Such a Pretty Face by Annabelle Costa

Chapter 22

Today I’m meeting Camille in the city for lunch.

Although we text with each other all the time and talk on the phone, we don’t get together very often. Camille lives in Long Island now, and she barely makes time to come to the city. And the last thing I want is to take the railroad out to the island.

When we were very young, we were close. But when we became teenagers, it was like Camille was ashamed of me. In high school, she walked past me in the hallways like she didn’t even know me. She was a very different person when we were in high school. I was all about grades and studying. And Camille…

Well, she liked boys a lot.

Ever since she got engaged two years ago, it’s like she’s transferred all her interest in dating to me. She wants me to have a boyfriend. And she wants to hear every detail about my relationships. And she’s hoping to be the one who sets me up with the guy who I end up marrying someday.

She was intensely excited by the idea of hooking me up with a guy at her wedding. Of course, if that was the plan, it would’ve been nice if she didn’t have me dress in a frilly purple thing that made me look more like a centerpiece than a bridesmaid.

The lucky “chosen” one was a guy named Alan, who walked with me down the aisle. Now I may be fat and Brody may be disabled, but this guy Alan was just downright unattractive, starting with the fact that he was missing his chin—at least, I didn’t see any sign of one. There was literally a straight line going from his lower lip to his neck. I felt zero attraction to him, yet I was oddly hopeful. At the point that you’re almost twenty-six and have never had even a whiff of a boyfriend before, men without chins seem more and more appealing. When I found out that I was seated next to Alan at the reception, I got pretty excited. My palms got all sweaty.

I swear, I made an effort this time. I downed two cocktails, which made things easier. I ate like a bird. I tried to talk to Alan and got mostly one-word answers. Once we finished our dinners, he said to me, “Excuse me.” Then he left the table and never returned.

Stupid me, I started working up my courage to go ask him to dance (it involved two more drinks). But when I was about ten feet away from him, I overheard him muttering to the groom, “Thanks a lot for seating me next to your fat sister-in-law.”

So apparently, even a man without a chin thought he was too good for me.

I meet Camille in front of a bistro in the city on a Saturday. I arrive late, and I find her standing by the entrance, looking hopelessly glamorous in her skinny jeans and oversized sunglasses, with her blond hair loose down her back. She looks like an actress who’s trying not to call attention to the paparazzi. Camille is seriously beautiful—even if I lost all the weight, I wouldn’t look like her.

“Emily!” she says, pulling off her sunglasses when she sees me. We haven’t seen each other in a good six months, and her eyes widen when she gets a good look at me. I guess I’ve gained some weight recently. Or maybe she’s just forgotten how big I am.

We find seats in the restaurant, and the waiter is practically tripping over himself to be nice to Camille. That’s nothing unusual, but it’s interesting to see that the giant diamond on her finger doesn’t seem to deter men in the slightest.

I scan the menu, trying to make the agonizing decision of what to eat. Camille does the same, clucking her tongue at every choice. “I’ve got to lose ten pounds,” she says.

She’s got to lose ten pounds? If she has to lose ten pounds, then I must need to lose two hundred pounds. I hate it when people who are so much skinnier than me say things like that.

Camille orders the house salad. With low-fat French dressing. So I get the same. She also gets mineral water. I get a diet Coke, hoping she won’t give me Abby’s lecture about how bad diet Coke is.

“So,” Camille says to me when the waiter brings over our drinks, “how are things with you and Brody?”

“Please don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” I squeeze my hands together. “You know.”

“How serious is it?”

“It’s… serious.”

She takes a delicate sip of her mineral water. “Have you kissed?”

I stare at her. “Are you serious? You think we’ve been dating all this time and we haven’t even kissed?”

“Fine.” She crinkles her nose. “So… have you had sex?”

I nearly choke on my Diet Coke. “Um…”

Camille knows I’m a virgin. We haven’t discussed it explicitly, but she’s aware that I have had no relationships that would lead to sex.

“I take that as a no.” She smirks. “I’m disappointed in Brody. He used to brag that he could seal the deal in two dates. I heard he was very successful.”

I try to imagine Brody boasting about how easy he could make it with a girl. I can’t. He has been so unbelievably respectful of my need to take it slow.

“I told you,” I say. “He’s not like that anymore.”

“I’m sure,” she murmurs.

Our salads arrive, and I dig into mine with a vengeance. Some people lose their appetite when they’re feeling bad or uncomfortable, but I’m the opposite. All I can think about when I’m upset is food. It’s the only thing that makes me feel better.

But the salad isn’t enough. Even after I finish it, I still feel hollow inside.

“Could I get anything else for you, miss?” Our doting waiter has returned to the table and is now practically slobbering over Camille. “Anything at all?”

“I’ll have a slice of chocolate cake,” I tell the waiter.

Camille’s face falls. “Emily, don’t.”

“With whipped cream on top,” I add.

Our waiter looks unsure what to do for a moment, but then he goes off to fetch me my cake. My sister just shakes her head at me. Like she’s so disappointed at me for ordering a piece of cake.

“You’re better than this, Emily,” Camille says to me.

You know what, Camille? I’m really not.