My therapist suggests that I ask Nick to lunch. She says lunch is no pressure. She says the only way to get rid of your fears is to confront them head-on.
The next day Nick is sitting across from me. We eat soup and salad and he tells me about his trip to Hawaii to photograph the college basketball tournament. He’d taken a picture of the head coach with no shirt on, and the picture made the front page of the city paper. “The coach called the paper and complained,” Nick says. “He said his stomach looked flabby. Like that was my fault!”
When Nick laughs, it is a real, whole laugh, a laugh that enjoys itself and makes me smile, and for once I don’t think about how my face looks.
But I can’t help but remember Mallory. Maybe he’s like this with everyone. When we say good-bye, I am still afraid.
•
The next day the phone rings and I say hello on the first ring. It’s Mallory. She drives us to a small mall between two cornfields. All she talks about is Nick.
“I had to go over to Nick’s the night he got back from the tournament and cook him something. I just knew he’d be sitting there, starving. His favorite food is macaroni and cheese. I make it a special way, but I can’t share my secret!” she says.
I keep saying “cool” as I rifle through clothing racks, taking some dresses that I think might look good on me. Before I make it to the dressing room I catch sight of myself in a mirrored wall, and turn away quickly, only to face another one. I put the clothes back. I was so stupid for thinking Nick would like me. He, an attractive, normal guy, deserves an attractive, normal girl. Someone who could buy a dress off a hanger and smile about it. He doesn’t want someone hanging onto his arm for balance, somebody he has to worry about tripping down a rocky sidewalk.
We go to the shoe department, and I pick out some flats with straps.
“He’s met my mom,” Mallory says.