Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,4
contemplating how to answer this. “No, I haven’t texted him yet,” I finally say.
Holly scoffs, Thomas shakes his head in disappointment, and Alex just looks at me.
“Good for you, Quinn,” Bree says, an empty martini glass in her hand. “You’ve got to make him wait.”
I catch Alex rolling his eyes. Poor Alex. At one time I had a few tendrils of feelings for that lovely wavy brown hair and those bright-blue eyes of his, but that only lasted until those eyes found Bree and stayed there. And Bree wouldn’t know a good thing in front of her even if it walked up and slapped her across the face. Bree . . . with her messy bun and her flawless makeup-free skin. She makes the worst choices with men. And really, with life. I love her just the same.
“Exactly,” I say, giving a nod to Bree. “And it’s only been like two days.”
“Aren’t those rules all old school now?” Thomas says in the know-it-all tone I’ve come to know and sometimes hate. “Where’s the girl power? Where’s the feminism?”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”
“You know what I think?” Thomas says rhetorically. Because he’s not really asking. “I think you’re just chicken.”
I let my mouth drop, dramatically. “I’m not a chicken.”
“You are.” And then he clucks at me. Just one little “bok” like a chicken.
His attempt at trying to rile me only rankles a little. I am being a bit of a chicken. What if I text Henry and he doesn’t text back? What if he does but has had time to think about the girl covered in powdered sugar and has decided that it was a mistake to give me his number? What if I call, we go out, things click, we fall in love, I meet his parents, we go ring shopping, and then he decides I’m not really what he pictured for his life and he’s made a mistake and breaks my heart three months before our wedding? I mean, the last “what if” is exactly what happened to Holly. Of course, she’s happy now—with Logan. And that wouldn’t have come to be if she hadn’t had her heart broken by Nathan. Or if I hadn’t made her go on her honeymoon with a stranger as a feature for the news station. But that’s a whole other story I try not to bring up. I’m pretty sure she’s forgiven me by now. Hopefully.
Where was I? Oh, yes. Thomas thinks I’m a chicken, and he’s not totally wrong.
“Leave her alone, Thomas,” Holly says as Thomas is now sticking his elbows out, his hands on his sides, his chin jutting out like he’s about to peck me.
Thomas does stop, but only because the server approaches bringing a large tray of food with him. My stomach does a little jumping thing as the aroma of char-grilled burgers and fried chicken wafts my way. I’m the last to get served, and my excited stomach does a little drop. A tiny sad-sounding wah-wah from a trumpet comes to mind.
My friends’ plates are all full of wonderful, yummy, flavorful-looking food, and the salad that was just set in front of me with its lettuce, cucumbers, tomato, and diced cold chicken looks . . . well, it looks like I’d rather be fat.
Salad is my go-to order. I always get it. I went to this retreat thing last month and it was supposed to give me all the answers I’ve been looking for with food. It was going to be my answer to finally getting thin and staying there. But the camp ended up being a bust. I called it fat camp but it really wasn’t that—it was a Mind, Body, and Spirit retreat, and it cost me nearly a month’s pay. I’d been on the waiting list for a year. I wanted it to be the answer to everything. Instead, I was told the answers were all “inside me” and to “trust my own body” and other junk like that.
Listen, if I could trust my own body, I wouldn’t be carrying around this extra twenty pounds I can never get rid of. I realize that’s not really overweight to a lot of people, but it is to me. And it is to my mom. And it is to some of the butthead viewers who watch me do the midday news.
I’d probably be able to trust myself if I didn’t have so many outside sources critiquing me. That’s one of the nasty side effects of reporting the