Page 47 of Dial L for Lawyer
Lies. You love us. Now stop texting and finish getting ready. You have twenty minutes.
Seventeen minutes, actually. I set my phone aside and stare at the cherry-red wrap dress hanging on my closet door, tags still on. Three months ago, I bought it in a moment of optimism, thinking maybe I'd finally feel ready to wear something bright and attention-seeking. Something that wasn't chosen specifically for its forgiving dark tones. Now or never.
I drop the towel and turn to the mirror, forcing myself to really look.
The stretch marks are silver now, not the angry red they used to be. Progress, my therapist would say. They streak across mystomach like lightning, marking where my skin had to expand to hold someone I used to be. Someone who weighed ninety pounds more. Someone who hid behind food the way I now hide behind structure and shapewear.
My upper arms have that soft, loose quality that no amount of weights can fix. My stomach, despite five Pilates classes a week, still has skin that hangs, pooling when I bend over. My thighs touch—they'll always touch—and there's loose skin there too, little pockets and dimples that no Instagram filter could hide.
But it's the body that survived. The body that got healthy. The body that can run three miles and lift weights and dance until 4 AM. It's the body that tells the story of who I used to be and who I fought to become. And tonight, wrapped in cherry-red confidence and industrial-strength shapewear, it's the body that's finally showing up. The body I’m done apologizing for.
I reach for said shapewear—the kind that promises miracles and delivers breathing problems. It takes three minutes and a minor yoga certification to get it on, and by the end I'm slightly sweaty and reconsidering everything. But when I look in the mirror, my silhouette is smoother. Not perfect, but manageable.
The cherry-red dress slides on like liquid courage. The wrap style is a godsend—structured enough to be flattering, adjustable enough that I can control how much cleavage shows. The sleeves hit just past my elbows, hiding the worst of my arms. The skirt falls just below my knees, swishy enough to be flirty, long enough to feel safe.
I look... good. Not Instagram good, not even close to the kind of women Caleb probably usually dates. But good enough that maybe, in candlelight, after wine, if I'm strategic about positioning, he might not notice that I'm held together by Spanx and sheer determination.
My phone buzzes.
Audrey:
Selfie. Now. Or I'm calling 911.
I snap a quick photo, angles and lighting working overtime.
Layla:
RED?! Holy shit, you look hot!
Audrey:
Caleb's going to swallow his tongue.
Me:
NASA would be proud.
Audrey:
Stop self-deprecating and get your ass to that restaurant.
The Uber driver tries to make small talk about the weather, but I'm too busy catastrophizing. What if the shapewear rolls down mid-dinner? What if I eat bread and suddenly look six months pregnant? What if the restaurant has those horrible overhead lights that make everyone look like they're dying of consumption?
Georgio’s looms ahead, warm and inviting and terrifying. Through the window, I can see the table—our table. The one where he waited while I sat in my apartment, paralyzed by the fear of being seen. Really seen.
Not tonight, I tell myself. Tonight I show up. Tonight I take a chance.
I'm twelve minutes early, but that's on purpose. I want to be the one waiting this time.
"Reservation for Kingsley," I tell the host, whose eyes flicker with recognition.
"Mr. Kingsley isn't?—"
"I know. I'm early. I'll wait at the table."
He leads me to the window seat, and I order immediately. "A bottle of the Stag's Leap Cabernet."
As the waiter pours, I stare at the empty chair across from me. This is what Caleb saw that night. This exact view. An empty chair full of possibility slowly becoming an empty chair full of disappointment.
