“Open mydoor?What?”I had to read it twice before I wasawake enough to understand the words. I groaned irritably, rolled out of bedand shuffled from my room to the front door.
Before my sleepy gaze, wasChad in a pair of track pants and a sleeveless t-shirt. His trademark baseballcap was backward and beneath the hat’s band was his brow dotted with sweat.With water bottle in hand, he breathlessly thanked me and invited himselfinside.
“I need to use your bathroom,”he explained hurriedly and I silently nodded.
Part Two of my friendship withChad was now one week old. It was still fresh and new, but in some ways, itfelt old and comfortable. Like an antique, reupholstered and refinished, butthe bones were the same, with their sturdy memories to maintain the foundation.I thought how good it felt as I dropped heavily onto the couch and curledaround a fuzzy leopard print pillow.
I must’ve dozed a bit, becausethe next thing I knew, I was being poked in the shoulder. I stirred and openedmy eyes to slits, and found Chad crouched in front of me.
“Sorry forwakin’you up. Twice.” His eyes were heavy with apology and I shook my head.
“It’s fine.” I stretched myarms over my head and yawned.
“I was outrunnin’and was in the area when my gut thought it’d be a good time to startdoin’ its thing.”
He spoke bluntly about hisstomach now. The first time I’d asked about it a week ago, he’d begun with a hintof hesitation in his tone. But over the course of a few days, he’d relaxed, andI was glad. I wanted us to talk about things—the good, the bad, and everythingelse, just like we used to. I wondered if he talked to many people about it,and I was caught between wishing he would and hoping he didn’t. I felt special,thinking I was the only person he felt that degree of comfort with. But themore time we spent together, the more apparent it was that Chad was very sick,and I knew he really needed help.
“Are youfeelin’better now?” I asked, never quite understanding his degree of whatbettermight be. If he was ever trulybetterat all.
He shrugged nonchalantly. “Fornow.”
“You can hang out, if you want,”I offered, and he smirked mischievously, clearly having other ideas.
“Well, I do need a couple ofminutes to see if my stomach stays quiet, but I thought you’dwannacomerunnin’ with me.”
My eyes snapped open, nowinstantly awake. “Uh, I don’t think so,” I protested.
“Why not? You said you run.”
“Yeah,” I retorted. “On mytreadmill.” I pointed to the folded exercise equipment stuffed in the corner ofthe room for emphasis.
Chad laughed incredulously.“Well, see, we also have these things calledsidewalksthat are alsopretty cool—”
“I don’t run outside,” Istated firmly, hardening my glare and pressing my lips into a thin line.
Chad’s laughter dwindled as hetipped his head back and peered at me through curious eyes. “Why’sthat?”
The answer to that questionwas simple, but admitting it aloud was not. I had spent a very long timesecuring my current level of self-confidence. That took a lot of work, a lot ofreassurance and even more backslides, to find this sense of comfort withinmyself and my place in life. I was satisfied now with the combination of myouter and inner self, but not all wounds fully heal. Some never scab and scar.I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to put on a bathing suit without also tossing ona cover-up, and I don’t think I’ll ever feel comfortable throwing on leggingsand a sports bra and working out in public. Not without the anxiety of beingridiculed worming its way into my brain and coaxing my panic to debilitatingproportions.
Chad didn’t know what that waslike. He’d always been athletic. He’d always had a body to be proud of. Hewouldn’t understand my qualms, and that wasn’t his fault. But how was I goingto explain my situation to someone like him? Someone who was never bullied,never teased, never picked on relentlessly for things out of theircontrol.
“I just don’t feelcomfortable,” I settled on.
He nodded thoughtfully,considering it. “What makes you uncomfortable?”
I pursed my lips, determinedto answer while not revealing too much. “I don’t like the idea of peoplewatchin’ me.”
“I guess that’s valid,” hereplied with a nod. “But I’mtellin’ya, nobody’swatchin’.”
“Oh,” I snorted, “yes. Theyare.”
“People are busy,” he argued.“They’re too focused on their own lives to care about what you’redoin’, trust me.”
“Says the guy with the nicebody,” I scoffed with my eye-roll.
He smiled gently. “I’mserious, Molls. Nobody cares.”
The need to defend myself rosearound me like a flame and my cheeks grew hot as my fists clenched to ward offthe heat. “Sure. But what happens when people notice the chick with the giantboobs andjigglin’ thighs? They sure as hell carethen.”
