Page 78 of The Weight Of It All
“I’m thirty five, fuck you very much.”
He blinked, and Melinda put her hand on my arm. “Size thirty eight, Henry.”
“Oh.” I lifted my chin. “Sorry.” Then it sunk in what he said. Size thirty-eight? No freakin’ way. I hadn’t been a size thirty-eight in years. I turned to Melinda and tried not to butt-wiggle. I might have squealed. “Thirty-eight!”
I had only intended to buy one suit, but one blue suit, one grey, and one charcoal suit later, we walked back to the office. Despite the damage to my bank account, I was still buzzing. In fact, I was too excited to wait for the elevators, so I made Melinda take the stairs with me.
She collapsed in her chair, and I held up my shopping bags and twirled. “Size thirty-eight!”
“Dying.”
“It was only four flights.”
“I hate you.”
“But size thirty-eight!”
She waved me off, mumbling under her breath something that I’m pretty sure ended with “… before I kill you.”
I pointed to my office door. “I have work to do.” She replied with a glare that could scare a cat, and I walked into my office, not scared of her at all. Much.
I sent a spray of size thirty-eight texts to Anika. I sent a selfie of me, holding the size thirty-eight suit tag smilinglike an idiot to Reed, then I even sent a quick text to my mum asking how her day was going.
Anika’s response was all in shouty caps.
YOU SKINNY BASTARD. I WANNA BE SKINNY TOO BUT I LOVE FRAPPES. DID I MENTION SKINNY BASTARD? AND NOW I WANT A FRAPPE.
Reed’s response was much more subdued.
So proud of you. I’ll be at yours at seven. That okay?
I quickly typed out a reply.
I’ll be home by five thirty…
See you at six.
I might have hugged my phone.
Then my mother replied with a voice message. “Henry, dear, you know I don’t know how these phones work. Is this being made into a text? How does it know what I’m saying? Anyway, how’s your new beau doing? He was very handsome. And tall. When will you be coming over for dinner? You will bring him, yes? Oh, and you know Marilyn from bingo? Well, her daughter said that George Clooney?” The phone beeped in my ear, cutting off her message, and I could imagine my mother sitting there still talking, telling me all about her friends until she realised the voice mail had ended God knows how long ago. I made a mental note to write down, in point form this time, how to reply to a text. And it might be time to recap on the whole “Mum, George Clooney is married now” conversation we had just six months ago.
I spent my afternoon buried in financial statistics,and even that couldn’t dampen my mood. And I spent the car trip home wondering what on earth I should cook for dinner tonight. When I got home and changed my clothes, I rifled through my fridge and pantry for ideas on what to cook, but came up uninspired.
There was a knock on the door, right on six o’clock. I opened the door to find Reed smiling at me, and I had to wonder if this day could possibly get any better. “Why yes, I do believe I’ll have whatever it is you’re selling,” I joked.
I didn’t even realise he had one hand behind his back, but with a grin, he revealed a single rose. “I’m not selling it. It’s a gift. From me to you.”
“Oh.” I think my heart melted into a bubble of useless goo. “Thank you. No one has ever given me a flower before.”
I took the rose and he stepped inside, giving me a kiss on the lips. “You’re welcome. I figured if I invited myself for dinner, it was the least I could do.”
“I’m glad you invited yourself for dinner, but I have a confession.”
“What’s that?”
“I have no idea what to cook.”
“We can just order in if you want?”
