Page 114 of Confessions of the Funny Fat Friend

Another woman stood by the table, looking a little uncomfortable and far more clothed.

“This is my friend Darletta,” the blonde said. She never gave me her name.

Darletta smiled at me. “Is it okay if I sit by you?”

No. “Actually, I need to piss.”

I got up, my legs feeling far less solid than earlier, and made my way to the bathroom. But as soon as I got inside and took a good look at myself in the dingy mirror, Rhett joined me.

“What the fuck, Ty?”

I turned to him. “I didn’t want a setup, Rhett. I’m not ready to date anyone else.”

He swore at the ground, then faced me, putting his hands on my shoulders. “Look, Mom and Dad, hell, all of us, are worried about you. It’s been three months, and nothing’s any better. Mom’s talking about having you go in-patient for a little while.”

My eyes widened. “In-patient? Like psychiatric care?”

He nodded. “And honestly, Ty, I’m not so sure I disagree with her.”

“I’m not mental, Rhett. I’m fucking heartbroken,” I said, my voice rising. A guy walked into the bathroom then, going back to the urinals. I lowered my voice. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“The fuck I wouldn’t. You remember Mags?”

“The girl you dated in high school?” I asked. I barely remembered him taking her to the prom. I was already out of the house at the time.

His jaw clenched as he nodded. “I get it, Ty; I do. But that pain? It can’t be all of you. You gotta turn it into a piece.” He clenched his chest, right above his heart. “It won’t take the hurt away, but if it’s all of you, it takes away those parts of your life you do enjoy.”

My jaw trembled, and I clenched it, attempting to swallow back the lump in my throat. “What do you want me to do, Rhett? Go fuck Darletta?”

A ghost of his crooked smirk was back. “I don’t think it could hurt. But maybe just get used to looking at another person like you’re not seconds from falling part.”

I glared at him. “I hate you... but thanks.”

He nodded, resting his forehead against mine. “You’ve got this.”

70

Henrietta

Confession: I’m twenty-eight years old, and I still need my mom’s permission sometimes.

I hurried down the sidewalk,trying not to get completely drenched by this spring rain. I pushed through the door, lowering my denim jacket and sliding it off my arms. But I stopped in the doorway, seeing half a dozen suitcases lined up against the living room wall.

Grandma sat in her wheelchair in the living room, and I was about to ask her what was going on when I heard wheel casters rolling over vinyl. Mom rolled another suitcase into the living room, freezing when she saw me.

“Are you going on vacation?” I asked, my smile fading.

She and Grandma exchanged a look I didn’t like at all.

“What’s going on here?” I asked.

Mom let out a sigh. “One thing led to another, and the nurse let on that they don’t, in fact, take Medicare. Only private payment. Grandma called me and asked for an explanation, and I couldn’t lie to her.”

Feeling something close to shame, I turned my eyes toward the ground, but Grandma said, “Henrietta, I need you to come here.” She patted the couch next to her chair.

Knowing I’d been caught, I went and sat beside her.

She took my hand, holding it in her lap. “Honey, why would you use all your savings on this?”

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