Chapter 3 - Diane's Kitchen Table
The next afternoon, Diane stopped by with homemade cookies for the boys. Owen hugged her the second she walked in the door. Ethan stole two before I could stop him.
When the boys went outside, Diane sat across from me at the kitchen table.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Does Marcus talk about me a lot?"
My hand went still on the cookie tin. "Why?"
"He comments on my clothes. My legs. He keeps telling Paul how lucky he is — right in front of me, right in front of you sometimes." She paused. "I kept telling myself he was just being Marcus."
"I've been telling myself the same thing," I admitted, and then it all came out — the comparisons, the comment about grocery stores, the way he'd said flat out he'd be happier if I looked more like her.
"He brought home surgery brochures," I said.
Diane's face went still. "What?"
"Liposuction. Implants."
"He knows about your thyroid."
"Yes."
"And you told him you don't want it?"
"More than once, Diane. He just refuses to hear it."
Her expression hardened. "Then this was never concern. That's just cruelty wearing a nicer outfit."
"I thought he admired you," I said, quieter than I meant to.
"He doesn't get to turn me into a weapon against you." She leaned forward. "I run because I lost my dad to heart problems way too young, and it scared me. Not because I think any woman owes anyone a certain body." She looked at me directly. "I'm not flattered by him, Cass. I'm uncomfortable."
Something in me settled, oddly, hearing that. I had never once viewed Diane as competition, but learning that Marcus made her uncomfortable too shifted something loose in my chest.
"So what are you going to do?" she asked.
"I'm done covering for him."
She slid the cookie tin toward me. "Good. Start there."
The following week, Ethan came shoe shopping with me. While he tried on sneakers, I found a dark green dress on a nearby rack.
"Try it on, Mom."
I almost said no out of habit. When I stepped out of the fitting room, Ethan looked up from his phone.
"Get it."
"That convincing?"
"I'm serious. You look good."
For the first time in longer than I could remember, I didn't picture Marcus listing everything wrong with the way it fit. I bought it.
That evening I hung it on our bedroom door. Marcus noticed immediately.
"You're wearing that Sunday? Paul and Diane are coming."
"I know."
His eyes moved over it slowly. "Standing next to Diane, you're going to regret it."
I reached for the hanger — then stopped myself. "I'm wearing it."
"You'll be uncomfortable."
"Then I'll decide that for myself."
May you like
He shrugged like it cost him nothing. "Your choice."
Before dinner Sunday, I moved his surgery brochures out of our bedroom and into the dining room drawer. I told myself I was just clearing space. I knew better even as I did it.
