as though he was protecting me from physical blows, not just more prurient stares. I saw again what they’d seen, an upside down me, leg waving in the breeze. Stop thinking about it! I snuck a peek at Matt. There was no anger evident in him, no sign he was bothered that I’d run off to talk to Brad. Matt and I had been friends a long time. Of course he’d understand. Matt was a practical guy. And careful. If Matt were a girl, his name would be Prudence.

      “Yeah, I guess maybe I do.” I sounded fairly pitiful. Poor Dylan, ready to go home and lick her wounds. Liar!

      “You want me to drive you? We could always come back and get your car tomorrow.” We each had our own cars because I’d spent the night before at the bride’s house, playing lady-in-waiting. Is there just no end to bridesmaid fun?

      So there was Prudence, the most serious, dependable guy on earth, caring about me. I hated myself. But apparently not enough to find my way back to the path of righteousness. “No, thanks. I’ll be fine.” I stared at the grass, avoiding his eyes.

      “Are you sure?” he asked, turning to look at my face.

      By now I’m thinking, Yes, already! “I’m sure. Really.” We went back and forth a few more times. He seemed truly, genuinely concerned. But it came down to this: I couldn’t stand not being with Brad more than I could stand being deceitful to Matt. Where was the guarded Dylan I used to know?

      Meanwhile, my second first date that day had already been arranged. The Magnet had agreed to meet me at Skinny’s after I’d extricated myself from the festivities. We both knew that would take some time. I was in the bridal party, after all.

      I was home in twenty minutes. I’d no sooner gotten the words “better go” out of my mouth than the bride had me air-kissed, hugged and sent me on my way to the parking area with an escort. I felt like a fart being fanned out of the room with a towel. I knew the entire Groom Daddy incident would be all my fault!

      The phone was ringing as I unlocked the door to my little detached apartment. I kicked off the satin pumps and ran to answer it, guilt propelling me forward, knowing for sure it was Matt, dear Prudence, calling to make sure I was okay. All the way home, I’d been feeling kind of heartsick about the whole thing. I’d messed up again. Why, Dylan? Why run from such a decent guy as Matt? And to what? A good-ol-boy chick magnet? G.U., financially U., and—if I had to venture a guess—commitment challenged to boot.

      I held on to the wall, did a quick spin around the corner on the hardwood floors, was almost to the phone in the kitchen, when wham! I tripped right over the top of my oversize chocolate Lab bounding around the corner from the other way. Guinness was always late, a burglar alarm on a sixty-second delay. I actually felt myself horizontally airborne a blink before I crashed to the floor.

      The orange pouf, with all its unflattering layers of tulle underskirts, saved me, cushioning the blow. “See,” I could hear my sunny-side-up mom say as my knees banged into the floor, “Nothing’s all bad.” Not true. The pouf was bad, all bad.

      The phone was still ringing. I’d programmed my answering machine to pick up after nine rings. It helped eliminate all but the most ardent of callers. How many is that? I couldn’t say; I’d lost count while falling. Hang on, Matt, I’m coming. I crawled on stinging knees over to the counter, fighting the dress every tangled-up inch of the way.

      guilt = incredible motivator

      I reached up to the counter and grabbed the phone. “Hello?” I didn’t sound half-bad…considering.

      “Hello, little one,” my grandma sang out of the earpiece.

      I adored my grandma. I can’t think of a time when I wouldn’t have wanted to talk to her. Except maybe right then. It took me a second to switch gears, to turn off all the what-am-I-going-to-say buzz whizzing around in my СКАЧАТЬ