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“Yes, good. I’m sure, by now, you know what kind of dress is expected.” Humiliation, unwelcome but unstoppable because while this was nothing new for me, it was the first time Smith was here to witness the way the people in this world could shame me for not being born one of them. “And, please, Jennifer, see about getting your hair done. A facial. And those nails are a disgrace as well. You don’t want people seeing you this way.”
And that was the wind that blew away most of the dust that was left of me, just leaving a tiny speck, nearly nothing. I certainly felt like nothing.
“We will make sure everything is as it should be,” Smith cut in when I continued to stand there, mute, embarrassed, damn near close to crying.
“Make sure of it,” he said to both of us before excusing himself.
It wasn’t until the car started and backed out of the driveway that the silence between us was broken.
“That mother fucking asshole,” Smith growled, his voice vehement. Then, turning to me, “Are you alright?”
“Oh, just another drive-by ego-deflating,” I said, trying to shrug it off, trying not to let it be obvious just how much that bothered me.
“Sweetheart, you deserve a fucking award for your self-control. It must have taken everything in you not to haul off and punch him.”
“You… get used to it,” I told him, shrugging, making my way to the kitchen for tea. If I hadn’t already brushed my teeth, I would probably go hard on those leftovers. Stress eating. I had never been allowed to before, but I finally understood the compulsion. Even if my top button on pants that had fit me just fine two weeks before was suddenly pressing into my belly a bit uncomfortably. “I’m surprised he didn’t make a comment about me Taking care of myself.”
“Isn’t that what he said? About your hair and skin and nails?”
“Oh, no. That is just basic maintenance in his eyes. Like shaving legs or brushing teeth. When people in this circle say Taking care of yourself they mean dieting and working out.”
“Why would he make a comment about that?”
“Because I’m getting fat.”
So unprepared for the scoff, I jumped, turning back from where I had been reaching to put the kettle on. Seeing the confusion in my drawn-together brows, he cursed. Rather savagely. “Okay. First, you’re not getting fat. Someone could snap your arm with two fingers. Second, you’re going to need to try to stop letting your late husband’s words come out of your mouth. You’re not fat. You know you’re not fat. You probably couldn’t even get fat. Unless you start double-fisting bacon cheeseburgers day and night. See yourself through your own eyes. Not his.”
“I know I’m not fat,” I agreed, cringing that I had even said that. I hated it. When women who were clearly very in shape said they were fat just to get people to tell them they weren’t. In fact, I hated the word in general. Fat was something people had, not something they were. “But my pants are getting tighter,” I added, giving him a smile because it felt safe to joke about this with him. “My button is pressing in.”
“Good.”
“What?” I asked, shaking my head. Going up a size was almost never a good thing. At least not in the female world.
“I said good. I’m no doctor, but I think your late husband kept you underweight. It’s good you are getting a little more padding on.”
“If it keeps up, I’m going to need to get… foundation garments,” I told him in a faux grave whisper.
“I am going to assume that would be really funny. If I knew what the fuck a foundation garment was.”
“Ever hear of Spanx?”
“Those fucking things. Lincoln has a great story about needing to cut a woman out of them. It’s hilarious. Make sure he tells you it sometime.”
“Now I have to hear it,” I agreed, feeling a weight lift, moving to make my tea. And, while I was at it, putting a pod into the Keurig for him.
“So we know where we want to shop today. But where do we need to shop? I figure maybe we could get that out of the way first.”
“Um, do you know the boutique stre…”
“Yep. Got it,” he cut me off.
“I promise it won’t be long. I am just going to grab something off a shelf.”
I had a couple staple black dresses. But they were either cocktail or evening types. I needed something a little in between. Black, A-line, with a high bodice and long hem.
“Doesn’t matter if it takes a while,” he told me, accepting his coffee as he went to make us both oatmeal. He did it from scratch since Lydia kept plain oatmeal stocked. He threw it in a pot with water, cinnamon, and little chunks of apple. As someone who grew up on instant apple cinnamon oatmeal, I had to say, this was infinitely better.
