chapter one

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chapter one

PANIC COURSED THROUGH me at the realization that I was late. My heart was pounding to the max, sure to burst at any given moment. I hurried into the little diner, nearly knocking over a waitress in the process. Whether it was from my frenzy or my size, I would never know.

I spotted Justin at a booth in the back, his phone in front of him, seeming calm and collected. Positive I was the only one who noticed his foot rapidly bouncing up and down, I weaved through tables over to him hesitantly. Sheepishly tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I slid into the bench opposite him.

"Sorry I'm late," I said quietly. "I got a call from the gym I signed up for. I can start tomorrow. Can you believe it took them a week and a half to get me a trainer?" I was rambling now, his blank face frightening me.

He was chewing the inside of his cheek, the way he always did when we were in public and he couldn't yell at me. "Since you took so long, I ordered for you."

Please say you got me chicken tenders and fries, like you always used to.

"I got you a salad. Told them to hold the dressing. The dressing is what adds on pounds, you know."

My heart faltered and a lump swelled in my throat, but I composed myself. I was used to this. He was right. Dressing was extra fat and I clearly had plenty of it. He was looking out for me. That's all.

"Thanks," I murmured, just as the waitress came by with two waters. I took a sip merely to distract myself from his mocking stare.

Instinctively, I flinched when I saw his hand rising. He gave me a pointed look before placing his hand over mine, giving it a little squeeze. His gaze softened and his voice lightened, a small smile spreading over his face. My mind whirled from how quickly his moods changed.

"I don't think I told you, but I'm proud of you," he said. "For getting a trainer. You'll look like your beautiful old self in no time."

"Because I'm not beautiful now?" I partially teased, partially prayed he'd correct me.

He didn't.

His hand left mine and he leaned back in the booth, averting his eyes.

If my heart wasn't broken before, it was in a billion pieces now.

I would've cried right then and there, I was sure of it. But the waitress appeared with our food and no way could I cry in front of her. Surely she'd make her own comment on how disgusting I looked, crying or not. Ugly when I try, ugly when I'm weak. There was never any advantage for me.

So when Justin dug into his juicy double cheeseburger, I picked at my naked lettuce, determined to gain the points I lost long ago.

***

The last time I was this nervous, I was standing in front of an auditorium full of people awaiting to hear the winners of the cheer competition. It had been me and a tall blonde from a private school no one had heard of standing side by side, barely able to keep our knees from buckling from the suspense.

When my name had been shouted as the victor, I cried.

When my name had just been called as the fat girl desperate to lose weight, I almost cried.

The receptionist was waving her hand in my face, grasping my short attention span. She repeated what she had told me before: my trainer was down the hall ready to meet with me. She pointed the way and I scurried from her gratefully yet anxiously.

It was a short walk to the hallway where the trainer's offices were, much to my dismay. I was trying to put this off for an eternity, but knew it had to be done. Justin said he was proud of me for doing this. I had to make sure he stayed proud of me.

The door was open, however the room was empty. A part of me bubbled in glee that the trainer wasn't here. Maybe I could make a quick escape and it'd be like I never even signed up.

But they had already taken the first payment for the week and I wasn't about to spend that much money for nothing.

"You must be Delilah."

I jumped, turning around so fast I nearly lost my balance. A man with brown curly hair and light green eyes stood there, looking as if he were a gift dropped down from the heavens. His physique was obvious even though his white tank top. I mentally screamed at myself for gaping, but he was unexpectedly very attractive.

"Sorry for scaring you," he said in a deep voice, a small grin tugging at his lips. A dimple? Oh Lord, not dimples too.

"Oh, n-no, it's okay..."

"It's nice to meet you, Delilah." He jutted his hand out to me. "I'm Harry, and I look forward to mentoring you. There is a bit of paperwork we have to attend to, is that alright?"

My hand was still in his. I pulled it away hastily, a little flustered. "That's fine." I nodded, following him into the office. How did they expect me to concentrate on losing weight when a fine specimen would critically be judging me?

"First things first: medical history. Check any of these that apply, leave blank the ones that don't. Additional information can be listed at the bottom."

I took the paper from him, scanning over each condition listed. I filled it out, handed it back to him, and he skimmed over it to make sure my signature was there. He paused for a moment, his eyebrows pulling together before he glanced back up at me.

I stopped breathing, certain he was going to tell me I was too fat to deal with.

Instead, he said in a soft tone, "You marked yourself obese?"

Cheeks flaming, I looked down to my toes and nodded.

"Delilah, there is a big difference between being obese and simply being overweight," he told me.

"I'm huge," I murmured, avoiding eye contact at all costs. "I think I fit the description pretty well. Besides, my doctor said I was."

Harry was silent for a moment before I heard his pen scribbling. I peeked up to see that he had drawn a line through the obese question. He turned to face me and it was too late to look away--his eyes were like magnets. "Doctors look at BMI to determine that. The way I see it? A person isn't 'obese' until they can hardly stand on their own two feet. Obese is a pretty mean word, don't you think?"

"Well, yeah, but if it's a health thing--"

"Here. Let's see your weight, and then maybe I can make a little more sense."

My eyes widened, my arms naturally wrapping around my stomach. I hadn't even realized that a total stranger was going to be seeing how fat I truly was. I wasn't sure if I was ready for that sort of thing.

Harry must've noticed because a gentle smile tugged his lips. "I'm not here to judge you, Delilah. I'm here to help you. Remember that, okay?"

He had a scale in his office, a height chart next to it. Timidly, I kicked off my shoes before inhaling a sharp breath, stepping onto the scale. I didn't want to look at my weight or look at Harry's face when he saw it. I didn't want to hear the scale creak beneath my feet or to hear Harry snort in amusement. I didn't want this situation to actually be happening.

"182 pounds," he said, scribbling on the paper attached to his clipboard. "Now place your feet together, back to the wall... stand up straight... sixty-five inches."

I gave him a quizzical look.

He chuckled. "You're 5'5, Delilah."

Still hugging my belly, I sat back down and waited while Harry typed the information into the computer. I managed to detach my arms long enough to pull my shoes back on.

"Here's my example," said Harry. "You've got a woman weighing just under three-hundred pounds, and you've got a woman weighing just under two-hundred. Who's going to look bigger?"

"The first one."

"Right. If you were to put the two side by side, which would you call 'obese'?"

"The first one."

"Understand now?"

"Kind of."

"Good enough," he laughed. "Now I'd like to ask a few questions, just to know you a little more, and then we'll do some basic exercises so I can get a sense of how much you can take. Deal?"

I shrugged.

Basic questions: my age, birthday--next week--my ideal weight, had I always been overweight, etcetera. But a certain question really picked at the back of my mind. Who are you losing weight for? It was obvious I was supposed to say myself. To be more confident and proud of my body. However, Harry seemed nice enough. Why lie to him?

"My boyfriend."

He tilted his head. "How long have you been together?"

"Seven years," I breathed out, running a hand through my hair. "Going on eight."

"Wow. You two must truly care about each other."

I sank a little in my chair, my mind split in half, both sides arguing against the other. "I do. I mean, we do. Care... about each other."

I wanted to punch myself.

Harry seemed like he wanted to say more, but decided against it. Bless him for dropping the subject. "Right, well. I have a nutrition plan for you to take home as well, but first let's get to the basics, shall we?"

I followed him out of the office, tugging at the hem of my shirt. Surely, the fabric was lining my fat and my rolls were showing. I tried to pull it down further. Obviously, these leggings were making my thighs look like blimps.

The "basics" were jumping jacks, squats, push-ups, and crunches. All of which I felt like falling over and withering away. Harry was surprisingly extremely patient with me, even when I complained nonstop how my legs were throbbing. It made me feel even more pathetic. Hardly twenty jumping jacks in, barely managing five squats, not even able to do a single push-up or crunch.

I was angry with myself and it was only the first session. Would the rest of them be like this? Tempted to cry, tempted to scream, I yearned for nothing more than the opportunity to curl into a ball and hide from the world. No one deserved to see me. God, I was such a hideous sight. Stupid, disgusting, and insignificant.

"Delilah, it's alright. You can take a break," he was saying, but I wasn't hearing it.

My head was throbbing, or maybe it was how quickly my heart was racing. Either way, I was frustrated and sad and wallowing in my own self-pity. I couldn't continue to stand in front of him like this. Like this... failure.

"I can't," I stammered out, shaking my head and clutching my chest. Was I having a panic attack or simply panting from physical activity? Or both?

Harry's concerned look seemed authentic, but he opened his mouth to speak too late. I was swiping tears from my cheeks and sprinting for the door.

Stupid, disgusting, and insignificant.

That concerned look of his was fake. Of course it was. He didn't care about my well-being as long as he was getting paid. That's the trap. It's where they get you. Make you believe they care when really they're laughing at you on the inside. In fact, he was probably hunched over, his stomach hurting from laughing so hard.

Me? I was in my car with my forehead pressed against the steering wheel, my stomach hurting from embarrassment and self-disappointment and crying so hard.


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