Because Fat Girl

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chris’s mansion felt gargantuan as I pushed myself through the large front door, tearfully making my way to the screening room. I went to the desk we’d set up in the corner for production material and started packing up my paperwork, the last remnants of my input on this film. I wanted to leave them there as proof that I existed, that I’d been a part of this team once, but I was too sentimental to abandon mementos. I might no longer be on this crew, but it was still the closest I’d gotten to directing a feature film. I wanted to keep a bit of the dream come true. I needed to remember I’d gotten this far, if only so I could remind myself that I’d get here again.

“I am not a one-hit wonder,” I reminded myself.

“I never thought you were,” Chris said, making me scream and drop my things. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“I’ll be out of here soon.” I bent over to pick up the papers I’d dropped, conscious of the fact that I’d overstayed my welcome in his world.

“Stay and spend the night with me,” Chris replied.

I stood up, staring at him, utterly shocked. “Are you seriously hitting on me right now?”

Chris laughed, a full-belly, whole-body laugh. “If I was putting moves on you, you wouldn’t have to ask.” He smirked. “Plus, I’d never encroach on Drew’s territory.”

“I… What? You… Uh!” Confusion and irritation rose in me, making it hard to find words.

“So eloquent. I see why you’re a writer.” Chris shook his head.

“I am not Drew’s territory, and I am not sticking around so you can laugh at me.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Chris complained. “Is that a queer thing?”

“God, I really want to punch you in the face right now.”

“Do it.” Chris jutted out his chin. “It’s insured.”

“Your face is insured?” I asked, incredulous.

“Of course.” He tapped a finger to his chin. “So punch away, if it will make you feel better.”

I was tempted, very tempted, but I restrained myself and went back to packing up my things. “You’re insufferable.”

“Not as insufferable as the drive to Arcadia this time of day,” Chris said. “Stay and have dinner with me.”

“I can’t just sit here and pretend like everything is okay.” My voice cracked as new tears formed. “The film is over and my dreams are gone. I just want to go home and cry.”

“There’s that drama again.” Chris shook his head.

“And there’s that desire to punch you again,” I replied.

“You can punch me if it would help. You can pack up and run away if you’d like. But I think I have a better option.”

“And what is that?” I asked.

“You’ll see,” he said, a mischievous smile on his face as he turned and walked out of the screening room.

“And you call me dramatic!” I shouted after him. I wanted to grab my things and go, to pack up and never see Chris Stanson’s face again, even onscreen. Yet, despite my trepidation and resentment, I couldn’t stop my curiosity from following the sound of his voice into the kitchen.

“Buona sera, signorina,” Chris sang along with Louis Prima as he spread dough out on the counter. While I had been crying in the screening room, Chris had apparently been busy in the kitchen. Bowls of chopped garlic, torn basil, and lumps of mozzarella were laid out before me, a decanter of wine sitting next to them.

“This is your solution?” I said, looking at Chris. “Food?”

“Food is always the solution.” Chris tossed the dough into the air with artful skill.

“For once we agree on something.” I settled myself on a bar stool and silently watched him work his magic, tossing the dough into the air a few more times before placing it on a wooden plank and covering it with just the right amount of toppings. Simón Barboza had been right; Chris knew his way around a kitchen.

“Follow me”—Chris carried the plank of raw ingredients outside—“and bring the wine.”

He led me toward a wood-fired oven that I’d never noticed before and gently placed the pizza inside.

“Now we wait.” He grabbed the decanter from where I’d placed it on a table and poured us both a glass of wine.

“Chris, about the—” I started.

“Food first,” he interrupted, “then business.”

I sighed, walking over to the edge of his backyard, sipping my wine as I looked out onto the L.A. basin and a sliver of the ocean beyond, the view obstructed by fog and smog but still beautiful. I remembered sitting here enjoying it with Janelle all those months ago. So much had happened since then and now; so much of our lives had changed. I just hoped it was for the better.

A few minutes later, Chris called me over to a set table, placing a perfectly toasted pizza in the middle before cutting it with a rolling knife, then handing me a slice on a white porcelain plate. “Don’t worry, it’s gluten-free for your delicate little tummy.”

I smiled in thanks as I sat down. Chris topped off our wine glasses and held his up. “Saluti.”

“Saluti.” I clinked my glass against his.

My stomach growled as I grabbed a slice of pizza from the middle of the table and took my first bite. It was salty, sweet, crunchy, and gooey all at once, a total masterpiece.

“Chris, this is amazing,” I exclaimed.

“Don’t look so shocked.” He lifted his own slice to his mouth. “I told you I could cook.”

“What’s shocking is that you’re actually eating carbs.”

“I’m tired of denying myself the things that bring me joy.” Chris’s voice was sad, and I wondered what else this man who had everything could be missing from his life.

“Are we just talking about pizza here?”

“Pasta, too,” he replied, smirking.

“You poor, deprived soul.” I rolled my eyes, taking another slice.

“I once spent a month in Italy studying under a pizzaiolo, learning to make dough from the masters.” Chris sounded wistful and nostalgic. “And I didn’t eat any of it.”

“That is quite tragic,” I replied honestly, taking a big bite of my pizza and savoring every carb-filled flavor.

“I couldn’t afford to get fat.”

“Yes, because being fat is the worst thing someone could be.”

“It’s fine for other people,” he claimed, “but I would lose everything if I got fat: my career, my money, my lifestyle. That’s why this production company matters to me. I don’t want to lose everything when I lose my looks.”

“That actually makes me really sad for you,” I confessed.

“Do you know what I think about when I’m lying in bed alone at night?” Chris asked.

“No, and I’m not sure I want to,” I replied.

Chris continued, ignoring my snide remark. “I dream of standing on stage with a little golden man in my hands. I dream of placing him on the shelf I had made for awards in my office, a shelf that has stayed frustratingly empty since I had it built five years ago. The minute I read your script, I knew it was going to help me finally fill that shelf.”

“You believe that much in my film?” I asked.

“Why else would I have agreed to take it on?” Chris replied.

“I figured Drew convinced you into it.”

“Trips to Vegas, drunken putt-putt golf, charity auctions, those are the kind of things Drew and I convince each other into. Business deals, movies—we take them on only after consulting lawyers, agents, and accountants. This movie is a good bet, but you’re still a gamble. One I’m not willing to lose.”

“Is that why you agreed to let me go?” Anger and betrayal boiled back up in me. “Because you care more about filling your narcissistic shelf than you care about me and this film?”

“You have a shit contract,” Chris replied.

“It’s the best my agent could get.”

“Probably true,” Chris considered, “although we might need to get you a new agent if she’s willing to have you sign contracts like that one.”

“I get it, I have a shit contract,” I growled. “You don’t need to rub salt in my wounds.”

“I, on the other hand, have a great agent,” Chris continued. “One of the best in the business actually, with a full team of lawyers behind him. I don’t sign shit contracts.”

“Congratulations,” I retorted. “You have a great contract, and I’m fucked.”

“Except you’re not, even if I think you probably need to be.” Chris winked. “You know, I have Silvia’s assistant’s number, if you want it.”

“I’m leaving.” I stood up, tired of his bullshit and hating myself for falling for the “good guy making pizza” routine.

“Sit down, Diana. I’m just getting to the good part.”

“Make it quick, or I’m going to pour the rest of this bottle of wine on your head.”

“That’s a Tenute Silvio Nardi 1995 Brunello di Montalcino,” Chris bragged. “One of a few left in the world.”

“And?”

“And you shouldn’t waste such a special, celebratory bottle by pouring it over my head,” he answered.

“What exactly are we celebrating?” My patience was waning.

“Like I told you”—Chris took a sip of his wine—“I have a great contract, one that includes a clause that I can walk away and take this film with me at any point before production starts. A clause I used today when I told Silvia to go fuck herself and bought back the script.”

“How the hell did you get that?” I sat back down, stunned.

“It cost me.” Chris looked around at his house. “A lot. But it will pay off in the end.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Because it has to,” he replied.

“Why?” I had to know. “Why would you risk everything like that?”

Chris sat back in his chair and stared at his glass of wine for a long time before responding. “The way you kept speaking up for Janelle, not shutting up about it, even when I yelled at you to drop it, even when it could cost you everything. It made me wonder if there were people in my life worth fighting for like that.” He took a sip of wine before continuing. “Turns out, there are.”

“Well damn.” I reclined in my chair and looked at the scene in front of me with new eyes. “It worked.”

“What worked?” Chris asked.

“Food.” I grabbed the last slice of pizza. “I feel a lot better now.”

“Don’t forget the wine.” Chris lifted his glass.

“How could I forget the wine?” I said, taking a sip. “I can’t believe you did this.”

“Bought out the studio or made that pizza?”

“Both.” I chuckled as I took another bite. “You know, you and Simón Barboza would make a great team.”

“What makes you say that?” Chris asked.

“Because this pizza is perfection,” I mumbled, my mouth full. “His omelet, your pizza, this view. You could open the most exclusive restaurant in town right here in your kitchen.”

“Simón is out of my league,” Chris said.

“Probably,” I agreed, savoring the last bit of crust, “but damn, I’d love to see what you two could create together.”

Chris smiled and got up from the table, returning a few minutes later with a platter of bright red strawberries dipped in dark chocolate. “Do you want dessert?”

“Hell yes, I do.” I grabbed a strawberry. “Because fat girl.”

“You say that phrase so lovingly. Why?” Chris asked. “Most people are scared to call themselves fat, but you use that word with pride.”

“It’s something I learned from fat activists,” I explained, trying to find a way to express what this phrase meant to me. “It’s more than just words. It’s a motto and movement all in one. It’s a way to embrace the stereotypes and realities of being fat, like breaking a chair I sit in, or eating a basket of fries with cheese, or lying down for a nap after the gym. The kind of things people ridicule fat people for but think it’s cute when a thin girl does it.

“But it’s also about more important things, too,” I continued. “Like not being taken seriously by a doctor because of my weight, getting passed up for jobs because of my size, not being able to find clothes that fit, and not being taken seriously when sexually assaulted, because who would want to sleep with a fatty? Situations that have happened to me and my fat friends.

“For me, saying ‘because fat girl’ is both a reclamation of the term fat and a rallying cry for the better treatment of fat people,” I stated. “It encompasses the good, the bad, the everything of life as a fat feminine person in this world.”

“Because fat girl.” Chris nodded.

“Because fat girl,” I said, taking another strawberry.

“That should be your company name,” Chris proposed. “Because Fat Girl.”

“Why do I need a company name?” I questioned.

“First off, you need a company to cover your assets,” Chris lectured. “I can’t believe you don’t have one yet. You really need a new agent.”

“Please stop bagging on my agent,” I said.

“Second, you need a company name because you’ll be producing this film with us.”

“I’ll be what?” I spat, shocked and confused.

“We’re going to need any savings you got. Make your sister get a second mortgage on her house if you have to,” Chris replied. “And in exchange, you’ll get production credits.”

“Holy shit,” I exclaimed, thinking about the nest egg I’d saved for just this moment. “I’m going to be a producer.”

“Cheers.” Chris lifted his glass to mine. “To Because Fat Girl Productions.”

“Because Fat Girl Media,” I corrected. “I like the expansiveness of that.”

“Should we call Drew and tell him the news together?” Chris asked.

At the sound of Drew’s name, my heart fluttered. I’d been so wrapped up in Focus and the film, I’d forgotten about Drew, and all the complicated feelings that accompanied him came rushing back. Before I could come up with a plausible reason to object, Chris had already dialed his number.

“Ciao, Chris,” a thickly accented voice answered.

“Ciao, Elena.” Chris’s voice oozed with flirtation. I rolled my eyes. “How’s filming?”

“We are delayed, but that just means more time alone with your handsome friend here,” Elena cooed.

“Can you put him on, please?” Chris replied.

“He’ll need to put some pants on first.” Elena giggled as she passed the phone over.

“Hey, Chris, little busy over here. What’s up?” Drew sounded rushed and annoyed, the voice of someone who’d been interrupted. I tried not to think about what he was doing with Elena in his trailer with no pants on.

“Elena can wait,” Chris asserted. “We need to talk.”

“Hold on.” Drew went silent for a moment before returning. “Okay, let me hear it.”

“Focus is out,” Chris said.

Drew exhaled loudly in response.

“We’re not going to let that stop us,” I added, trying to sound as optimistic as possible.

“Oh, hey, Diana.” Drew sounded surprised. “I didn’t realize I was on speaker.”

“Sorry,” I apologized, “should have said something earlier.”

“What’s next, then?” Drew asked.

“We fundraise,” Chris proclaimed. “We were going to have to do that anyways. At least now we own the film.”

“What about distribution?” Drew inquired.

“We’ll cross that bridge when it comes,” Chris responded.

“How’d it go down?” Drew asked.

“Does it matter?” Chris replied.

“I guess it doesn’t,” Drew said as Elena started saying something in the background. “I gotta go. They’re calling us to set.”

“I’ll have Bradley and Veara arrange a time for us to talk details,” Chris said. Drew grunted his agreement and said goodbye.

“Bye,” I blurted too late, the line already dead.

Chris picked up his glass of wine and stared at me.

“What?” I asked, very much disliking his scrutinizing gaze.

“All this time, I thought you were just flirting with Drew to get your film made. I couldn’t fault you for it—that’s how things go in this town, I did the same when I first got started. But now I think it’s more than that. Does Drew know?”

“Does Drew know what?” I pulled my wine glass up to my mouth to hide the panic rising in me at this line of questioning.

“I don’t think he does.” Chris disregarded my feigned ignorance. “Drew’s so obviously into you; I’ve known that since the LACMA party. If he knew you liked him, too, if he thought he had even a sliver of a chance, he’d be on the first plane back here to sweep you off your feet. He’s a romantic asshole like that.”

“He knows,” I said quietly.

“He can’t know,” Chris insisted. “He wouldn’t be pants off in a trailer with Elena if he knew you had feelings for him, too.”

“Trust me,” I choked up, “he knows.”

“Then why is it Elena in his trailer and not you?”

“Because fat girl,” I answered.

“Your choice, I’m assuming.” Chris’s gaze was scrutinizing me. “Drew wouldn’t care about that, but you would. You don’t want to care, but you do.”

“There’s no way it would work,” I argued.

“You’re right. The press would have a heyday with it, the used-to-be-gay fat girl and the used-to-be-fat action star. It even plays into the harmful idea that all lesbians are just waiting for the right dick. I can see why you wouldn’t want any of that.”

“Thank you!” I threw my hands up in relief. “Finally someone who gets it. Drew keeps saying we’d find a way to work it out, but how? How do you overcome that kind of press?”

“I don’t know,” Chris replied, his tone serious. “I don’t think you can.”

“You can’t.”

“I’m sorry.” Chris placed his hand over mine. “For both of you.”

“Me, too.” I nodded.

“Look at us.” Chris took his hand off of mine and leaned back in his chair. “You’re not the frigid bitch I thought you were. I’m not the cold asshole you thought I was. We’re learning so much about each other tonight.”

I chuckled and finished off the last of my wine.

“So”—Chris continued—“we just heard how he’s moving on. What are you going to do to put this behind you?”

“I’m going to finish this film,” I said. “That’s all I need.”

“Wow, that’s pathetic.”

“Not all of us can be notorious playboys like you,” I retorted. “Some of us care about things other than sex.”

“I am so sorry to hear there are people like that in the world.” He placed his hand dramatically to his chest. “I don’t care if it’s sex or tennis, you need to let off some steam. It won’t do us any good if you keep exploding from how wound up you are.”

He had a point. My whole body ached from lack of sleep, my mind was fried, my nerves frazzled—and we weren’t even in production yet.

“Kali is having a party,” Chris said. “It’s more like a trip. A long weekend excursion on her yacht.”

“Intriguing.” I thought about it, torn between the excitement of being on a famous lesbian’s boat and the fear of being in the middle of the ocean with someone publicly struggling with addiction right now. “You want me to go on a yacht with Kali?”

“Oh god no,” Chris exclaimed.

“You don’t have to be quite so repulsed at the idea of me in a bikini,” I replied.

“What I meant is that you’d hate it,” Chris explained. “Kali’s parties are always a glamorous shit show, pretty much everything you despise and full of everyone you complain about the most.”

“I don’t complain,” I interjected. “I critique.”

“You complain,” he confirmed. “And trust me, you’d be miserable at this event.”

“So how is this supposed to help me?” I asked, utterly confused by this man in front of me.

“I said no at first—our whole weekend was booked with meetings. But I think this trip is just what we both need.”

“How does you partying on a yacht help me?”

“I’d be gone”—Chris spread his arms around—“and you would have free range of my house. The screening room, the pool, the gym, and a whole staff of people to clean up after you. You could call up some lady and scissor all night.”

“You know most of us don’t really scissor, right?” I said. “It’s way more complicated and overrated than porn makes it out to be.”

“Then do whatever you do then. Throw a giant party and invite every queer person in town. Get stoned and fuck in every room,” Chris added, “except for mine.”

“I take it back,” I said. “I’m going to scissor directly on your pillow.”

“If that’s what it takes to get you to let loose, fine. I’ll be sure to have Rosalie change the sheets before I return.”

I looked around at his place. “You’ve got nice things here; I’d be too worried to throw a giant party.”

“I’ll send my security guys over to keep everyone from going upstairs,” Chris replied. “The rest is replaceable.”

“I don’t even like giant parties.”

“Then throw a small one.”

“I’ve got a house of my own, you know.”

“In Arcadia. Full of kids. That’s no place to let off steam.”

“I like those kids.” I couldn’t deny I was enjoying my time away from being a co-parent, but I did miss pancakes and painting.

“Then have your sister pack up the brats and come stay here. Lounge in my pool during the day and watch movies at night.”

“You’re serious?” I gawked.

“As serious as your need to get laid.” He lifted his glass. “We both could use a weekend off to relax.”

“And then what?” I wondered. “What do we do after that?”

Chris leaned his head back, drinking down the last of his wine. Then he looked me directly in the eyes, his tone as serious as I’d ever seen it. “After that, we find a way to make this film. Our way with our people. Focus be damned.”