Page 16 of Matched with Her Runaway Groom

Grocery store it is.

The bus comes and I settle into a seat near the middle. After letting out a deep sigh, I relax. Well, as much as someone whose life seems to be spinning out of control can.

My phone rings, a song I’ve programmed for my mom’s number. It’s been easy to put off talking to her for a few weeks, but I know if I don’t answer now, I’m going to regret the wrath of Tina Stewart. Hillary not being around to take half the lectures has made Mama Tina’s temper flare a lot more.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Where are you? Why does it sound like a jet engine next to you?”

“I’m on the bus, Mom.”

The sound of “ick” is distant before my mother speaks again. “Why haven’t you called me back?”

“I’ve been busy. There’s a lot going on at the house and then at work.” Which I no longer have to worry about. Small victory. “Is there something you’re calling about?”

I glance up as the bus makes a stop. I note where we are on the map and focus on the next stop, so I don’t miss it.

“I just saw the picture you posted of yourself on Quickstagram yesterday. Rachelle LaRue Stewart, why do you post pictures of yourself like this?”

I frown, reaching up to push the button for the next stop. “Like what, Mom?”

“In skin-tight clothing for everyone to see.”

“Are you talking about the paintball suit?” It is about the only place I post anything anymore, each picture showing me at one of the activities on the Breakup Bucket List. There are a surprising number of people who want to follow along in the woes of a heartbroken woman.

“I don’t know what a paintball suit looks like. It’s black with some patches of purple.”

“That’s part of the challenge I’m doing, Mom. And since when do you check Quickstagram for anything? I thought social media was beneath you.” It’s a slight jab, but she’s testing my patience.

“Sandra Bishop showed it to me this morning.”

My stomach sinks as I step off the bus just a few feet away from the entrance to the grocery store. Of course, my mother’s best friend is the first to notice things like what I’m posting.

“Well, I went paint balling with my roommate yesterday, hence the post.”

“I know you haven’t been around for a while, but I can send my nutritionist over to come up with a plan for you. She’s the best in the business. I’ve lost five pounds since we started working together a month ago.”

The last thing I want is to take part in another diet. “I don’t have time for that right now. I’m actually heading into the grocery store to get a few things. Can we talk later?”

“Remember that carbs are the enemy, Rachelle. You need to stay away from—”

I hang up the phone. Not my proudest moment, but a diet and body image are not the things I want to be talking about right before I set sail on a cruise.

Frustration surges. I know I’m not a size zero anymore, but I’ve gotten more comfortable with my body over the past few months. It’s more squishy than it was before, but my stomach issues are almost non-existent, which I count as a huge victory.

Before walking into the grocery store, I turn and head for a clothing store just another block away. I haven’t purchased anything that isn’t business casual or sweats since my almost-wedding, and I figure now is the best time to get a new bathing suit. The only person I’ll be seeing after the cruise is Tiffany, so there’s no need for me to worry about whatever it is my mother thinks is awful about bodies.

My confidence wanes as I try on several options. None of them look good. It’s probably not the best idea to continue pulling the size I used to be.

“Can I help you?” a saleswoman asks. Usually I just brush them off and continue, but all the frustration inside me causes the tears to surge.

“Yes. Any help you can give me would be great.”

She pulls a flexible tape measure from around her neck and says, “I can help measure you to get the right fit.”

I’m a little scared of that thought, as I’ve steered clear of those since moving out of my parents’ house. But it’s either go swimming with a pair of shorts and a t-shirt or hope the threadbare one in my bottom dresser drawer will stretch over my backside and not split open. I nod and she goes to work. After getting all the measurements, she hands me a little card with them, which I tuck into my purse.

“For future purchases.” She smiles at me and says, “Are you looking for outfits? Swimsuits? Underwear?”

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