Chapter 1
FIONA
Ricky sits opposite me at our little table by the window. The cafe is busy, but I’m focused on him. Trying to figure him out. Trying to figure us out. Where is this going? What do I mean to him?
I eat my sandwich in silence, contemplating the boy as he slumps back nonchalantly, one of his muscled arms flung across the back of his chair. One finger flicks through his phone absentmindedly as his eyes scan left to right. He hasn’t looked at me once since we sat down, or even attempted any kind of conversation.
What are you doing with this guy, Fiona? the voice in my head asks, bewildered. Why would you date someone who ignores you at lunch?
But as I swallow bite after bite of my sandwich and continue scrutinizing him in silence, I know there’s no point in asking myself that question. I know the answer - Ricky Masterson is hot. Like, really hot. His tall, broad-shouldered frame is well-defined and muscled, his strong jaw covered with a dark stubble. He’s got piercing blue eyes and black hair that’s smoothed back casually. And he’s well-dressed too. Walking down the street with him, I often catch other girls checking him out before they catch a glimpse of me at his side. I can almost see them trying to decode the puzzle in their heads: Why’s he with her? Can’t he do better?
Because guys like Ricky don’t date girls like me. Guys like Ricky don’t even look at girls like me. My average height, curly brown hair, brown eyes, and especially my curves just don’t figure on their radar. Guys who look like Ricky are into tall, leggy blondes with blue eyes and long lashes. Girls who are practically supermodels.
After all, I see the perfect couples walking around together, and it looks right. It’s like seeing Ken and Barbie together. You don’t see Ken with a dumpy, chubby girl on his arm. You see him with lithe, elegant swans, and not ugly ducklings like me.
So when Ricky showed interest in me at Kim’s party last year, I was over the moon. He was way out of my league, for one. Plus, the man seemed really into my huge tits and wide ass, and less focused on my soft rolls and wobbly thighs. We had this insane chemistry, and when he suggested we leave early together and go back to his, I didn’t hesitate.
The sex was incredible that night. His cock was enormous and even though he didn’t make me cum, or cared much about making me cum, I still enjoyed it. It made me feel wanted, even if that seems a little sad. But sometimes, it feels good to be wanted, and Ricky craved my body for sure.
But lately, it seems his pleasure is the only thing he cares about. That first night was actually the one time I got off, and it never happened again. Not that Ricky cares because he’s kind of a prick to be honest. Other than the sex, we don’t have that much in common. And even though he keeps asking me out, it always goes down the same way: we meet up, we have a drink or a bite to eat, we go back to his, we have sex, and he comes like a volcano. I don’t come. Then he makes some excuse and the date’s over. I keep thinking I should give it more time so we can get to know each other a little better. But at what point do you call it quits? This has been going on for a year now, and we never talk.
Just then Ricky looks up from his phone with a bored expression. Glancing at my plate, he snorts a laugh.
“What?” I ask him, surprised.
Ricky sits up in his chair, combing his hair back through his fingers - an action that normally has me weak in the knees, but which now, combined with the arrogant look on his face, takes on the connotation of an asshole.
“I can’t believe you ate the whole thing,” he smirks, gesturing at my plate, empty except for a few little crumbs. I’m dumbfounded. He takes the opportunity of my silence to continue berating me. “Good girls always leave at least half their meals on their plates, Fiona.”
He must be joking. But when the expression on his face remains scornful, I realize he’s being serious and I’m taken aback. What do I do?
I decide to go the sassy route and make a joke of it. After all, maybe I just missed the punchline.
“Good girls don’t like sandwiches, but I do!” I grin, hoping to make him laugh. Again, that I just misread him and he’s not actually being the prick I think he is. But unfortunately, this is no barrel of monkeys.
“I can see that,” he says with a meaningful glance at my body. “You’ve got a lot to spare.”
The blood drains out my face and my limbs feel numb. I can’t move. “Did you just call me fat?” I whisper.
“Oh, come on, Fiona,” Ricky says, picking up his phone and avoiding my eyes. “It’s not like you’ve never looked in the mirror before. You know what you look like,” he adds cruelly. I’m dumbstruck. In the month we’ve been dating, he’s been a bit of a prick at times: uninterested at best, kind of rude and non-caring at worst - but never downright cruel like this.
But I swallow the words on my tongue, and then go down like bitter poison. Because who am I kidding? Of course I know what I look like. That’s why I’m putting up with this kind of behavior. I’ve always wanted to date a guy who’s as hot as Ricky, and now that I finally am, I’m not about to blow it. Taking my lumps seems to be part of the equation. But then Ricky speaks.
“Look, I don’t think this is working,” he sighs, not even looking up from his phone as he says it. “I mean, you’re fun and all, Fiona, but ….”
“Are - are you breaking up with me?” I gasp. Oh my god, I can’t believe it. I’ve literally just decided to let his asshole comments go and to give him another chance, and yet he’s breaking up with me? “Why?” I whisper, trying to hold back the tears.
Ricky sits up again, gesturing nonchalantly to himself, then at me, pretending to search for words he can’t find.
“We’re not physically compatible, is what you’re trying to say?” I ask, my voice thick with tears.
Ricky sighs as if he’s already tired.
“Yeah - I mean don’t get me wrong. It’s been fun, the sex was pretty good. But I don’t really see this going anywhere,” he adds.
I get up, the chair scraping over the floor. I can feel myself starting to cry and I refuse to give Ricky the satisfaction of seeing it.
“Oh, don’t be like that, baby,” he says in the most insincere voice I’ve ever heard. But I’ve had it.
“No, you're right, Ricky. I don’t see this going anywhere either,” I say as I hook my handbag over my shoulder, the world blurry before my eyes. And forcing my back straight, I walk away from our table and out of the cafe. He doesn’t follow me. He doesn’t try to apologize for upsetting me. As I walk past the window, from the corner of my eye I can see him just sitting back in his chair, continuing to play on his phone without a care in the world.
Tears stream down my face as the humiliation catches up with me. The humiliation of being broken up with. The humiliation of his careless words, each one like a painful poison dart. God, it sucks. Plus, I’m back to being single, and who knows if there will ever be a guy interested in me again? I’ll probably die alone in my apartment with wolves eating my carcass. God. I hurry home to the comfort of bed, and the prospect of curling up on the sofa with an old romantic film and a generous helping of ice cream.