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“I do. Finally. There’s also the fact I shouldn’t even be dating him. If my father finds out, he’ll…” I shudder as I think of what he might do. “I’m certain that’s what it is. I’m too in my head about it.”
Although she nods, I see skepticism in her eyes.
I try to convince her. “Josh is so sweet. He’s been super patient with me. And he doesn’t even care I’m fat. He said he’s good with helping me lose weight when we move in together. If he’s willing to accept me fatter than the girls he’s usually with—”
“What?” The word is as sharp as a knife. “One, we talked about you calling yourself fat. And two, what the actual fuck? Those better be your words, not his. Did he call you fat?”
I shrink beneath the way she’s vibrating with anger. I’ve never seen Lydia angry before. It’s a little scary. Because theywerehis words. Even saying them stings. “He didn’t say it to be mean. It’s just honesty. And honestly—”
“He’s a fucker. I love you. I’ll always be a phone call away if you need anything, including an alibi if you do to him what you should for saying any of that to you. Your weight doesn’t define you. You’ve been doing so good with your thinking since your mom’s been gone.” Lydia shakes her head sadly.
I’m not able to defend Josh or myself. She’s right. With her help, and admittedly Josh’s attention, I was slowly growing more comfortable in my skin and body. My mom was a beauty queen and not just any beauty queen. She was Miss Colombia when she was twenty. The hot Colombian actress from the funny sitcom, my mom was hotter than her. I don’t say it because she’s my mom. Walking the streets of Chicago, she was constantly offered cards from people who wanted her to model for them. Twenty-five years later, she’s somehow even more beautiful than she was when she won.
My mom didn’t hide her disappointment that she didn’t have a skinny, beautiful daughter in her likeness. I’ve been on diets since I was eleven years old. The diets didn’t help, they only made my weight worse. It’s only in the last year since my mom has been in Colombia that I don’t stress over every bite I put in my mouth. “It’s because they love me. It’s not healthy—”
“Oh my god!” Lydia exclaims super freaking loud. “Stop talking right this instant. Because I love you and I don’t want to smack you to see if it will knock some sense into you. You’re a size eighteen, not a size eighty. And on your body, it makes sense. Are you calling me fat and unhealthy? I’m a size twenty right now.”
I shake my head fast. “But it’s all I hear. The mean girls at Catholic school. The even meaner men. For years, I wanted to lose weight just so I could eat in public without people judging me for it. The mean girls made oinking noises at lunch, and the men…” The memory of the painful words they’d mutter as I walked by them still hurt years later.
“Sweetie, you have to live your life to please yourself—not others. What do we say when people take out their own trauma on others?”
The words pull a smile from me. “Fuck ’em.”
I could never forget it. It’s the whole reason I’m dating Josh. With my mom gone, and my father even more abusive than normal since he didn’t need to worry my mom would stop him, I started by simply spending hours out of the house for self-preservation. Then I began doing all the things I longed to do growing up. I’d woken up without any of the things I was promised if I behaved. So I said fuck it. I got a job, a boyfriend, and I went clubbing.
“That’s my girl. Fuck ’em. Since your mom left, you’ve finally stopped yo-yoing, finding your body’s natural equilibrium. For some lucky bitches, it’s a size two. For you, it’s an eighteen, and fuck anyone who says anything about your body. They aren’t the ones living in it. You are. My hope is you’ll tell this fucker to walk off the DuSable Bridge with some weight around his ankles. Before you do that, it’s going to be in a dress looking so snatched, he’s going to eat his words.”
Long after I leave with what I’m sure is the perfect dress, I can’t stop turning over Lydia’s words in my head.
CHAPTER2
Nicolette
“Josh, stop it! Pineapple! Stop, please, stop. I said my fucking safe word!” I’m pleading now. This isn’t the way this is supposed to go. How could he do this in a fucking alley behind a club? I rented a hotel room for this. This is exactly what nonna said would happen because I was a dirty girl who wanted sex.
“Shut the fuck up! Seven fucking months you’ve made me wait for your fat ass to give it up. If you don’t open your fucking legs I’m going to use my belt, you little bitch. I’m sick of this shit—”
Suddenly, Josh is yanked off me. The tight dress isn’t short, it goes to my knees. But Josh’s grasping hands got it almost to my stomach. I’m shocked by the tall shadow standing over me. There’s a gun in his hand, ahugefucking gun.
Before my brain processes everything, the gun explodes, hitting my ear drums as powerfully as a blow. Blood sprays on my side from the—Josh doesn’t have a head. He doesn’t have a fucking head. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.
I’m yanked up off the cement as if my fat ass is weightless. The dress is pulled down, and then we’re moving. Is he carrying me? Am I walking? Am I awake right now, or is this a horrible fucking dream? Josh is dead. He’s dead. Oh god. Oh my god.
“Oh my god. Oh my god.” The words are outside of my head now that my throat finally works. “I can’t believe you did that.” His hand is heavy steel around my arm, dragging me with him wherever the hell we’re going.
“Be a good girl and keep moving. A man who rapes a woman forgoes the right to a jury. A history of violence is rarely taken into account the way it should be in the United States.” His voice is a deep, rich bass coming out of the dark. The way he saysUnited States,it’s like he’s not from here, but I can’t detect an accent.
Then he shocks the fuck out of me by killing the assumption when he pulls a phone from his pocket and speaks French in a rapid fire flow that screams not only fluent but raised speaking the language. I grew up speaking Italian, as do all good mafia princesses, and recognize the difference. Even though I quickly learned English and speak it without an accent, when I speak Italian, I fall right back into it without dropping a verb tense.
I’m trying to keep up with his long legs as they eat up concrete. Thank god I’m wearing flat strap sandals because Josh hated when I wore even the slightest heel. He was only an inch taller than me at five ten and resented it.
“It wasn’t like that. It was a scene, oh my god. I killed him because I wanted to try out something from a book. My nonna was right, I am a slut and going to hell.”
“A little louder, the people on the other side of the street didn’t hear you. A scene? Like in BDSM? I heard you tell him to stop because you said the safe word. The heart of a BDSM scene is trust. If you say your safe word, the scene stops. He didn’t stop. You weren’t the one with the gun. His refusal to stop is what killed him.” His voice remains even, as if he were discussing the weather, not killing someone. Then moving fast through the dark streets of Chicago, with him practically carrying me away from the dead body of my boy—ex-boyfriend. Oh god, do I call him ex or… This is not my life right now.
Where are we? I’m not certain what street we’re on. I catch a glimpse of a familiar corner store. Have we gone past Wells? No way, that’s almost four blocks already. I can’t believe I’m just blindly following him. The shock of it stops me.
“Who are you? Why did you have to kill him? It was a fantasy. He shouldn’t have died for it. I mean—he was supposed to stop at the safe word, but…” My ears are still ringing from the blast of his gun. I’m sure I’m talking too loudly, but I can’t stop.
