Because Fat Girl

Chapter Seven

I didn’t know what I was expecting to see when I came out of the dressing room, but it definitely wasn’t the large smiling face of Drew Williams.

“Diana!” He pulled me into a hug. “Good to see you again.”

“H-hello,” I stuttered, confused at the familiarity with which he greeted me.

“I’ve got a party and need a suit,” he explained.

“Okay.” I nodded, trying to pull myself together. My heart was aching for Alex, for younger me, for all of the queer kids whose parents treated them like a curse on their house, on our society, a nasty problem to be solved. I had no desire or energy left to dress someone today, but I was in no place to turn down the commission a client like Drew Williams would bring me, especially after losing the Bertolli sale.

“You don’t seem that happy to see me.” Drew’s expression fell.

“No, it’s not you, it’s me,” I said, shaking my head and standing up straighter.

“It’s not you, it’s me?” He laughed. “What, are we breaking up?”

I knew Drew was trying to make a joke, but I had no humor left in me. There was no way I could dress him today. Commission be damned, I needed to go home. Now. “I’m sorry, sir, I was about to head out. My shift is over. Emmy is available, though, and she does great work.”

“Don’t tell anyone”—he leaned in to whisper conspiratorially—“but Emmy is very intimidating. Plus, I came here to see you.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m on my way out,” I repeated, more forcefully this time.

“What’s with all this ‘sir’ stuff? Call me Andy.”

“I’m sorry, Andy,” I said, frustrated that I wasn’t in my car already, feeling the sting in my eyes as they were beginning to fill again. “But I can make you an appointment for another day.”

“Are you crying?”

“It’s been a rough day.” I searched for a tissue in my purse to stop the tears leaking out of my eyes.

“Do you want to talk about it? I’m a great listener.” Drew reached into his back pocket and handed me a white embroidered handkerchief with D.W. stitched on it. I’d never actually seen a man pull a hankie out and hand it to a woman before, much less one that was embroidered with his initials. It felt like something from a romantic comedy set in a bygone era. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I just held it in my hands.

“Are you straight?” I asked.

“Mostly.”

“Then no, I don’t want to talk about it with you.”

“Lady problems?”

“Bigotry problems.” I handed him back his hankie. “Would you like me to schedule you an appointment before I go?”

“Want to play putt-putt?” he blurted out, his face lighting up like a six-foot-four ten-year-old.

I stared at him blankly in response, having no clue what that meant. “Putt-putt?”

“You know, putt-putt, miniature golf. Or we could race go-karts. Or play video games. Ooh, or bumper boats!”

“Thank you, but no,” I declined, pulling up my calendar on the work computer. “I can get you in tomorrow afternoon, if you’re free. What kind of outfit are you looking for?”

“It always makes me feel better.”

“Buying a new suit?” I asked.

“Playing putt-putt. Plus, I owe you a round of golf.”

“A round of golf you bid on and paid for, may I remind you.”

“Tiny, insignificant detail.” He pointed his finger in a circle toward me.

“ Love, Actually .” I smiled as I recognized the quote.

“Yes!” He beamed. “See, you’re feeling better already. Come on, I’ll drive. It’s thirty minutes away, tops. If you hate it, I’ll bring you right back.”

“I’m not really dressed for putt-putt,” I offered as an excuse, not mentioning the change of clothes I kept in my car for after work. “Plus, I kind of just need to drive with the windows down and Indigo Girls blasting right now, but thank you for the invite.”

“I’ve got a convertible. And 1200 Curfews on my iPod.”

“You like the Indigo Girls?”

“Mom’s a lesbian,” he explained.

“And you still use an iPod?”

“I’m old school,” he said.

My head cocked to the side as I stood there taking him in. Drew Williams, action star, one of People ’s Sexiest Men Alive (he lost the top spot to Chris), was offering to drive me to putt-putt in his convertible while the Indigo Girls played on an old-school iPod. I had no idea what to do with this information, so I just said, “Tomorrow at one in the afternoon work for you?”

“For putt-putt?”

“For your suit,” I said, trying to keep it professional.

He looked at his phone. “Yeah, that should work.”

“Okay, I have you down for one in the afternoon tomorrow.”

“So no putt-putt?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to say. It sounded fun, but this guy could be a total asshole, like his buddy, and I really couldn’t handle chauvinism right now. Plus, he was a famous client of ours; there were rules about this sort of thing at Roussard’s.

“I don’t know what happened to make you cry,” Drew continued. “But I do know that driving with the top down blaring Indigo Girls on our way to play putt-putt and eat cheese fries will make it better.”

“You didn’t say anything about fries with cheese.” I perked up. “That’s a horse of a different color.”

“So you’re in?” His face lit up.

“I’m in,” I said, wondering what the hell I was getting myself into. “Just let me get a change of clothes out of my car.”

“Stupendous!” Drew threw his hands up in the air. “I haven’t been to putt-putt in so long.”

Drew stood there grinning while I gathered my things, told Emmy I was leaving, and clocked out. We headed to the parking garage together, passing a group of gawkers on the way out.

“Which one’s yours?” he asked, completely ignoring the girls who were now openly taking photos of him.

I pointed ahead and led us to my white Subaru Forester parked at the end of the employee level.

“My mom has this same car,” Drew said.

“She really is a lesbian,” I joked, grabbing my clothes from the front seat. “I’ll just run back in and change.”

“You can change in the car. I promise not to look.”

“And what about the other people we pass with the top down?”

“They promise not to look, too.” He smirked.

I chuckled and ran inside for a quick change, glad to be free of my pointy shoes and tight clothes. When I came back out, Drew was taking a selfie with a young kid who looked about Ellis’s age. A woman, I assumed it was her mom, stood next to them holding Roussard’s bags and smiling.

“Thank Mr. Williams,” she said to her daughter when Drew handed the phone back to her.

“Thank you, Mr. Williams,” the little girl repeated shyly.

“Please,” Drew replied, shaking the kid’s hand, “call me Drew.”

“I thought your name was Andy?” I said when the mother and daughter were gone.

“Shh.” He put a finger to his lips and stared around furtively. “Don’t give away my secret identity!”

Still acting like a stealth agent, Drew led me to where his car was parked, two levels up. I expected famous action star Drew Williams to have some flashy, new, souped-up Ferrari, with bucket seats and a vanity plate, but I was pleasantly surprised when he unlocked the door to a gorgeous orange-red antique convertible.

“Nice ride.” I slipped into the passenger seat and ran my hands against the leather interior.

“1954 Chevrolet C1. You like it?”

“I love it!”

“It’s yours, then,” he said, throwing me the keys.

“Wait, for reals?!” My mouth gaped in complete shock.

“Just kidding.” He laughed. “I love this car. I’d never give her away. But the look on your face was classic.”

“Ass,” I said, throwing the keys back at him.

“You can drive, though, if you want,” he offered. “If that’ll make you feel better.”

“I’ll take you up on that another day,” I said as he rolled back the roof and got in. “Today, I want a chauffeur.”

“At your service, ma’am.” He bowed before pulling out an iPod and plugging it into an aux cable. The original radio had been replaced with a modern deck. Indigo Girls began to play. “Ready?”

“Ready.” I raised my hands in the air as he spun out of the parking garage, Amy Ray and Emily’s harmonized voices blaring through the speakers as we sang along with them to “I Don’t Wanna Know.”

“I can see why you chose Hollywood over Broadway,” I poked fun as Drew belted the lyrics. He actually had a pretty decent voice, which wasn’t surprising considering he got his start on a kid’s musical show, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. He looked over at me, feigning offense, and I caught him glancing down at my chest. My after-work clothes aimed for comfort over modesty, and Drew had apparently noticed how low-cut my old worn-out tank top was. “Hey there, buddy, eyes on the road!”

“Sorry,” he said, immediately facing forward. “Bad habit.”

He was blushing, and that made me blush in return. I didn’t want Drew Williams in any sexual or romantic way, but it was still nice to know he appreciated what I considered to be my best physical asset.

“My brother, Henry, loved this song!” I screamed as “Galileo” came on. “His frat brothers made fun of him for it, but he didn’t care.”

“Sounds like a nice guy.”

“Nah, he was a dick. But he did have great taste in music.” Drew looked over at me questioningly. “Cancer. Five years ago.”

“One more time, then”—Drew started “Galileo” over again—“for Henry.”

We sang even louder this time, and I turned my head so Drew couldn’t see the tears filling my eyes. It felt weird, crying in front of a total stranger, a famous movie star and potential client at that, but I couldn’t stop the tears, not after today, so I let them run down my face and disappear in the wind. Drew said nothing, just handed me another embroidered hankie and kept singing until we pulled into the parking lot thirty minutes later and parked next to a ten-foot-tall tower with Rapunzel’s hair running down it.

He got out and ran around the car, opening the passenger door for me and extending his hand. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” I replied, wondering what the hell I was getting myself into.