Page 82 of Riding the Sugar High

He throws me a side-eye.

“And what, Logan?” I insist. Because it sounds like he’s saying how I dress is inappropriate, and I do not need to be shamed by him over this. “If the sight of my body makes you so uncomfortable, then I suggest you look away.”

His brow furrows. “Uncomfortable might not be the right word.”

“Whatever. I can dress however I like,” I mutter. “And you wouldn’t be complaining if I were skinny.”

His jaw unhinges, his eyes narrowing until they’re slits. “If you...that’s not what I meant.”

“It’s fine.” I grab the joint from his hand, bring it to my lips and inhale, quickly exploding into another coughing fit. His hand cups my shoulder, but I shake it off, holding back my cough as much as possible until it stops.

“Look, I have no idea what I just stepped into, but you’re grossly misunderstanding my words.”

“Forget about it, Logan. I know you didn’t mean anything by it.” I smile up at him, though his comment stings so much my throat burns, then take another puff of the joint and cough significantly less.

“No, Primrose, I didn’t.”

Noticing the concern on his face, I pat his arm. “Nobody ever does. Fatphobia is instilled in people—most of the time, they don’t even mean to insult you when they do.”

I feel his gaze on the side of my face, but keep mine in the distance. “Fatphobia?” he asks, his voice a low rumble.

“Yes. I’ve been told before that I shouldn’t dress as I do. That I can’t pull off a certain top or skirt. I’m constantly given side glances when I’m out shopping or told by shop assistants that I should go somewhere else because I probably won’t find anything in my size.” I huff out a laugh. “You know how many times I’ve been left out of pictures? In my line of work, image is everything, and mine isn’t what people consider...perfect.”

He doesn’t say a word, and for the longest moment, he doesn’t move either. Then, with a sigh, he takes the joint and inhales. “So why do you work with social media?”

“It’s not just social media.”

“Then what?”

With a shrug, I think of all the microaggressions I’ve experienced daily for as long as I can remember. “Well, men don’t call you beautiful, even if you get all dressed up. They call you cute. And when you have a crush, it’s almost sweet because they obviously won’t like you back.”

I swallow, and my saliva is thicker than usual. Maybe my throat is sensitive after coughing. Why can I feel the inside of my throat?

“What else?”

I glance at Logan, and the world wobbles before my eyes. “Uh...Doing anything that might imply I’m trying to be healthier usually calls for ridicule. And if I treat myself to something unhealthy, then I get looks. ‘That explains why you’re fat’ looks.” There’s a sting at my hip, and I realize the step is digging into my skin from how I’m leaning. Straightening, I continue, “And children point at you and laugh. That’s not fun.”

“None of it sounds fun. People judging you before they even know you never is.”

Though the way he says it makes me think he’s relating deeply to my words, I’m suddenly and weirdly aware of the air coming in and out of my nostrils. That can’t be normal.

“Oh my god, it’s the weed!” I gasp. “Logan, I think I’m high!”

His face, initially frowning, splits into a wide grin I’m not sure I’ve ever seen on him. Usually, he smiles only with one side of his mouth. Sometimes, he smirks in an unruly, roguish way that makes him look disgustingly hot. But this is the first time I see his teeth peek through, his cheeks fully pulled up. He’s smiling with everything he has. Smiling with his eyes.

“No shit, Barbie.” He pulls me up again. “You’re like the Leaning Tower of Pisa over here.”

What were we talking about? It was something important. Oh, right.

“I spent most of my life hating the way I looked. But once I started feeling confident, once I fell in love with myself, these things...” I gesture vaguely, then think it’s probably weird, so I tuck my hand under my leg. “They’re not as important now. Now, when someone says something like...”

“Like ‘your clothes make me uncomfortable’?”

I give him a one-shoulder shrug. “Yeah, like that. It doesn’t feel as soul-crushing as it did before. It’s just moderately annoying.”

“What’s the worst part?” he asks, his eyes laser-sharp even though he’s smoked much more than me. “What hurts the most?”

Humming, I watch the light from the closest streetlamp dance across the cobblestone streets, casting long shadows against the colorful storefronts.

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