Page 10 of Connor

“I can’t bring wellness to a whiskey distillery. The two don’t even work together very well,” I murmur. I mean, I’ve never had a glass of whiskey, but I know it has a high proof.

Alcohol generally isn’t great. It’s a toxin in the body, but I do know that whiskey temporarily widens blood vessels and can clear mucus congestion in your chest and nose, which is why so many people often take a nip of whiskey when they have a cold or flu. It’s something my father swears by. While it isn't good in large amounts, in small amounts, it can be somewhat beneficial. I would probably steep eucalyptus or tea tree oils and do a steam bath when sick, a nip of whiskey probably does have its place.

“Whispers is about eight hundred and fifty miles from New York. Talk about getting out of the city.” Trisha’s not a fan of country living.

“See, too far away,” I say, like that’s my deciding factor, when, in reality, getting out of the city might be good for a while.

“At least we know he isn’t a serial killer or anything, so that’s a plus. And if you don’t take his job offer, you still have his number, so you should ask him out.”

I’m already shaking my head. “Not happening.”

“Don’t give me any of that bullshit about your size. Men love voluptuous women.”

“I’m bigger than most.” I sink into the sofa, feeling my rolls at my waist that are more pronounced now that I’m sitting. I never used to care. I’m usually happy in my body. I flaunt my assets, never hide. But things changed a few months ago.

“You're plus-size, so what? Most girls are!” Trisha is great for my confidence.

“But I’m not exactly what men are looking for.” Not that I’m sad about that fact. I am who I am. Most people prefer beautiful skinny blond women. Trisha’s looks fall into that category as well.

“That guy. I blame that guy about three months ago. Since then, you’ve been against dating.” She jumps up, now pacing around the living room. She’s right. He knocked my confidence big-time. Now I can’t get past my size when I think about dating again.

“What guy?” I ask her, knowing exactly who she’s talking about.

“Mr.I’m Not Really Feeling It.That asshole took one look at you and walked away. He didn’t even talk to you and get to know you. He judged you solely on your looks, and let's be honest, he needs glasses because you, my friend, are beautiful.”

I give her a smile. “Thanks, Trisha. But I’m fine. Mr. Right will come along one day.” I tell her the words that no longer feel like they will come true, and she stops and sighs.

“You should call him. Meet him this weekend for brunch or something while he’s in the city. Talk about thejob offer.” She makes a last-ditch attempt, which she already knows is futile.

“Can’t. Mom’s making me dahl,” I tell her, my tone ending the conversation.

“Yum, bring some home.” Her love for my mom’s dahl is not to be underestimated. “Sooooo… I need to ask you a favor…”

“I knew it. That's why you’re offering to pay for dinner.”

“Yes, I need something from you.” She sits up straighter, like it’s of utmost importance. So I do the same.

“Okay, what is it?” I ask, ready for the onslaught, wondering what she needs this time.

“I need you to cover for me tomorrow night at the stadium.” She says the words so quickly that they run into each other, and I slump.

“What?” I moan, already knowing that I don’t want to. I’ve only done it once before, and it was a nightmare.

“Please? I have a date with Tom,” she says with a bright smile.

“Tom? Who the hell is Tom?” I ask, wishing I could rewind the clock and go back to my last appointment at Sunshine, so I don’t have to pretend to be a server at the stadium where she works casually on the weekends.

“The guy I met online today, the one I’m going to marry. He’s super sweet, caring, and so funny. Look…” she says, thrusting her phone in my face so I can see his picture, and I cringe. He looks small, thin, and like he couldn’t even hold my hand, let alone my weight.

“He’s good-looking, right?” She sounds hopeful, and I give her a small smile.

“Yeah, sure. I mean, not really my type.” I wasn’t sure I had a type. Until today.

“So, please, can you cover my shift?” she begs, looking at me with those puppy dog eyes she gets. I sigh, and she grins, knowing that I will.

“What’s on?” I ask, hoping it’s something low-key, although I think it’s mainly sports played there.

“Ahhh, well, it’s Saturday night football,” she says hesitantly, watching me carefully.

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