Misadventures of a Curvy Girl (Misadventures #18)(2)

I want to wear the clothes I want to wear, not the ones I’m supposed to. I want to spend my nights doing what I choose, not going to the gym and then listening to Brian’s pointed remarks about my body while I pick at my frozen diet entree and stare miserably at the table. I want to live now, have fun and do fun things now, not wait for some distant, skinnier future that may never come. What if I wake up one day at fifty and realize I spent my youth on diet shakes and broth cleanses for nothing? What if I spent the rest of my years being criticized by Brian and gym trainers and my sister, all while wearing tunics I hated?

So I stopped.

And started wearing the clothes everyone said I shouldn’t—crop tops and leggings and short dresses and over-the-knee boots—and I started taking dance classes for the hell of it, because it sounded fun and because I wasn’t going to care anymore about being the biggest woman in the room or the one who sweats the most or breathes the loudest. I was going to live in my body now.

It was amazing—it is amazing. Yes, my sister still keeps sending me links to new diets and making sure my plate is smaller than everyone else’s at Sunday dinner. And yes, Brian did dump me after it became clear I wasn’t “taking care of myself anymore.” But I feel freer than I can ever remember.

And if the price of freedom is being alone, then fine. I’d rather be alone than be with someone who will only love me if I’m skinny.

For good measure, I take another picture of my reflection, feeling a bite of satisfaction when I glance at the digital display on the back of the camera. Dark, loose curls. Cheeky lipstick. All of my curves on display.

I look good. Fuck anyone who says differently.

The wind picks up, reminding me that no matter how confident I’m feeling right now, I’m still stuck in the mud in the middle of nowhere with an angry thunderstorm bearing down on me. And no cell service.

With a sigh, I finally accept I’m going to have to leave the car here and try to walk to better service. I’m not looking forward to plodding back to the last sign of civilization I saw—a tired gas station five miles back when I turned off the small two-lane highway onto the gravel county road that led me to the mess I’m in now. Ugh, and in my cute pencil skirt, which had been perfect for “young professional meets Kansas farmer for a marketing campaign” but is not ideal for “size eighteen girl hikes five muddy miles in the July heat.”

My thighs are already wincing, knowing from long experience the chub rub to come.

Why couldn’t I have worn jeans?

Because I wanted to look professional, that’s why. A grown-up girl with a grown-up job. Instead, I’m going to be the least professional thing of all—a freaking no-show. I was supposed to be at Caleb Carpenter’s farm twenty minutes ago, and without a working cell phone, I can’t call to explain myself. I’ll just have to wait until I get to the gas station and figure it out from there.

If there’s one thing Brian made me good at, it was apologizing, so at least I know I’ll be able to work up the appropriate amount of remorse when I call the farmer back. So it will just be chub rub and professional embarrassment. No big deal. At least the rain seems to have tapered off.

Well, no sense standing here feeling sorry for myself. I grab the weekender bag I packed, throw in the camera, my wallet, and my phone, and then lock the car and start walking. The cows have already moved away in disinterest. This situation is so dull, it bores livestock.

I reach a mud-covered wooden bridge over a swollen creek, and bang!—like a gunshot. Close enough to make me duck.

Holy shit.

I know Kansas farmers can be fussy about trespassers, but surely it’s fine to walk on the road? Or maybe it has nothing to do with me and it’s normal farm business to shoot off guns every now and then? Or maybe someone is hunting nearby? Do people hunt in July?

Before I can rationalize away the sound, it happens again, much closer this time, and then up and over the hill behind me comes a rattletrap pickup truck, sluicing through the gloppy mud without a single problem at all, easily shaming my little hybrid—even though my hybrid is barely a year old and the pickup appears to be held together with rust and fond memories.

It comes charging through the mud, heading my way, and for a moment, I almost want to hide. Not only because I’m a woman alone in the middle of nowhere and I have no way to dial 9-1-1 if I need to but also because I’m a bit embarrassed. Okay, a lot embarrassed.

Embarrassed of my car and my clothes and—even though I’m annoyed with myself about it—my body. Sometimes it feels like there’s already one strike against me, that whatever happens, no matter what it is, a stranger will look at the situation and then at me and think, Oh, well, it’s because she’s overweight. There’s a whole host of things people assume about my intellect and moral compass because I have a bigger body than they do.

That’s the old Ireland talking, I remind myself. Potential for being murdered aside, it would be just plain stupid to pass up the chance for help because I’m embarrassed. At the very least, he may be able to give me a ride to the gas station.

So I stand by the side of the road and wait for the creaking truck to come closer, and it thoughtfully slows down long before it reaches me, so as not to splatter me with mud.

Up close, I can see it’s an old truck—but not some classic Ford that belongs in a parade. No, this is a brown and white monstrosity from the late eighties with a broken tailgate and rusted wheel wells. The bed is full of an assortment of empty buckets, baling wire, and bungee cords. A tarp, shovel, and a dented toolbox complete the mess.