The first text was from her sister Honny:
“THE THURSDAY TRAILER JUST DROPPED! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!!!!”
Cherry silenced the phone and shoved it back into her pocket. She set the lint roller on top of the kennel and gave Stevie a stern look.
Stevie was looking up at Cherry with needy eyes. Stevie had restingyearningface.
“I’m going to let you out,” Cherry said, “but you cannotjump on me. And you’re not going with me.”
Stevie yearned silently.
Cherry unlocked the kennel. “Stay down.”
Stevie hopped to her feet inside the cage.
“I’m serious, Steven.” Cherry backed toward the front door.
Stevie looked ready to bolt.
Cherry ran for the door and slammed it closed behind her.
Chapter 2
Cherry parked on the street, as close as she could get to the concert venue—a small club in an industrial part of downtown Omaha. It was raining and already dark.
Maybe it was foolish to go out at night by herself like this. Cherry should at least tell her sisters where she was going, to be safe. (Though that always seemed less like a protective measure than a way to streamline the process later when people were looking for your body.)
Cherry’s sisters were still blowing up the group chat—and they’d also started texting her individually, to ask why she wasn’t replying. Cherry continued to ignore them. She shoved the phone and her wallet into her pocket and got out of the car, sprinting for the club door.
The young guy taking tickets barely looked at her when he checked her ID. She hoped she was early enough to get a table. The only seating in this place was at a few high-tops near the bar.
Cherry got inside and made a beeline for the last available table, hopping a little to get up onto a stool.Victory!she thought, then immediately felt foolish. (When had victory become a chair?) But she felt exhilarated, too, just to be here—to beout.
She feltdaring, to be out by herself.
She felt old... already... compared to everyone else here.
She felt fat. (Always.)
She felt kind of cute, in her dark jeans and gauzy olive-green sweater...
Cherry liked everything she was wearing tonight: Chunky baby blue leather boots that she’d ordered from Denmark. Dangly pink earrings made by a plastics artist she’d found online. A vintage heart-shaped locket that she wore with almost everything.
She had cute clothes—too many cute clothes, probably. She’d taken over their bedroom closet, and then the entire spare bedroom. Tom had had to keep all his shoes and dress clothes in a closet downstairs. (He never made her feel bad about that.) (But also he never wore dress clothes.)
Clothes were important to Cherry—her appearance was important. Every weekday morning, when she rode the elevator to her office on the twelfth floor of the Western Alliance building, she took real satisfaction in seeing her reflection in the mirrored brass doors.
Cherry had always been able to see herself clearly. She had a good eye, and she could turn it on herself. She knew what she was working with.
Like—she had long, thick hair in a beautiful, unusual shade of chestnut brown, and she knew it. She had hazel eyes and thick lashes. Really nice freckles across the bridge of her nose. Dimples. A good smile. Cherry knew all this about herself. She could see it.
Also... she was fat.
Not fat like most women think they are. Cherry wasactuallyfat. Objectively. And sheknewit. She could say it out loud. She didn’t hide from it.
Cherry came from a long line of fat women. (There were three fat women lighting up her cell phone right now.) She’d been a fat kid, then a fat teenager, and now she was a fat lady.
She knew how she looked, how people saw her—she thought about it constantly. Whatever else Cherry was thinking and doing (which was a lot; if Cherry were a train car, she’d be the locomotive), she wasalsothinking about being fat.
