Back at Jeremy’s place, I stood in the bathroom and surveyed my tattoo, the top layer of which was a crust I peeled off. Smooth burnt-orange swirls and curlicues danced over my belly button and adorned the script: I hate my breasts. Honestly, it looked and felt hokey as hell. Still, I held my hand over it as I called Rory to report my food, and Marty for my affirmation.
I slipped off my bra before putting on Jeremy’s soft black T-shirt with the words Ars Technica printed across the chest. He found me curled in his bed under the covers and asked if he could join me.
I scooted over to make room for him and unfurled my body. He shook off his jeans and got into bed with his boxers and T-shirt on. I rolled into his body with my arms still curled into my chest in a protective X. I took a deep breath. Then another. I relaxed my arms and let them rest at my side. Tears welled from the tender part of my chest where all that breast hatred had lived for so long.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I’ve been very afraid.” He smoothed the back of my head with his palm.
“Me too.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Me either.” He held me closer.
I kept crying, imagining the dye on my belly seeping through my skin and joining my bloodstream.
20
Jeremy waited for me in the lobby of the law library, head buried in a battered Nietzsche book. I slipped my hand into his. “Let’s head up Michigan Avenue.” I’d been dreaming of the two of us, hand in hand, walking down the strip of Michigan Avenue famously nicknamed “the Magnificent Mile” for its dazzling array of shops and restaurants. This time of year Christmas lights hung from every lamppost, and Salvation Army volunteers dressed as Santa rang bells in front of Neiman Marcus.
My fantasy was a nice dinner followed by sex at my place. I’d been holed up in the library all Saturday studying criminal procedure. It was early December. Finals time. My job at Skadden was locked down and everyone said that your third-year grades didn’t matter, but I wanted to keep my class rank. My back ached from hunching over the textbook as I mastered the laws governing arrest and detention. I’d decided it was time to master my relationship. I was sick of Dr. Rosen controlling my love life. My relationship needed some leadership, and I was ready to step up. The kissing and light petting were gratifying, but I was hungry for more. Starving, really.
The wind off the lake hit my chest. I burrowed deeper into my coat and closer to Jeremy. The sidewalk was jammed with tourists carrying huge holiday bags from the Disney Store and Ralph Lauren. Jeremy got whacked in the thigh with an oversize Crate & Barrel bag. He scowled and pressed the pace. I lengthened my stride to keep up.
“Where are we going?”
“I can’t take the crowds.” He turned off Michigan Avenue.
I swallowed my disappointment in two gulps. My fantasy reel didn’t include side streets—we were supposed to be on Michigan Avenue under the holiday lights and in the fray, where life was pulsing with energy and cheer.
Half a block up, he ducked into a California Pizza Kitchen. More gulps. My fantasy reel definitely didn’t include a chain pizzeria packed with suburban teenagers.
“Want to share a pizza and a salad?” I said.
“Nah, I’m going to get a sausage calzone. I can polish it off on my own.” I nodded hard. I ordered a California veggie personal pizza and a side salad with Italian vinaigrette.
He’d spent the day playing video games. I pushed down the bubble of contempt that my boyfriend, a grown-ass man within spitting distance of his fortieth birthday, spent his day trying to win the Amulet of Yendor. I’d run four miles, gone to a 12-step meeting, and studied for a criminal procedure exam for four hours.
Conversation stalled. When the food came, I wanted to mouth “help” to the waitress.
Telepathically, I informed her that I was drowning in the dead space between me and my boyfriend, who still wasn’t ready for sex after almost two months.
Jeremy punctured his calzone and a puff of steam escaped. I moved the tomato slice from the high-noon spot on my plate to six thirty, and thought of things to say that would make him want to take me to bed.
“Want a bite of my salad?”
When we got back to my place, Clare and Steven were on their way to Lincoln Park to listen to live music. “Come with, you guys,” Clare said, throwing her coat over her shoulders.
Before I could open my mouth to ask where, Jeremy said, “I’m going to hit the hay.” He saluted Clare and Steven and beelined to my bedroom.
Clare whispered, “Get you some, Tater,” and wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.
I played along. “Don’t wake me in the morning!”
By the time I’d turned off the living room lights and walked into my bedroom, Jeremy was a snoring mound. I sat on the bed roughly, hoping to jostle him awake. I propped myself on a pillow and stared at a shadow on the wall. What exactly, I wondered, made me so different from Clare, whose boyfriend wanted to touch her and talk to her all night? Was it my years of bulimia? Was I subconsciously pushing Jeremy away? I knew I was attached to Dr. Rosen and my group mates. Why couldn’t I do that with a man? I wasn’t afraid of sex like Dr. Rosen insisted—I wanted to have it with Jeremy right then.
The clock glowed eight
