Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 108905 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108905 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
I stood in front of the trifold mirror in the dressing room of our Fifth Avenue apartment. We’d discussed selling the place several times, but we’d never really had the heart to part with it. It was a sprawling apartment at the most prestigious address in Manhattan, and while it might not occupy two floors and include a staircase modeled after the one on the Titanic—we had a very eccentric neighbor who frequently showed off her home in magazines—it was pretty damn impressive. It was also the place where Neil and I started out. Well, kind of. Technically, that had been at the Crown Plaza at the LAX airport. But the spot I occupied was the very place I’d realized I loved Neil.
The person I’d been back then seemed very far away, now. For one, she’d been skinnier. I grimaced at my triceps. “Am I getting bingo wings?”
Neil made an impatient noise. He looked up from fastening his cufflink. “Stop it. Whatever part of your body you’re complaining about, just stop.”
That was easy for him to say. When we’d gotten together, he’d been in pretty good shape. Then, he’d gone through cancer and chemotherapy, a horrible transplant, and a year of being kind of squishy. Since he’d retired, he’d gone on a stupid workout kick, and now, he looked even better than he had when we’d first gotten together. All I’d done was watch my metabolism slowly circle the drain as I got closer and closer to thirty.
“Well, I’m sorry, but all your celebrity friends are going to be there with their Swedish supermodel girlfriends,” I complained. “And I’ve gained—”
“Six pounds since Christmas,” Neil recited along with me. “Does it help at all if I tell you it’s all in your breasts?”
I plucked the top of my dress. Trish, my stylist, had been mortified when I’d said I wanted to wear the Fadwa Baalbaki gown, because it was from last season. But it was so pretty, and I’d never gotten a chance to wear it, then. Still, I’d liked the look of the high-neck and capped sleeves on the model more than on myself; I felt like I was just a pair of green-lace covered breasts bouncing around the room.
I turned and looked over my shoulder to admire the fall of teal organza ruffles, like a mermaid’s tail attached to the back of the dress. Someone might step on it and trip me, and I would break my neck, but it would be worth it. As long as I was the only person to die tonight, and it was as a martyr to fashion, I would consider the evening a resounding success.
“Now, let’s stop worrying about how you look and focus on me,” Neil said, gesturing to his tux as he walked toward me.
“If I didn’t know you better, I would think you were gunning for my position as most vain person in the family.” I tilted my head and pretended to consider, but there was nothing that needed considering. Neil looked amazing in a tux, no matter the occasion, or the cut. Tonight, he wore a sleek black modern fit. I couldn’t resist running my hands over his broad shoulders.
“You already can’t keep your hands off me.” He grinned. “I’d say this is a success.”
“Not quite.” I reached up and adjusted his bow tie, which hadn’t been skewed in the first place. “Now it’s a success.”
He kissed my forehead—a very light kiss, so as not to disturb my foundation—and said, “I’ll meet you in the foyer.”
I turned to the mirror for one last check. Trish had done my makeup flawlessly. I was good, but for something like this, having a professional touch was a must. I could never get my eyebrows to look so spot-on defined. There was a little shimmer to my blush and glossy, rose petal pink lipstick, and my face was contoured as perfectly as if I’d been Photoshopped. My hair fell in loose curls around my shoulders. I looked like I could have been going to the Oscars in the 1940’s.
But my arms still really bothered me.
Maybe Neil was right. Maybe I was being overly critical of my body. But something about my last birthday had really bugged me. I’d turned twenty-seven, so I couldn’t explain why it had been that particular birthday that set me off; I’d thought I wouldn’t start freaking out over aging until I hit thirty.
Living so close to my mother again wasn’t helping. I knew all of her comments, from suggesting we start working out together, to sending me Pinterest links for low-fat recipes, were meant in the best possible way. She wasn’t happy about her weight, and she worried that I would hit thirty and gain weight, too. Her insecurity was messing with my head.
The really fucked up part was, before she came to live with us? I couldn’t have cared less about my weight and my body. I owned one of the few mainstream fashion magazines in the market that employed a wide range of body types and ethnicities. But, somehow, I felt more self-conscious about my body than when I’d been subjected to an endless parade of traditionally slender fashion models. Now, I was obsessed, in a way that was beginning to feel really unhealthy.