“What is CliffsNotes?”
I smile. Sometimes I forget that we’re from two different worlds. “Just a shortened, condensed version of things. Basically my mother is a very nice woman but she’s everything that I don’t want to be. She married for security, not love, and she gave up her dreams of interior design to become a mother. Now she spends her days taking on part-time work, mostly for direct sales companies, even though she’s fully capable of getting a real job. When I was little, she sold Avon products but then ditched that for sex-toy parties, then she ditched that to sell freaking Tupperware, then she ditched that to sell skin cream and magazine subscriptions. Now she sells stick-on nails. If there’s any wonder why I’m trying to find myself, it’s because I don’t want to be finding myself like that when I’m older.”
“But that doesn’t sound so bad,” he says.
“It wouldn’t be if she were happy,” I tell him. “But she’s not. And she deals with it by going from temporary thing to temporary thing. That, and by stuffing her face. She overeats. A lot. And I’m not being mean because I don’t care if my mom is overweight or not, but it’s impacting her health. I worry about her, and my dad does, too. And I know she’s aware of it. She spends a lot of time trying out the newest fad diets and supplements and shakes while lecturing me about my own body. I know she’s afraid I’m going to turn into her in more ways than one. And I can’t deny that I’m afraid of that, too.”
Derio stops walking and holds me at arm’s length from him, looking me up and down. “And what could she lecture you about?”
I give him an incredulous look. “Well, it’s not like I have the best body. My ass is too big, my thighs don’t have a gap, my stomach is round and pudgy, and my boobs are annoying.”
“Your boobs are annoying?” he repeats, and now he’s the one sounding dubious. He reaches out and cups them with both hands. “Your boobs are a gift.”
I almost laugh at the sincerity on his face. “They aren’t big enough to balance the rest of me but they’re big enough to get in the way.”
“No,” he says. “They are never in the way. They are perfect.” He leans down and pushes them up through my scoop-necked shirt to kiss the swell of each one. Then his hands glide down my sides. “All of you is perfect.”
“I’m not, I’m—”
“Amber,” he says, his voice authoritative. “Your body, every part of you, is perfect to me. What does it matter what anyone else thinks?”
I bite my lip shyly, not used to compliments of that nature. I guess it wouldn’t matter much if Derio were going to be a permanent fixture in my life. I hate to think that one day I’ll be back at home, dreaming of the man who liked me just the way I am.
“And thigh gap?” he mutters to himself. “I hear that phrase all the time. I don’t understand it. Your thighs part well enough for my cock and hands and face. That’s a big enough gap for me.”
I had to give him that. If they could part for his cock then I was doing okay.
“Allora,” he says and we continue walking down the dusty path, “that is your mother.”
“Yeah. I know I’ve painted a not-so-nice picture of her but she is a good mom. She just has issues with herself and passes them on to me.”
“Have you told her this?”
What is this, therapy?
“It can be hard to get through to her.” And that’s true. She’s so hung up on her own shit and battles that she rarely listens to me. But maybe I just need to try harder. Half the battle is just trying to get my parents to listen to me.
“And your father? What is he like?”
Another long breath escapes my lips and I wipe the sweat from my brow. The more we descend, the hotter it gets. The air is starting to warp and bend around us in shimmering waves, like in an oven.
“My father is . . . practical. He’s a loving guy and he’s good at being the voice of reason when it comes to my mother. He often brings her down to earth better than I do. But the older he gets, the more rigid he becomes. He’s a psychologist . . .”
“Oh,” Derio says, as if that explains everything. In fact, I think it might explain everything.
“Yeah, so growing up with a shrink wasn’t much fun. And he used to be prolific, you know, like he was well known in his field and did a lot of lectures at colleges and universities—that sort of thing. He seems to think I suffer from some kind of Peter Pan syndrome. Always has. They spoiled me a lot since I was an only child, so maybe that didn’t help. It’s not like I acted like I was spoiled, I was just used to having things handed to me. You know?”