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NATALIE

“Moira, you cannot be serious.”

Moira waved her croissant at me, which, honestly, was just unnecessary. Do I look like the kind of girl who needs pastries waved in her face? No, I do not.

“I am completely serious,” she says, dropping the carbohydrate calorie-bomb back onto her plate. “The best way to get over the last one is to get under the next one.”

“Keep your voice down,” I say, feeling myself blush. We’re the only two sitting inside the Market Street Market café, but Jill is behind the counter, and there are two older couples waiting for their order closer to the door.

“You. Need. To. Get. Laid,” my soon-to-be-ex best friend says, plenty loud enough to carry over the quiet jazz drifting from the café speakers.

“Yes, thank you. You have saved me the trouble of buying a billboard to announce it,” I whisper loudly, covering my eyes. “Meanwhile, I’m trying to solve a problem here.”

I learned a while ago that it was a whole lot better to focus on the things I can control than things I can’t. And speaking as somebody who’s just celebrated one full month at her goal weight, I like to think I’m capable of handling things myself.

“Dating apps,” Moira suggests, sipping her latte.

“Pass.”

Moira rolls her eyes. She thinks I’m old-fashioned for it, but that is one type of rejection I am not prepared to handle. Not now, maybe not ever.

“Ooh, I can set you up with?—”

“No blind dates, either.” For the same reason. And Moira knows it, so she lets that one go without a fight.

I am not setting myself up to be rejected by some dude who has some picture in his head of what I’m supposed to look like. Been there, done that, still paying the therapy bills for it. Or, in my case, the gym membership fee.

Moira taps the side of her cup with a long, manicured fingernail, the bold fuchsia clashing with her vivid copper hair. Somehow, it looks terribly fashionable.

“Maybe we start smaller,” she says contemplatively.

“Like what?”

“Shopping spree,” she says, grinning as the idea takes root. “Makeover-style.”

“I don’t need a makeover.” I lost sixty pounds. If anything, I’ve already had a makeover.

“You need a new wardrobe.”

I glance down at my clothes. “What? This shirt is oversized.”

“It’s at least two sizes too big to qualify as oversized, woman,” says Moira. “You spent all that time and effort to get fit. Isn’t it time to show off your work?”

She’s got a point, and I know it.

“What if I gain the weight back?”

Moira snorts. “You won’t.”

“But what if I do?”

“Then we’ll go shopping again,” she says simply, shrugging like it’s a silly question. “Fact remains, you need some clothes that fit.”

I sip my coffee and let her have this one. “Maybe. But only because I need a dress.”

Her eyes light up. “Ooh, we get to get fancy.”

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