But the words go in one ear and out the other because I’ve been a wallflower for so long that I’m used to it. I glance longingly at my cheesecake and laptop, on which screen the opening credits of my favorite show remain paused in anticipation. Amy starts coughing violently and this time, I jerk forward with concern.
“Are you okay?” I ask, giving her back a couple good thwacks. “I don’t want you to die on me here.”
My friend’s eyes are watery as she looks up, still coughing.
“Please, Janie,” she manages. “You’d be doing such a good deed. For me, and for Brent. And who knows, you might actually have a good time!”
I highly doubt this, but I have to admit that maybe staying in on my fourth Friday in a row to watch Netflix in my pajamas and eat cheesecake, might be overdoing it a bit with the alone time. Maybe it’d be good to force myself out. Maybe this is the perfect excuse. And like Amy said, I’d be doing a good deed.
So with a sigh, I give in.
“What time are you supposed to meet?” I ask reluctantly and my buddy’s eyes light up, shining right through her fever.
“You’re an angel!” she exclaims, her sudden excitement sending her back into a fit of hacking coughs. Oh god. Swinging her arm around my shoulder, I help Amy stagger back into her room before collapsing into her small twin bed. Poor thing.
And after making her a pot of hot tea, I take a quick shower and hope it will freshen me up. As the steaming water gushes down my body, I try to change my mindset for the better.
Brent, I think to myself. An army vet, recently returned from a tour abroad. I wonder where he was posted? I wonder if he’s seen terrible things? He’s probably a bit of a basket case at the moment, judging from the fact that Amy’s friend Hillary is trying to show him a good time by setting him up with a girl he’s never met before. A basket case who would appreciate someone like Amy, a pretty, thin, blonde with a charming smile.
Oh god. I hope this Brent guy doesn’t run screaming when he sees me standing in front of the theater instead. I cringe to myself as I soap my body up, letting my slippery hands glide over my full boobs and the rolling curves of my wide hips and ass. I’m easily sixty or seventy pounds heavier than Amy, probably more. What am I thinking? Silently, I curse. But it’s too late now.
Turning off the water, I drape my wet body in my towel and head out of the bathroom, intent on telling Amy I can’t go. I just can’t. It’s not the right thing to do. But as I approach her room, I hear her coughing uncontrollably and stop in my tracks. Because it’d be cruel to let her down, especially since I basically already said yes. Rolling my eyes, I retrace my steps and pad over to my bedroom. Time to look for something to wear.
After raiding my whole wardrobe and finding that everything makes me feel like a whale in drag, I resist the urge to thrust myself back into the alluring arms of my trusty pajamas and finally settle on a flattering blue dress that tapers at the waist, my favorite part of my body.
Dubiously, I stare at my reflection in the mirror, noting how my big boobs fill out the bodice nicely, causing ample yet classy cleavage that accentuates the look, while my heavy thighs and arms are demurely hidden by the pretty blue material. And I’m having a good hair day! Or, rather, a good hair evening. Chestnut curls cascade in waves down my shoulders. As a finishing touch, I dab on a bit of pink lipstick and slip on a pair of demure heels. Figuring this is as ready as I’ll ever be, I leave the dorm room … hoping against hope that this blind date turns out okay.
“I haven’t even been back a week yet,” I think ruefully. And yet that didn’t stop Hillary, my cousin, from setting me up on a blind date. Goddamit. I’m really not in the mood, to be frank. I’m still in my boxer shorts, standing before the very limited wardrobe I have. After having worn nothing but army gear for the past four years, my clothes tend to be shorts and sweatpants. In fact, it’s pretty much all shorts and sweatpants because I work out like a motherfucker. That’s one thing war teaches you. Stay fit, otherwise the fight’s gonna kill you.
Sighing, I reach way into the back of my closet for the one pair of nice jeans still lying around. Fuck they’re tight. But hey, my package is my package, and it’s better to be big than small, right? I haven’t shaved in ages, but the black stubble looks okay. Kinda rugged, like I’m the laid back type. Or at least I hope that’s how I’ll come across, because laid back isn’t exactly the word to describe me. After you’ve been seen the type of gore I have, laid back isn’t really in your vocabulary anymore. Withheld and reserved, yes. But laid back? No.