My mouth gapes. “Excuse me?!”
His response annoys the shit out of me, but it’s not uncommon. The instant you no longer wear single digit-sized dresses, you’re classed as a fatty. It’s beyond wrong, and it frustrates the hell out of me, but society’s ideal body type isn’t my fight this time around. Manners, though. . . I’m more than happy to show him what happens when you leave them at home.
“Perhaps you should pull your micro dick out of your ass and use it as a Q-tip, then you’ll be able to hear me.”
The crowds’ roar nearly drowns out what he says next. “My dick only shrank when my eyes landed on you. Look at you, little miss piggy, you can’t even put down your food to help your friend. What’s the matter, did you lose your trough?”
Anger works from my stomach up to my throat when he makes pig noises. His squeals are so loud, they gain us more than a few spectators. They stop watching the game to focus on something just as ludicrous as men fighting over a leather-stitched ball.
The stranger’s pig grunts stop when I growl, “I’d rather be fat than have a face that looks like a baboon’s ass. I can lose weight, but you’ll always be ugly.”
When he fails to return my one-hundred-percent accurate taunt, I nudge my head to the pregnant lady standing next to me. She is still dazed, but her cheeks aren’t as white as they were before I defended her. “Apologize to my friend—”
“Or what? You’ll sit on me until I buckle in fear for my life?”
The crowd surges closer to us when I sneer, “I could slap you, but then I’d be charged with animal abuse.”
“Look who’s talking.” He recommences squealing like a pig.
I grind my back molars together, aware that retaliating to bullies is just as wrong as instigating bullying, but I’m unable to hold back. “You’re the exact reason gene pools need lifeguards. We’ve got to do everything we can to stop the uglies from breeding. Have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re so hideous, if being ugly was a crime, you’d be serving a life sentence.”
His lips twitch as he struggles to formulate a comeback. When he fails to find one, the mob circling us stomp their feet in euphoria, awarding me the win for our showdown. I don’t relish the victory. All I’m feeling is guilt. I should have been the bigger person—but I guess that’s what started our confrontation to begin with?
“Come on, let’s get some ice for your nose.” After dumping the food I spent nearly an hour gathering, and several hours working to pay for, I curl my arm around the pregnant lady’s shoulders and guide her toward the cafeteria.
Not willing to accept the invisible white flag I’m waving, the fat-shamer continues to taunt me. He calls me several crude names between loud pig grunts. I take his belligerent rant in stride, knowing not even an exemplary bill of health would convince him I am just as fit and healthy as the men he’s here to marvel at. I may have rolls on my stomach and dimples in my thighs, but I work out daily, eat a balanced diet, and have a heart so strong, his hurtful comments don’t constrict it in the slightest.
I am good, balanced, and happy. . . until he switches our exchange from a verbal altercation to a physical one.
I miss a step when something hard smacks me square in the back. I don’t need to peer over my shoulder to know what hit me. The hushed whispers of the crowd are enough of a clue, let alone the evidence teetering back and forth between my feet. He threw a can of beer at me—a full can of beer.
While reminding myself that I can’t stamp out violence with more violence, I suck in numerous deep breaths. But the more he goads me, the more my tether snaps. He hit a pregnant lady in the face, yet he doesn’t see the need to apologize.What the hell is wrong with these people?
Worked up and slightly hormonal, I gather the beer in my hand then pivot around to face the unnamed aggressor. The arrogant sneer he’s wearing doubles when I toss the can into the air like a bowler does on a cricket pitch while strategizing how to bowl out his opponent.
He wouldn’t understand my Australian analogy, but he can’t miss the threat on my face. “What are you going to do? Hit me with—”
His words fall short when I hook back my arm to hurl the can through the air. My throw is so accurate, it smacks the blond right between the eyes not even two seconds later. He stills as his hands dart up to cradle his face like his victim did minutes ago. There’s just one difference this time around: blood doesn’t trickle from his nose. . .it drains from a large gash in his forehead.
With his eyes rolled into the back of his head, he collapses onto a row of hard plastic chairs. He’s knocked out cold, and I’m once again seeking the closest exit.
CHAPTER TWO
Presley
Teammates slap my shoulders as sweat rolls down my back. The cheers from the boisterous crowd are still ringing in my ears, but their excited hum from our win isn’t loud enough to drown out the one ringtone I’d give anything not to hear.
She’s calling me—again. She does the same thing at the end of every game. She congratulates me before asking how much longer it will be before I come “home.”
She says “home” like she’s waiting for me at a ranch with horses, a handful of milking cows, and a couple of pigs. It’s not close to that. Her “home” may be a jungle; it’s just not one I’m planning to scale anytime soon.
To Lillian, home is the hustle and bustle of New York City, the town that never sleeps.Lillian—or Lily as her friends call her—is my ex-fiancée. The “ex” part of her title wasn’t my choice. She thought our nine-year relationship was “wearing her down” and that she needed some time to “reenergize her inner Lily.”
I thought that was what Josue and she did during their daily Bikram yoga classes. I realized my error when my physical therapist got stuck in gridlock traffic twelve months ago. Josue was teaching Lillian the downward dog, just minus the clothing most instructors wear.
It’s funny how things ended up. The tabloids had a field day with our breakup. Unfortunately, they didn’t see Lillian as the lying two-faced bitch she is. They saw a man angry his career was cut short during his golden days, one who reached for the bottle more times than he hit the gym. They believed Lillian’s affair was a desperate call for help—that by hurting me, she’d help me.
In a way, that’s precisely what she did. I left her in our high-rise apartment in the middle of Manhattan to “rejuvenate” while I relearned who I was in my hometown of Ravenshoe. I surfed and drank with high school buddies. I even hooked up with a few girls I never had the chance to seduce because Lillian was always there to cut back their attention with the intensity of a weed-wacker on crack.
