Love on the Scale

Chapter Fifteen

I wore the simple knee-length burgundy shift dress Neil had chosen for me, borrowed in secret from the Wardrobe. He was right, I was losing weight, and I felt terrific! Was I going to call this a date? Neil had made it sound like one, but to me, we were simply friends. Hopeful friends at a stretch. In denial, perhaps. We both would admit to having reservations if someone cared to ask. I was afraid I'd turn him into an emotional crime scene, using the darkness I carried, to hurt. Neil was only the opposite: light, unrelenting. I had never had anyone try to pry me open, expose the raw meat of despair that was in there. I was not about to surrender.

He picked me up at seven; I walked out to his car with my arms crossed tightly to my chest.

"Hello, Chris. You look..." He seemed to choke. "Nice." His smile gave him away. He was clearly amazed that I had cleaned up so well.

He opened the door for me, a neat silver Ford that had seen its share of a few harsh winters. He drove to Cassandra's, one of the more elegant Pizzerias though it was family-run, and parked far too close, almost decapitating a potted plant, then jumped out and opened the door for me. He was nervous; that was clear. And so was I. I kept fidgeting, pulling the dress down, feeling my legs too exposed to those strange, lovely eyes he wore.

He had booked a table out on the veranda, and because of the cool autumn bite in the air, the waiter brought us both a blanket for our laps. He gave us a minute to glance over the menu.

My answer was immediate. "I'll have the tomato soup and a small French salad."

Neil eyed me and said, "Never a better time to eat than at Cassandra's. You sure you don't want to hold off on your diet tonight?"

I shook my head, stubborn.

"Ok then, I'll have a Hawaiian pizza, and bring us your best bottle of Red." I eyed Neil with amusement.

"You trying to get me drunk. Did you forget I'm eighteen? Want to go to jail?"

"You can sip off mine. You'll still be standing." He was laughing.

The waiter was gone and we were alone. We weren't in a hurry to talk. The silence had a simple forgiveness, a sanity, an air of embrace.

When I turned my eyes towards Neil, I noticed he had been looking at me for some time. He broke the quiet, "You have... really sad eyes, Chris."

I had this one, "I have a broken spleen, injured from years of self-loathing."

There was another long silence. The waiter arrived with the wine. Neil asked for a small sample and first swirled it around his glass, sniffing at it and then swallowed. He nodded and the waiter filled the two glasses. After the waiter left, it was me that decided to talk.

"I've never wanted to jump off a bridge or anything. I know what I said before made me sound like I'm depressed. I'm not. Happy as I'll ever be. But sometimes I just want to jump out of my skin, out of my life."

He nodded. We both looked out into the garden, trapped in our own thoughts, deliberating on what to say next. Our food arrived, and we ate in silence. Afterward, the waiter cleared the plates and left. Neil suddenly blurted out,

"You don't want me to see you because you don't think I'll understand. But I do."

And then he began to talk. He talked about the holes in his emotional tank, his parents that had never really wanted him, his struggle to gain their affections, their lack of empathy for his hard road through the modeling world.

"It took them some time, but they finally killed me."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing from a man that had it all together, a neat, planned life that he was working his way through.

Our cheesecake arrived.

"I have spent the best part of my young adult life, a man with no attachments, strictly available only to girls not wanting to own me, not allowing another close enough to disarm my ammunition. I am always running. When I met you, Chris, I wanted to stop. I wanted to stay."

The moon shone soft against the indigo sky. He took what seemed like the saddest bite of cheesecake in the history of dessert. We remained there, in the night quiet. There was nothing to say and we both felt no need to speak. Suddenly I did something out of character. I took his hand from across the table, gently enfolding it in my fingers.

He looked at me, his eyes dark.

"Let me take you home."

He stood and walked around, helping me get up from my chair. And suddenly his arms were around me. I had always wanted someone to hold me like that; for possibly twenty minutes all he did was hold me. He didn't pull away. He didn't hold me too tight. He didn't look at my face. He didn't kiss me. There was no selfishness there, just a simple belonging.