In Your Dreams. Kristan Higgins
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out at five-ten and had muscles and an ass and some padding. Here in a normal state, her size ten (and sometimes twelve) was deemed quite average. In Malibu, the size “Large” didn’t fit her.
Kevin graduated from law school and accepted a very decent offer from a big firm. They both stayed in Ann Arbor, that lovely little city. Em had a pleasant job at a newspaper, trying to put her English major to work by writing obituaries, checking movie schedules and, later, doing some features.
It was oddly thrilling to be able to order a drink and pay bills, talk about coworkers and go shopping for a couch. Both of them liked their jobs and got promoted, moved to a nicer apartment and seemed well on their way to becoming full-fledged adults.
Kevin proposed at an Italian restaurant over eggplant parm and garlic bread, getting down on one knee and presenting her the ring. She said yes instantly and kissed him. Had to give him a hand getting up, but she covered well, pulling him into a hug. The other restaurant patrons clapped politely, but Em saw a few puzzled looks.
He’s wonderful, you jerks, she thought even as she smiled. He’s the sweetest man I’ve ever known.
And he was.
He was also lazy, unhealthy and could easily leave her a widow.
So Emmaline made the mistake that changed her life.
She joined SweatWorld, the gym nearest their apartment. She’d never liked gyms, preferring to run. But Kevin hated running (not that he’d tried it in the past decade).
So SweatWorld it was, one of those horrible places with too-loud music and mirrors and complicated machines.
Her plan was to learn what she could and then gently suggest that he give it a try, using the wedding as motivation. They’d set their wedding date for June, and it was August now. Almost a year to get healthy, and then to stay healthy, because Emmaline had loved this guy since she was in eighth grade, and she wasn’t about to lose him.
But boy, she hated going to the gym. All that sweat, the smell of bleach-soaked wipes that people used to swab down their machines, the clack of weights and the grunts of humans, the whirring of spin class, the shouts of the staff.
There was one woman in particular Emmaline avoided. A hard-muscled trainer named Naomi Norman who stared as Em ran on the treadmill. Naomi’s modus operandi was to scream at her clients, using words of encouragement such as, “Don’t be such a fucking pussy! Get your fat ass in gear!”
Rumor had it that Naomi had been a marine, a convict, a gym teacher and raised by wolves. All seemed true. Em did her best to pretend to be in the zone, earbuds firmly in place. When she did ask a SweatWorld employee for help with a machine, she made sure it was one of the nice people.
After a month, Em broached the idea of Kevin coming with her, and she used Naomi. “Babe, you have to come with me. You know that woman on The Biggest Loser?”
“Not really, no,” Kevin said, not looking up from the paper.
“Well, Naomi is like her, except with very large hemorrhoids. She’s evil. I’m scared of her.”
“So find another gym.” He got up to pour more coffee (adding half-and-half, not the nonfat creamer she’d bought).
“Well, this one’s two blocks from here. You should come one day, honey. To protect me from Naomi.”
He smiled at that.
It was a start.
She knew Kevin didn’t like being overweight. She knew his blood pressure and cholesterol were high. She also knew he was aware of how to lose weight and why he should.
And she knew that her telling him to do it wasn’t going to do the trick.
A week or two later, on a quiet Sunday morning, she bit the bullet. They were finishing breakfast (pancakes and bacon...a lot of bacon). “Hon, why don’t you come to the gym with me today?”
“I’m really busy,” he answered instantly. And it was true; his job as a corporate tax attorney kept him at the firm till late in the evening, and he did work at least for a few hours each weekend.
She covered his hand with hers. “Kev, I love you. You know that. And I’m so excited to be married and have kids and all that good stuff. But I want us to have a long and happy life, and...well...I’m worried that we won’t if you don’t get healthier.”
She knew not to use words like diet or portion control or exercise more and the like. Focus on health and love, the literature had said. She’d read dozens of articles on the subject. Obesity interventions, they called them, and she cringed a little at the phrase.
Kevin looked at her for a long minute. There was hurt in his eyes, and her own welled with tears.
“I just don’t want anything bad to happen to you, babe,” she whispered.
“I could get hit by a bus crossing the street,” he said, a defensive edge creeping into his voice.
“I know. So could I. But—”
“Fine. I’ll go.”
“Really? That’s great!”
“I’m not making any promises. I’ll go once.”
“Thank you.” She kissed him, and he smiled. Her sweet Kevin, the nicest guy in the world. She took him to bed first, to show him how she felt. Yes, he was a big man, but she felt so safe with him, her head on his chest afterward, his heavy arm around her.
They had to stop to buy gym shorts that fit, and Emmaline was horrified at how big they were. The weight had crept on, ten pounds here, another ten there, and somehow or another, Kevin had become immense.
He was quiet on the way to the gym. “You okay?” she asked.
“I’m disgusting.”
“Oh, Kevin! You’re not!” She squeezed his arm. “Honey, you have a big frame, and, yeah, you’re heavy. But we’re doing something about it. Okay?”
He gave a dejected nod.
Em held the door for him, chattering away, hoping to God Naomi wasn’t there. Her goal was just to get him to walk a little on one of the treadmills, make it fun, chat about the wedding, try to keep him distracted, because Kevin hated exercise (obviously). The more painless this could be, the better it could work.
Kevin registered as Em’s guest, signing the waiver they made people sign if they topped the scales at more than 30 percent of their ideal weight.
Kevin weighed almost twice what he should, the skinny, muscular man with bleached teeth told them. His ideal body weight was 188; he weighed 354.
“It’s fantastic that you’re here,” the man said. “Congratulations.”
Kevin mumbled in response. He didn’t make eye contact with Em as they walked to the treadmills, past the weight machines and the muscle-heads screaming with exertion. Kevin was out of breath by the time they got there.
He was dying inside, Em knew. She smiled at him and set the treadmill at the lowest speed. Set hers at the same.
“This was probably the hardest part,” she said in a low voice. “Just walking in the doors.”
Kevin didn’t answer. He bumped up the speed a little higher and started jogging.
Em knew he wouldn’t be able to keep that up. Too much, too soon.
Sure enough, he had to lower the speed a minute later. She pretended not to notice and kept walking, though if she were alone, she’d be running at her usual seven miles an hour.
Then she saw Naomi.
The trainer was wearing microshorts and a sports bra. Her arms curved with perfectly defined, elegant muscle, and her stomach was flat and lean but not ripped. Long, tanned, beautiful legs. Her body was perfect. Not unappealingly muscular...just perfect. There was no other word for it.