“Marty. The fuck?”
This guy Marty acts like he didn’t see Lucky standing right next to me. “What? Oh, hey, Lucky.”
“What the hell? That’s Joe’s little sister, Marty.” Lucky scowls. “You’re trying to pick up Joe’s little sister. He’s gonna kick your ass.”
That’s when things take a bad turn. Marty, now not as cute, says, “Little?” He looks me up and down and points. “He’s got a bigger one thanthat?”
And now it’s my turn to blush. Because Marty just hit on something that has caused me a lot of hurt over the years. My weight.
You don’t need a man, Becklyn Morrissey. You’re great just the way you are. If a guy can’t see that, well, screw him.
I know I’m overweight. Of course I do. It’s not something that people just ignore, sadly. But for some reason, people think it’s okay to talk to you about it. Like, take the grocery store. I don’t know how many times I’ve had people, mostly women, thin women, feel like it’s a teachable moment when they see cheese doodles in my cart. They say stuff like, “You know, honey, you’d be gorgeous if you’d lay off the processed foods.”
It’s true. I should lay off processed foods, but those items are cheaper and, if I’m being honest, they’re delicious.
And it’s not like I haven’t tried losing weight. I’ve started Weightloss Wishers multiple times; I’ve tried the paleo diet and the low carb diet. Sure, they work, at first. Then, they don’t. I’m to blame, of course. If I could stick with them, I’m sure I’d be fit and fabulous by now, but I end up going off whatever fad diet it is, and I gain the weight, plus some, back.
Plus, it’s not like I don’t exercise. I like walking and riding my bike occasionally. Then there’s the fact my roommate and I enjoy dancing around our dorm room. Plus, I eat okay, which isn’t easy when all anyoneeverwants to do in the dorm is order pizza. Have I gained the freshman fifteen since I got here last semester? Guilty as charged. But I’m working on it.
What?I am.
More importantly, I’m also working on accepting myself the way I am. I mean, I’m fighting heredity here, and believe me when I say it’s a thing.
My mind stops wandering when I hear Lucky growl at Marty, “The fuck you say?”
Marty holds up his hands like he’s getting robbed at gunpoint. “Sorry, man.” He sounds a little scared. I don’t blame him, because people don’t mess with Lucian “Lucky” Ganetti.
Rumor has it his family has ties to the mafia underworld.
The rumors are wrong. His dad is a plumber, and his mom was a kindergarten teacher. His mom, Molly, whom I never got to meet, died in some kind of accident when he was five. The worst possible age to lose your mom—not that any age is good.
The rumors, while untrue, have given him a reputation as someone to fear. Joe says he likes that because people leave him alone, for the most part. Plus, there’s the fact Lucky is a big guy. I’m talking b-i-g. And not fat, like me. He’s buff because his hobby is boxing. He loves it. I’ve never seen him do it, but according to Joe, “Lucky is the bomb in the ring.” I don’t get it, personally. Bouncing around a square, punching each other does not sound the least bit fun.
I believe Joe when he says Lucky is a good boxer, though. Joe doesn’t make up stuff. Especially about Lucky.
“I didn’t know she was your girl, man.” Marty is digging himself deeper into a hole.
“You just fucking told Joe’s baby sister you wanted her to fuck you. He’s going to lose his goddamn mind. You might as well leave now and never step foot in here again, you utter fucking tool.”
Ooh, wow. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Lucky say that many words in a row. He’s more of a five- or six-word sentence guy. And that’s when he’s feeling especially chatty. I know this to be true because I’ve known him practically my whole life. Well, half my life. He moved to our hometown when I was eleven. Even then, I knew that there was something special about him. He wasn’t all muscley back then, but he had that longish, wavy dark hair and those caramel-colored eyes. He still has both of those things, although his hair is way shorter now. It still looks good. Everything about Lucky is good.
“Go home, Becklyn.”
Okay. I take it back. Not everything is good. This side of him sure isn’t.
“Come on, Lucky. I’m a college student now. It’s a rule that I get to go to college parties.”
He points at the red cup in my hand. “What are you drinking?”
I glance down at my hand and back up at him. “Water.”
“It’s green.”
“Green water.” I shrug. “It’s St. Patty’s day.”
Lucky moves an inch or two closer, bending until I swear I can smell him.
He smells really good.
