He had the bluest eyes. The. Bluest.
And his hair was jet black.
And his lips were always curved in a devilish smirk.
He was physically stunning on the screen, but up close? Forgetaboutit. He defied description.
Dropping my bag by the door, I crossed to the coffee machine in the small kitchen and easily found the coffee beans, reminding myself that I was going to make coffee anyway.
“You look great, Sí-sí,” he said to my back and I braced myself for the next comment, because I knew it was coming. “Have you lost weight?”
Yep. There it was. Right on schedule.
I was glad he couldn’t see my face because I’d just mouthed, Fuck you, Tom! to the coffee machine.
So, let’s talk about this, shall we? Since it’s “a thing” for people.
I am not skinny. Or even thin.
In show business, I’m what people called fat.
In the real world, I’m what people called a woman. (Of note, a skinny or thin female was also called “a woman” in the real world.)
Sometimes I’m a size sixteen. Sometimes I’m an eighteen. Sometimes I’m a twelve. It all depends on what role I’m playing. At present I’m a size fourteen, which was my baseline unless it was the holidays. Because I loved cookies.
Did I exercise? Yes. I did yoga and strength training five days a week because it’s good for me and makes me feel great.
Did I diet? No. I eat all food. Sometimes I eat salads. Sometimes I eat steak. Sometimes I eat cookies.
Did I eat to excess? Not unless it’s Thanksgiving.
Did I do cardio? Hell. No. I hated cardio—as we’ve already established—unless it’s sex or dancing. Then I’ll do the fuck out of that cardio. But running? No, thank you.
Am I healthy? Yes. Like most women who are size eighteen or sixteen or twelve or six, I am healthy.
Do I give two fucks about my weight? No. I honestly don’t as long as I’m healthy. And I don’t know why it’s such a big deal for people, why they can’t accept the fact that I’m not hung up on my size. I look just like all the other women in my family, and they’re gorgeous.
But, hey, if Hollywood wants to make me the poster lady for positive plus-size body image, who am I to deny them? I love the way I look, and so should everyone else.
Moving on.
Tom was one of those people who thought telling a woman “it looks like you’ve lost weight” was the best compliment ever. But this wasn’t the reason we broke up, though it was aggravating. The reason we broke up can be summed up as follows: Tom only ever said he thought I’d lost weight because he wanted me to say it in return.
We broke up because he required constant reassurance.
“You too, Tom. Have you lost weight?” I recited the lines he wanted to hear. “Because you definitely look like you have.”
He didn’t look like he’d lost weight. He looked exactly the same as he always did. But if I didn’t ask him, he’d start an argument.
I glanced over my shoulder and discovered him smiling at me with genuine affection. “I have. Just a little. I started the lemon water cleanse over the weekend.”
I swapped a commiserating glance with Susie. She gave me a tight, sympathetic smile.
Upon my sister’s advice, Susie was one of the first people I’d hired as part of my permanent staff. Marta said having a talented makeup artist who was also great at keeping secrets was like having a fairy godmother. She transformed you while pretending your dirty laundry didn’t exist.
We’d become friends quickly, her crankiness and blunt manner an excellent foil for my silliness. Most importantly, I trusted her.
“Oh. Can you have coffee?” I asked Tom.
“Yes, but thanks for checking. All liquids are allowed.” His startling blue eyes moved over my face, growing warm. “I’ve missed you.”
I nodded politely but didn’t respond. I hadn’t missed him. He was exhausting.
Instead I changed the subject. “Did you get the changes to the script? Tabitha sent through her okay, but I didn’t receive the follow-up email from production. Maybe they didn’t send it to me because I originated the change?”
“Yes. I received the changes. They’re good, I like what you did. I like it a lot.” He nodded earnestly, making Susie mess up his under-the-chin shadow.
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” I finished making the coffee then turned to lean against the counter, crossing my arms and surveying the trailer. The morning was colder than I’d expected. I made a mental note to ask production staff to bring me extra blankets just in case I needed to sleep on set.
“What? What are you thinking?” Tom picked up the mirror and looked at himself. “Is it my hair?”