Page 29 of The Ground Beneath Our Feet
“Why did you kiss me?”
“It’s just a kiss, babe. No big deal.” I let her go and went back to chopping vegetables, my back to her.
Of course it wasn’t just a kiss. I wanted to do more than that. Like tear off her clothes and fuck her in the kitchen.
But I played it off. “I’m an affectionate guy.” I grabbed some carrots and started washing them. “What are you doing later? I’ve gotta go feed the animals after I put this soup together.”
She grasped on to the change of subject like a prisoner getting freedom. “Will you take me sometime?”
“Sure. You want to come now?”
“Thank you.” She paused, and seemed to be debating something. Then she spoke again in a quiet voice. “Do you think you could help me get healthy?” I think it cost her all of her self-worth to ask me that.
An honor.
I tilted my head. Frankly, I liked her body as is. My Italian mama had taught me that curves on a woman were glorious, and Jessica’s were sexy as fuck. I didn’t want them to disappear. But if getting in shape would make her feel better about herself, I’d be happy to serve.
“Of course, I’ll assist you. But I’m gonna help you feel better about your body, too.”
“How much do you charge?”
“No fee.” I just wanted to make that scared look in her eyes go away permanently. The longing could go away, too. I wanted it replaced with contentment. Satisfaction. Even if I couldn’t have that, she could.
But she put her hand on her hip. “That’s not right.”
I came back over to her and put both hands on her shoulders. “Baby, listen. It’s okay, I’m happy to do it. Consider it included in your rent.”
She shrugged, and my hands slipped off.
I got her a pen and a piece of paper. “The first thing we need to do is record where you are, so you can see what you need to change.”
She shook her head. “No.”
Now it was my turn to put my hand on my hips. “You won’t know how far you’ve come if you don’t know where you’ve started from.”
A determination I hadn’t seen before came out of her. “I don’t want you to know my measurements.”
Oh.
That.
I didn’t care. “The numbers don’t matter. What matters is how you feel and if we can see changes. I won’t judge. I just want you to get healthy.”
Closing her eyes and wincing, she opened them up and looked at me, clear-eyed. “The numbers actually do matter. I’m diabetic.”
Without missing a beat, I said, “So we’ll take that into consideration. We’ll watch the sugars. More protein, more veggies. No problem. No processed stuff.”
“But processed stuff tastes better.”
I waved a carrot at her. “No it doesn’t. You just have your tastes all out of whack.”
“My tastes are just fine,” she said, indignant. She seemed paralyzed in the kitchen, unable to move. She just held the paper and pen.
I set down the carrot and muttered, “I can see that this is gonna go great.”
“Mikey?”
“Yeah, baby.”
