Worth the Weight

By Lauren Alsten

Qyra plus Quarantine equals heaping helpings of nothing to do, nowhere to go, and zero dating life -- until her long-lost college crush Josh shows up in the checkout lane of her hometown grocery store.

When he learns she just opened her dream catering business, the hot techno whiz-slash-fitness guru offers to help her fix her nightmare of a website.

Menus and meat thermometers aren’t the only things popping up when they both test negative for the nasty pandemic virus and their virtual dating turns IRL. Sizzling sex with a bulked up boytoy is great but keeping her emotions socially distanced is harder than she thought it would be.

Josh could be the real deal, but between his thoughtless “flabby” jabs and his inevitable discovery of her private weight loss journey, will their dinner for two become a dine-and-dash?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Changeling Press
• Release date: Oct 22, 2020

Book preview

dine-and-dash?

Chapter One

Smack dab in the middle of aisle four, my shoes pound out the I’m Losing My Friggen Patience blues as two possibly drunk twenty-somethings argue over condiments. The ladies don’t budge despite the insistent tap tap tap of my right sneaker. Their face masks are tucked beneath their chins, their neon pink lips pouting as they bicker about the spiciness of steak sauce.

I belt out a throaty, hella unfeminine cough. They scramble to push their glitter-adorned masks back over their noses. One of them hurls a square brown bottle at their cart. Her aim is terrible, and the bottle banks off the side before cracking open on the floor.

Sticky brown sauce spews over their Pepto-pink toenails and daisy white designer sandals. Thankfully, my own floral romper and white shoes stay pristine, because I am far more than the required six feet away. My glitterless, jalapeño print face mask muffles my laughter as the Lipstick Twins wave manicured fingerbirds in my direction. I try to mute my Bluetooth so my Mom can’t hear me cackle, but my finger gets caught in the mask’s elastic loop.

What’s so funny?

I relay the drama of the Sauced & Saucy as I re-lasso my ear. "Actually, it’s not funny, because now I can’t get to the damn ketchup. I wanted to make French fries tonight. How the hell am I supposed to eat fries without ketchup?"

You don’t need fries, dear. Too many carbs.

The potatoes are already in my cart. I’ll just scallop them or something. What-fucking-ever. I turn the corner and tip two boxes of the store-advertised cake mixes into my cart. If you’re offended by the potatoes, you’d be super pissed at the Duncan Hines that just fell into my basket.

She tut-tuts in my ear. Potatoes and pre-fabricated cake mix? You’re PMSing like a 13-year-old. When I don’t answer, she placates. Okay, fine, be a cranky, carb-y bitch. I still love you. Don’t forget the frosting!

She forgets who she’s talking to. "This carb-y bitch will at least be making the frosting from scratch. I need to keep something keto." Read: high-fat, low-carb. Not like it matters at this point -- I’m in the throes of my once-monthly, decidedly non-keto week. But I do make killer frosting.

The left rear wheel of my cart turns sideways and skids before I kick it and plow past a woman with three small, unmasked children in tow. One lone, N95 masked employee wearing goggles wanders aimlessly, armed with a can of Lysol and a pack of bleach wipes. I point him up aisle four and shake my head.

Watch it, Qyra. You don’t want your Quarantine Fifteen turning into the Dirty Thirty. I don’t even know why they’re calling this a ‘quarantine.’ It’s technically incorrect --

Who are you to judge superfluous use of the letter Q?

She harrumphs. My mother was only sixteen when I popped out. In her infinite teenage wisdom, she tried to name me Bacon, not only because she craved it her entire pregnancy, but because her older sister (my future Aunt Debbie) had recently introduced her to the original Footloose… and of course, the hunky lead actor. She was intent on the name, until Great Grandma Delaney, aka G-Grams, put her foot down, threatening to disown her rather than help raise a great grandbaby named after a salty pork strip.

My mother relented, out of both respect and fear of being orphaned again, having already lost her mom and dad in a car crash. She promised my first name would be that of the Bacon actor’s wife, Kyra. G-Grams gave her blessing. Until she saw the birth certificate application on Mom’s hospital tray. Along with the funky first name spelling, Mom had listed Bacon as my middle name. From what I understand, G-Grams pork-shamed her in front of two nurses and an orderly before ripping up the paperwork.

I come from a long line of feisty.

You love your name and you know it. It saves you from getting lost in the sea of lackluster identities.

My mother likes to stand out. I’m cool with blending in, except when it compromises my sanity or grocery selection. I swerve through the non-socially distanced herd of humans. Mom assaults my ears with details of date night with her latest fling. His name is Roy, and I’m convinced she’s dating him just so she can call him her Boy Toy Roy. Normally, I’d grin and bear her ramblings, but today, details of their photo-sexting are testing my gag reflex.

I break into her monologue. Quarantine, lockdown, who cares what they’re calling it? As long as we stay safe, that’s all that matters.

Rounding the dairy aisle, I stack six bricks of cream cheese into my basket. The Lipstick Twins eye my dairy indulgence with disdain. I cough again just to watch them skedaddle.

I’m just saying, quarantine implies you are already sick. And most of us aren’t. What I’m sick of is staying inside.

For the millionth time, Ma, you can go outside. Just stay away from people. And grocery stores. There are way too many humans here, and they’re totally clueless on the mask concept. I just saw a guy in the produce department jam his finger so far up his nose… I shiver at the recollection. Anyone else gets too close, I’m going to whack them with my crusty French loaf. It’s been a month since I’ve eaten bread, so if I can avoid using it as a weapon, I plan on savoring every crumb.

"Keep your distance from the Nasalbator! And keep your bread to yourself. Smashing it over someone’s head would be a colossal waste of a baguette. Show people some grace, would you? Roy and I --"

Where the hell did you meet this Roy, anyway? I thought you’ve been saying inside?

We met on the COVID Cozies app --

Figures…

-- but he hasn’t had his second test yet so there’s been no squeezy weezy, although there definitely will be, judging by his last dick pic.

Mom! While I scrub the image of Roy’s boy toy from my brain, I don’t show anybody grace as I slam-dunk two shrink-wrapped, gourmet pizzas. Another cart encroaches me from behind. I contemplate frisbeeing the frozen discs at the guy’s red-hoodied head. I can’t wait to get the hell out of here.

Calm down, honey. You’re so on edge. If your Aunt Debbie were still here, she’d send you home with a gallon of ice cream and recommend drowning your sorrows with a good Brat Pack movie.

She totally would. My Aunt Debbie loved the ‘80s. She introduced me to all things retro, including John Hughes films and techno music. Before she lost her battle with lung cancer two months ago, she encouraged me to chase my dreams and open my catering business. She’d be proud of my rave reviews so far. I’m proud of them myself. But right now I’m pissed, because the Spicy Sauce Girls are blocking traffic again, ogling Red Hoodie’s ass as he bends down on the other side of the aisle.

His ass is pretty sweet, but I hold both the Saucies and my aunt responsible for the two pints of chocolate mint ice cream I snag. Seriously Mom, the assault on ignorant millennials would be justified.

"Have you forgotten you are one?"

Being so close with Mom and Aunt Deb, I consider myself more Gen X, although I do have issues with authority. The executive chef at the fancy-schmancy restaurant where I used to work wrote me up for insubordination. Twice. Ironically, his name was Kevin. I just can’t deal with all the attitude today. So many ignorant dipshits, so few French loaves…

"I thought Maxi-Mart was doing the you-can-only-shop-on-certain-days-of-the-week alpha program. There shouldn’t be too many people there. Although, with the Fourth of July weekend coming up…"

Tuesdays and Thursday are last name A thru M only, but nobody follows directions. It’s a total cluster. And annoying as hell.

Either you need to swallow some Midol, start masturbating, or check out COVID Cozies. You can sext, or even quarantine with someone -- after you’re tested, of course -- and screw yourselves senseless until lockdown ends. No implied commitment. Just use a full body condom.

Introducing My Filterless Mother. She calls me her best BFF, and while she’s a smidge unclear on that particular acronym, she is a master of TMI and relentless oversharing of advice. She crosses the line so often, our relationship is more tic-tac-toe than normal mother-daughter. My dating-slash-sex life and former Club 225 membership are all fair game to her.

Three and a half years ago, in the throes of a contentious divorce, I landed in the ER with a minor panic attack. The doctor warned me if my super high blood pressure, junk food diet, 225 pounds and Type 2 diabetes didn’t kill me by the time I was thirty, my pack-a-day habit surely would. Along with cold turkeying the cigs, I invested in a Peloton and signed up for the top-rated fitness app There’s No Wait in Weight Loss. Now I’m an obsessive cycler, I’ve lost over 80 pounds, and follow a non-sugar, mostly keto lifestyle, although I cut myself slack a few days a month.

Like when I’m a loaf-wielding, raging bitch. Three days of fasting following the week of heinous dietary indiscretions has so far worked as well.

One of the Lipstick Twins pulls down her mask, trying to impress Red Hoodie. She pouts theatrically when he walks by with his head down. I stifle the urge to brandish my loaf and Whack-a-Mill, and instead swerve around all of them to head for Lane Two. I’ll pass on the app. And give me a break. Designing my new website has been a nightmare. The template keeps freezing up, the layout’s a disaster, and the credit card gateway is broken. I need to spend a few bucks on a web designer person. Then I’ll be all set.

Mom tuts for the second time, unhappy with my decision to go rogue and open my own business during a pandemic. "Do you have any idea how much web designers cost? What you