Page 2 of One Pucking Wish

I clear my throat. “You know what? I really have to finish some work stuff tonight, so I have to get going. But thanks so much for the call, Gabs. It was great talking to you.” I work to make my tone sound sincere.

“Oh, okay. I mean, they haven’t even set a date. I guess we can figure out everything after our invitations come,” she says.

“Absolutely! Talk to you later.” I don’t recognize my own voice. The forced cheerfulness is nauseating.

I hit the red end button and drop it on the sofa. My gaze zeros back in on my laptop screen, where Tucker’s sickenly blissful face stares back at me. I know I should be happy for him. He’s a good person who deserves to find love.

It’s my fault, really. All of it. I have no right to be upset.

Upon graduation, Tucker left for boot camp and the Army base in Texas, where he would be for several years. I headed up north to Central Michigan University, where I received a scholarship for school. I convinced him it wouldn’t be fair for us to continue a long-distance relationship. I made the argument for breaking up and finding our paths with the understanding that we were meant to be together and we’d find our way back to one another.

He was devastated and promised me he could never love another. I felt the same way. Yet I just didn’t see how pining for him from hundreds of miles away, for years, would help either of us. I was serious about making something of myself, terrified to live even a fraction of the life my mother had. Unlike her, I would do great things and be somebody of importance. Tucker was already important, but I knew he’d rise to the top of his unit and make a real difference in the Army. Both paths would be harder if we were tied to one another. It was the time in our lives to be selfish and put our needs first. When we accomplished our goals, we’d come back together.

This idea never scared me because I was so certain that Tucker was the man I was meant to spend the rest of my life with. He was positive, too, and swore that when he slid a ring on someone’s finger someday, it would be mine.

So we went our separate ways the summer after high school graduation. It was difficult at first, and we talked on the phone all the time and texted constantly, but we were eventually able to slow our communication until it was a rarity.

For the first time in my life, I was free. I wasn’t being pulled down by my mother or held up by Tucker. I was making my way on my own, solely on my efforts, and it was liberating.

Up until this point, I’d survived off coffee and cheap boxed pastas. College brought the all-you-can-eat buffet in the cafeteria and happiness, which led to the freshman fifteen. I wasn’t worried because I’d always been too thin and on the verge of malnourishment anyway. But sophomore year brought another fifteen and junior year another.

When I graduated from college, I was sixty pounds heavier than I was in high school. I went from a rail-thin teenager to a woman with major curves. The newfound breasts and ass, while a little obnoxious, weren’t awful, but when I looked in the mirror, I didn’t recognize myself.

Five years after the summer Tucker and I said our goodbyes, our class of forty-five, now twenty-three-year-olds, decided to get together for a five-year reunion of sorts. The get-together consisted of meeting at the local bar. Our town didn’t have a grocery store, but it certainly had a bar. I knew Tucker would be there. I was sure he’d kept in touch with over half our graduating class, whereas I’d only spoken to Gabby and rarely. I had no desire to see forty-three of the people there, only one. Only him. But I felt ashamed for gaining so much weight. I dieted, barely eating anything but chicken breasts and broccoli the entire month prior to the reunion, and I lost four pounds of what was nothing more than water weight. My clothes didn’t get any looser, and the reflection that met me in the mirror didn’t change.

I went back and forth, deciding what to do, but ultimately, I couldn’t go. I couldn’t let my grand reunion with Tucker happen until I lost weight. I spent the whole evening stalking my classmates’ social media, and sure enough, Tucker was there, beautiful as ever. My heart broke at missing my chance to see him. But I literally couldn’t make myself go. I was terrified of what he would think of me. What if he wasn’t attracted to me anymore? How would I have handled that rejection? It would’ve broken me.

That night, I promised myself that I’d lose the weight and I’d reach out to Tucker for our second chance. Yet another three years have passed, and I haven’t lost the weight, nor have I seen Tucker in person. We’ve messaged via social media a few times over the years, but it’s just been chitchat and nothing of importance.

Now, the love of my life is engaged, and if I’m being honest with myself, I won’t go to his wedding either. I couldn’t bear him looking at me with relief that he’d moved on.

In my day-to-day, my weight hasn’t held me back. How many twenty-six-year-olds can say they’re head of PR and social media for one of the most popular NHL teams in the country? I’m kick-ass at my job. Even with the extra weight, I still feel pretty. I just don’t feel like the girl Tucker loved anymore, and because of it, I’ve lost him—for good.

Even if I had still been skinny and had gone to that reunion, we might not have gotten back together. I have no doubt we both had changed since high school. But I’ll never know.

My heart still yearns for him, yet I’m terrified that I blew my one chance at my happily ever after, all because I didn’t have the confidence to put myself out there. Did I expect him to wait for me forever? Of course not. I guess I assumed that our love was strong enough that he’d be waiting for me when I was finally ready.

But no. He decided to go fall in love with a supermodel instead.

Or, at the very least, a Target model.

My phone buzzes, and I look down to see a text from Iris. She’s the wife of one of the starting forwards for the Cranes and also works under me as our social media and party planner. She’s been in that position for a year now, and we’ve developed a friendship. Only this isn’t a text between friends. It’s work-related.

We have a situation at The Station.

She mentions the local bar where the team likes to party. I wasn’t aware of any celebrating tonight since it’s an off day. The team had practice and lifting earlier but no game, which is when they like to go out together.

My blood boils.

Oh my God. What?

While I’m very good at my job, I can’t deny I often feel like a glorified babysitter. It’s ironic that I spent my life cleaning up my mother’s messes and covering for her with the school and the other parents so that Child Protective Services wouldn’t be called. And while a bunch of partying, testosterone-filled men drinking and celebrating is very different from dealing with someone with a legitimate disease and problem—they do bear striking similarities.

There’s just a little misunderstanding. Don’t worry too much. Just come.

Don’t worry? Of course I’m worrying. What happened?

Nothing serious. Simply something that needs your expertise.

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