The Breakaway(8)
“Still, you should let her know.”
Abby nodded. She imagined herself carrying all her belongings back down the stairs, giving Kate the keys, moving into Mark’s place. Instead of picturing the two of them in prewedded bliss, she found herself thinking about the moment when they’d walked into the restaurant. The hostess had given Mark a slow, approving up-and-down. Then her gaze flickered over to Abby, and her face had cramped, briefly, with what looked, to Abby, like a combination of confusion and disgust. Abby had felt herself stiffen, then relax as Mark had pulled her closer, keeping his hand on the small of Abby’s back, pulling her chair out for her, kissing her cheek before he sat down.
Abby knew that, by now, she should be used to it. She and Mark didn’t match. Mark was as good-looking as a movie star (albeit a slightly miniature one, like he’d been left a little too long in the dryer). He was dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a sharp jawline and skin that glowed gold even in the winter, and a lean, muscled body kept trim with the six-mile runs he did seven days a week. Mark ran in the rain, in the snow, and, once, in a polar vortex.
“You know, you can take a day off,” Abby had told him that morning, watching as he’d swathed himself in layer after layer of technical, water-repelling fabric, while her phone buzzed with warnings, telling people to stay indoors. “Or run on a treadmill. They’re saying it’s actually dangerous to be outside today. And it’s not like you’re going to end up on My 600-Lb. Life if you miss one run.”
“No,” said Mark. “That won’t happen unless I miss two.” He’d kissed the tip of her nose and headed out the door.
Abby was not a runner. Nor would anyone think she looked like a movie star, shrunken or otherwise. Abby was short and pale and round, with curly light-brown hair and skin that burned and freckled. Even though she’d been an ardent cyclist for years, she was not what people saw when they pictured an athlete. When she was with Mark she’d see people staring at the two of them, trying visibly to make it make sense. She’d think about what she’d say to them, if she were brave enough: I have a great personality, or I’m incredible in bed, or maybe just the truth: he used to be fat once, too.
“I saw my mom today,” Abby said, desperate, for reasons she didn’t completely understand and did not want to dwell on, to move the conversation away from the topic of her lease.
“Am I still Eileen’s favorite?” Mark asked.
“I think you’d have to actually kill someone to not be her favorite. And, even then, she’d probably think it was the victim’s fault.”
“Any news?” Mark asked.
Abby rolled her eyes. “Where to begin. My cousin Rebecca is engaged, my brother got a promotion, and my sister and brother-in-law are redoing their bathroom. Heated floors, and a shower that converts to a sauna. Eileen told me all about it.” Abby did not bother sharing the subtext of Eileen’s report, which was that Abby, who hadn’t been promoted and who did not own a house, was a disappointment. Unlike her sister, Marni, who’d earned an MBA from Wharton, and her brother, Simon, who did something finance-related in New York, unlike her father, who was a rabbi, and her mother, who’d say she was a homemaker but whose real job was full-time dieter, Abby had still not identified anything resembling a career path, had failed to provide her mother with even a minimum allotment of nachas. She was still working at Pup Jawn; still picking up the occasional odd job or dog-sitting gig. She knew she wanted to do something bigger, something that made a difference in the world, but, so far, she hadn’t managed to figure out what that something might be.
And that was one of the many reasons Mark was so appealing. Marrying Mark, having a family with Mark, would fill in the blanks. It would give her a life to step into, with all the milestones preordained. She’d have his babies. Manage their house and their schedule and, eventually, their family’s schedule. She would book their vacations, buy their clothes and groceries, do their laundry, prepare their meals—or hire someone who would. It was a world at the ready; a carriage with luxurious fittings and a destination selected. All Abby had to do was climb aboard.
And it wasn’t like she doubted Mark, who’d been her summer camp sweetheart; who’d met her when she was thirteen and had loved her when Abby had been in desperate need of love and affirmation. Mark wasn’t looking for a skinny girl, nor was he convinced that there was one residing inside Abby, just waiting for the right set of circumstances, or some combination of surgical interventions and weight-loss drugs, to emerge. He understood that Abby had made a different set of choices from his own about weight and food and her body, and he respected those choices. At least, he did his best, although she’d caught him relocating her ice cream to the very back of the freezer (where it would, inevitably, get freezer burn), and, once or twice, he’d thrown out her leftover samosas or pork buns. Accidentally, he’d said. Abby wasn’t sure.
Mark didn’t eat carbs. Mark didn’t eat desserts. He’d once told her that, if he wanted something sweet, he’d brush his teeth, or floss with cinnamon dental floss. When Abby told him that was the saddest thing she’d ever heard, he’d stiffened, looking chagrined.
“It has to be this way for me,” he’d said. “The surgery was a tool. I’m the one who has to keep on top of the food, and the exercise. It’s just easier for me to not eat sugar than to try to eat just a little bit, or just once in a while.”