Page 37 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

I stare at him.

“Like it? This is my favorite.”

He leans back slightly, gaze flicking over me like he’s trying to do the math.

“Then I really don’t get why it’s been years,” he says, absurdly blunt.

I swallow, heat creeping up my neck.

Because suddenly this feels like more than a sandwich.

This feels like a question about my entire life.

“I, uh, don’t know,” I say quickly, too quickly. “It’s just?—”

“Just what?”

I set the sandwich down, wiping my fingers on a napkin that looks like it was cut from a roll of paper towels because of course it was. I attempt casual.

I attempt light.

I attempt to not sound like a therapy commercial.

“It’s fattening,” I say, like that’s a normal answer. “And it has a ton of carbs.”

His face goes blank.

Not confused-blank.

Deadly-blank.

“What?”

I clear my throat, laugh a little because I’m embarrassed, and that’s my go-to when I don’t know what to say.

Just giggle, Clara, smile, and hope they stop asking the hard questions.

But he doesn’t look away or laugh with me.

He waits.

“Look, I know it might not look it, but I work really hard to maintain this size. I meticulously watch my diet and exercise.”

“Why? For health reasons?”

“Well,” I gasp, because that should be why, but my reasons are much more shallow. “I mean, yes and no. I just have to. Otherwise, I’d balloon up in no time.”

His eyes narrow.

I barrel forward because stopping would mean acknowledging how awful it sounds.

“I have a condition, polycystic ovarian syndrome, PCOS,” I add, quieter. “It causes a ton of shit, but it really makes metabolizing carbs a bitch, and if I’m not careful I will gain a ton of weight in no time?—”

“Hang on, I don’t understand half of what you just said,” he interrupts, voice low.

Oh good. Great. Love that for me.

I start to explain—hormones, insulin resistance, the way my body holds onto weight like it’s preparing for famine—but he cuts me off again.