The Ground Beneath Our Feet: Giving You ..., #4

By Leslie McAdam

So maybe I've been sheltered, but what a way to open up my eyes. Walking in on my new, allegedly "professional," man-mountain roommate doing the nasty with some woman.

Eye bleach. Please.

I've got enough to worry about with my new job in a new city, and even worse, my new health diagnosis. 

So maybe my curves have gotten a little out of control. But If I can't escape my demons with cookies, I'm sure I can learn to cope. I've got a plan.

Go to work. Come home. Diet fiercely. Exercise religiously.

Don't pay any attention to that tattooed hottie with a bigger-than-life personality. He's just someone I found online, and I only need him to rent a room to me until I find my own place. After that, I can say goodbye to Dr. Michael Tate, the veterinarian, and his menagerie of animals.

And his secret side.

Except when you live with someone as magnetic as him, things go a little awry.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leslie McAdam
• Release date: Dec 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536538014

Book preview

1

DR. DOOLITTLE — JESSICA

My God, my God. Why have you forsaken me?

I deserved this because I’d brought it on myself—the inevitable just desserts from all of the desserts. I looked up toward the sky. God, all the Oreos, chocolate chip cookies, and double fudge brownies!

With precision, I folded the paper in half. Then in half again, matching the corners. And half again. I slipped it into my purse, placing it carefully in the designated pocket where I organized my receipts.

26 yo obese Hispanic female with no significant past medical history presenting to clinic to establish care and for annual physical exam.

1. Obesity—discussed lifestyle modification including diet and exercise, recommended at least . . .

I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream, throw a tantrum, get help, get attention.

But I didn’t do any of those things. Instead, I buttoned up my embarrassment, waved a polite goodbye to the receptionist, and stepped out of the strip mall clinic. The bright, spring sunlight of Los Angeles slapped my face like an insult. How dare it be clear and sunny when I’d just received such horrible news? The good weather taunted me.

I was ashamed of myself. Ashamed to admit that I was overweight, even though I knew that was illogical. My weight was totally obvious. Everyone could see it. It was like admitting my age or gender. As much as I tried to hide, I carried my body with me everywhere I went, announcing to the world that I was too fat.

Or as the doctor said, Obese.

And now, as I’d just learned, my body announced, Impaired glucose tolerance.

That meant prediabetes.

Seeing those words in bold, black type hit me somewhere deep, with true aim. I had a medical condition that was severe enough to warrant a write-up by my doctor. Something was objectively wrong with me. If I didn’t change something, I was getting diabetes like my mom.

My thoughts raced, and I started to panic and to explain. Or blame. It wasn’t like I hadn’t known this could happen. I’d been the one shoveling food in my mouth. It was all my fault. I had no excuse.

The doctor’s report was a bad grade that I knew I’d get because I hadn’t studied. Since I was studious, however, a bad grade for me meant a C+, and this was much, much worse.

I could die. I could lose my vision or my limbs. At a minimum, I could live my life unable to go up stairs without breathing hard. But my body could starve itself without ever giving me any nutrients. I could be fat and always thirsty.

I needed to do something. Now.

I’d ignored my declining health and my bad habits, and I was the worst person ever for doing that.

But I couldn’t do it any longer. While I could put the paper in my purse, I really couldn’t file this news away in a drawer to never think about ever again.

Wake up, girl. Time to get your life together. Time to stop lying to yourself. Time to get serious about weight loss.

You’re no dummy. You know how to lose weight. Everyone knows what to do: less food, more exercise. No carbs. 1400 calories a day. Record it all on the app. Get skinny, finally.

Cookies count as calories!

As I walked down the sidewalk to the parking lot in my ballet flats, cars whipped past me along the huge boulevard, full of thin people with happy lives. This was L.A., land of personal trainers, identifying yourself by the type of diet you were on (Oh, you’re paleo? I’m fruitarian.), and plastic surgery for teenagers whose noses were too interesting.

Everyone looked good except me.

Everyone lived their lives right, except for me.

Despite the fact that I was a lawyer, I proved to be excellent at ignoring the evidence screaming at me: No matter what I did, my body grew bigger and bigger from my low-grade, constant weight gain. For years now, every time I went to Macy’s, I bought the next size up. That wasn’t supposed to happen, because once you reached adulthood, you were supposed to pick a size and stay with it. No one other than children outgrew their clothes.

But I’d been outgrowing my clothes every year. I didn’t think about what that meant, really. When I went from size 16 to size 18W, I paused before I walked to a different section of the store. From there it was just a matter of reaching for the hanger behind the size I’d previously been.

The transition from regular size to plus had sucked, but it hadn’t affected me like reading the doctor’s notes. Something about seeing those words—medical terms—written down, made me stop and focus on those five letters. O-B-E-S-E. Being called officially fat hurt worse than the threat of being diabetic.

I stubbed my toe on a section of the curb jutting out against the sidewalk. Ow!

Even the ground was out to get me.

As I limped to my ten-year-old Toyota, with my big toe throbbing, my cell vibrated in my purse. I fished it out of its compartment and saw an unknown number from the 805 area code, north of here.

Jessica Torres, please, said a musical female voice.

Speaking.

This is Amelia Crowley in Santa Barbara. My partners and I met, and we’d love to offer you an associate attorney position at our firm, starting immediately. Are you interested?

Was I interested in getting out of L.A.?

More than she knew.

I’d interviewed at Slausen Crowley last week, and I’d thought that being hired was unlikely. I mean, working in Santa Barbara for my ideal firm and a choice client? That didn’t happen to me.

For the past year while I’d finished up law school, I’d worked as a paralegal at a sole practitioner’s office doing family law. Once I passed the bar, I’d been promoted to attorney. But I didn’t like family law, because I saw too much drama, too many dysfunctional families.

Too close to my reality.

I had to leave my job, though, because the attorney I worked for was retiring and closing his firm. I didn’t have the money to buy his practice, and I didn’t want to. I’d found the firm’s ad on Craigslist and thought that the position sounded ideal. It was the kind of public advocacy work that I went to law school to do, with a well-established client base of progressive companies.

I chatted with her about the amazing salary, trying to keep my cool, but inwardly dancing.

Actually, I was outwardly dancing too, shaking my butt as I held my cell phone to my ear in the parking lot adjacent to the busy L.A. street. But then I remembered myself and stopped. No one wanted to see the fat girl dance.

I wanted to work there badly, and hearing from them so quickly warmed me. My pulse raced, my arms prickled, and my stomach fluttered.

A chance to get out of here. A chance to leave. Dreams, my dreams, coming true.

Shoving my previous thoughts about my weight into the folder in the back of my mind marked, Do Not Think About Ever Again, and putting my thoughts about shaping up in a folder marked, Think About Later, Maybe, I talked with Amelia about the benefits they offered. Awesome health insurance, including generous allowances for mental health. Full vision and dental. Vacations and sick leave. Even paid maternity leave. I couldn’t have designed a better firm if I created it myself.

And then I remembered my mom and my brothers, and I realized that I couldn’t take the job. They needed me. I hadn’t even mentioned the interview to them. This would be a horrible surprise.

I’d miss them. They’d miss me. I’d spent my whole life taking care of them. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t really go, could I?

That came out as an audible groan.

What is it? she asked.

I’m flattered by the offer, but I can’t accept it right now.

That’s too bad. Did you accept another position?

No. I just I haven’t talked about moving with my family. Truthfully, I didn’t think I had a chance at the job. Now that I’m looking at it, I don’t know how I’d do the move. I kicked at the curb, which hurt my toe again.

Oh, I understand that. Talk about it with your family. We’ll keep the offer open for forty-eight hours. She told me the billable hour requirements—how much time I’d have to spend in the office. It was totally livable. The job sounded wonderful. I’d be free.

I couldn’t do it.

Thank you, I said. I appreciate the offer, and I’ll think about it. I wouldn’t be accepting it, though. I’d just wasted her time.

I hung up, mad at myself, and drove home.

My mom lived in an old bungalow with bars on the windows. All of the houses in this neighborhood had bars on the windows. She never opened the shades, so it was always dark inside. A habit from back in the day. The better for the neighbors not to see what used to go on, although I suppose they could hear. None of that went on anymore, since my father died three years ago, but we hadn’t changed anything about the way we lived.

I parked in the little space in the back and went in through the kitchen. My mom stood at the stove stirring a pot of beans and another one of carnitas.

Great.

Food.

I didn’t need any of that. Just when I made the decision to get svelte.

But I couldn’t object, because she’d get her feelings hurt. Cooking and sewing were the few things she could do for others. Otherwise, I cleaned the house, handled her finances, and took care of pretty much everything else.

She couldn’t live without me. As much as I loved her, I resented her, because I’d been stuck here since childhood. I lived at home for college and law school at UCLA. I was long overdue to leave home. But could I?

I gave her a kiss and went to my room, the same childhood room I’d lived in my whole life. Even when I had a steady boyfriend, I didn't move out. We’d just go to his house to mess around, which didn't happen much given the fact that I really didn't like him—or anyone—touching me. Flipping open my laptop that I’d bought with scholarship money, I found myself pulling up Craigslist to search for rooms to rent in Santa Barbara.

Dreaming.

What if I had a home up there?

I wasn’t doing anything wrong, right? I was just looking.

Hundreds of rooms for rent popped up on the search. So many ads! I started reading. They were all so expensive!

I got lost looking up addresses, because I didn’t know the area, and I didn’t have any friends up there. I wouldn’t want to end up on the nightly news for being murdered or raped for picking a bad Craigslist ad.

Not that I was really going.

Room for rent, Goleta area near UCSB, share expenses with 4 guys from Delta Tau Chi, recreational marijuana use encouraged.

Uh. No.

SWM seeks curvy female roommate, 25-35 to share expenses and enjoy long walks on the beach.

This was a stupid idea. What kind of freaks lived up in Santa Barbara?

I kept scrolling and almost slammed my laptop shut, but I came across one that looked okay.

Room available for rent. $1000 Non-smoking, no drinking, no drugs. Near downtown. Single male professional roommate. Pets ok.

That didn’t sound that bad. It was crazy expensive, but they all were. A thousand dollars just for a room? I had money saved up from my job, so I could cover it.

I looked at the pictures in the ad of a sunlit, old-fashioned room and a pretty Victorian house on a tree-lined street.

No.

I shut my laptop.

God, I just wanted my own life for once!

I opened my laptop and emailed the contact.

I’m a first year attorney, and I need a room to rent in Santa Barbara for a new job. I don’t know how long, just until I get on my feet. I’m quiet and nonsmoking. I don’t drink or do drugs.

Immediately, I received a response.

It’s yours. PayPal me the first month’s rent. Mikey Tate.

What was I doing? I wasn’t taking the job.

I glanced around my room, but nothing there had changed in years.

Help. I needed help. That usually came in the form of my best friend, Monica. I picked up my phone. In a stroke of luck, she answered my call—she cut hair, but I’d caught her between clients—and after I summarized my dilemma, she sighed.

So let me get this straight. You finally have the opportunity to leave the hellhole you call home— I started to interrupt, but she cut me off with, Oh, it is, and you know it, even if he’s passed. That dragon’s dead, but you’ve still been burned. I shut up, and she continued. You’re such a classic millennial, living at home after college. You’ve got skills and smarts. Go use them.

I tucked my hair behind my ear and got up off my chair. Do you think my mom will be okay, though? She’s used to me taking care of things for her.

Girl. You’ve lived your entire life doing everything for other people. This is your chance to finally live your own life. You know you want to.

Lowering my voice, I paced around my room. She’d never let me go, though.

Monica’s voice was so emphatic, I had to hold the phone away from my ear. She doesn’t have to let you go! You’re a goddamn adult!

But what kind of professional is named Mikey?

The same kind of professional that’s named Jessica. One who can live by their damn self. Don’t change the subject. Tell me why you can’t go.

Have you ever had a male roommate?

Yep. They watch porn. Get used to it. Go.

I picked at my lower lip. What if I don’t like the job?

Then you get a new job. But you’ll never know until you try this one.

I kept pacing. What about my brothers? Will Brooks and Sebastian be okay? I asked.

They’re adults too. They’re working now, they can take care of her as well as you can. Girl, you’ve got so much baggage because of your dad. This is a good step. You need to learn that you don’t carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.

I shouldn’t have called you.

Yes, you should have. You needed me to kick your ass. What else? What other objections, girl? I sat on the edge of my bed and put my forehead in my free hand.

My mom. My mom won’t want me to go.

Talk to her. She’s a mom. She knows that her little birdie will leave the nest. She’ll be just fine without you. There’s nothing wrong with her, she’s just used to you doing things for her.

But what if I need her just as much as she needs me? I whispered.

Girl. Go get her approval. That’s what you’re waiting for. You want the Pope’s blessing, but you’re gonna have to settle for your mom saying it’s okay.

I let out the breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding. She was right. I needed my mom’s okay. I don’t know why I think she won’t let me.

You think she won’t because it’s all in your mind. You’ve spent your life acting like her mother. Now, let her be the mom. She paused. My next client is here. I want you to text me after dinner that you’re going.

Okay, I said, but I didn’t know if I was lying. Monica, I need to get out of here for my sanity.

"You do. Go get her permission. You know it will be no big deal. You just think it’s a big deal because it’s your dream come true, and the possibility of your dreams coming true is much, much scarier than living in your nightmare."

I let Mikey’s message sit in my inbox and went down to dinner.

Thinking about my conversation with Monica, I just couldn’t make up my mind. I wanted my career to take off. I wanted to be an actual adult on my own.

But I’d been shackled with responsibilities. Even though Monica was right, and I was an adult and didn’t need permission, I’d feel too guilty not having it.

I wanted to get out of here even though I loved her.

While we sat at the kitchen table eating carnitas, my mom chattered away. My mother could be doting when she gave us food, but otherwise distant. My little brothers, Sebastian and