Aftergoingthroughmorethan half the bins and boxes, James and I decided to take a snack break before tackling the outside.
We wouldn’t finish today, that much was clear. We’d lose the light in a few hours. It probably would have been smarter to start with the exterior, but as I looked over the explosion of treasured decorations and photos dotting my living room, kitchen, and bathroom, I couldn’t be sorry. I loved this time of year, and with each happy memory these items evoked, I couldn’t help but feel like Christmas loved me back.
Thanksgiving leftovers weren’t appealing, so I put out the last of the chocolate popcorn, along with chips and salsa, baby carrots and ranch, mixed nuts, and microwaved taquitos.
We hadn’t stopped to eat lunch, so I attacked the food ravenously. James was more subdued, putting a small portion of everything on his plate.
I’d noticed before that he often ate this way. Like a picky kindergartener. At school, we usually shared our lunches and both of us brown-bagged it. Somehow, even though James stood over six feet, he always brought less than I did. And when we went to The Landslide for happy hour, he would drink a beer, but rarely ordered food. I’d always assumed he ate bigger breakfasts and dinners or preferred to cook at home. But now I wondered.
“Hey James, feel free to eat all this stuff up. I have a ton of leftovers to go through and appreciate the help getting rid of everything.”
He stopped halfway through the process of lifting a taquito to his mouth, lowering it back onto his plate. “I’m not too hungry, actually.” An expression I couldn’t read passed over his face before he leaned back onto the couch to pat his stomach. “Besides, you know I need to maintain my svelte physique.” He peppered that last word with a strained little laugh.
Oh. Oh my. Now I understood.
James was self-conscious about his body.
I hadn’t registered the signs before, but as he sat on my couch, appearing to force a smile, it came together quickly in my mind.
I recalled a morning in late October. It had been before school, and I’d noticed James’s car in the lot. I’d gone to find him to say hello, but he hadn’t been in his classroom. Heading to my room, I’d stopped short upon hearing faint sounds of exertion while passing the gym. Since it was Friday, none of the teams had early practice, so I figured it had to be James. I’d found him in the small weight room, sitting on a bench with his back to the door doing bicep curls. Looking back, my reaction then should have been my first clue as to my growing physical attraction to him.
With each raise of his arm, he’d admitted a small grunt, and I’d felt each of those syllables to my core. He’d gathered his hair up in a haphazard bun, and he wore a white tank top and purple track pants. A sheen of sweat highlighted the definition in his shoulders and neck as he’d worked. Above his waistband, his top had ridden up, and my eyes fixated on that small strip of exposed skin, the twin dimples on his lower back like little bullseyes above his perfectly round butt.
While counting off his twentieth rep, his eyes had raised, and he'd seen me gazing at him in the mirror. Almost dropping the dumbbell, he’d jumped up. “Oh…uh…hey, Marley.” His face had reddened further as he’d looked anywhere but at me. He’d tugged on his top like it was trying to strangle him. “Yeah…so…I’m gonna hit the showers before the kids get here.” And then he’d rushed out before I could say anything.
That had been over a month ago, and neither of us had mentioned it since. I’d thought he’d hurried away because he’d been sweaty and gross. But now I was unsure.
He was one of the most attractive men I’d ever met. Moms at school were always checking him out, and they weren’t subtle about it. It had never occurred to me until this moment that James wouldn’t understand how desirable he was. Maybe not to everyone. But to lots of people. And definitely to me.
I loved how big he was. Every time I heard the heavy footfall of his Doc Martens in the hallways at school, it reminded me of his strength. Then there were his hands, the way he gripped everything just a little too tightly—car steering wheel, water bottle, phone, door handles—almost like he didn’t know his own power, the current running just below his fingertips.
To me, James personified masculine perfection. But now I saw the hunched-over way he walked and the oversized coats he sometimes wore in a new light.
He came back out and picked up some of the kitchen items we’d put aside on the dining table. I took a deep breath, hoping none of my concerns showed in my features, and smiled at him.
“Do you want me to put these holiday plates in the dishwasher?” he asked.
“That would be super helpful. We may have to do two loads since I also have a bunch of bowls and serving dishes to wash as well.”
James went over to examine the stack of glass and ceramic I pointed at.
“This is quite the assortment,” he said, picking up a snowman-shaped platter and eyeballing the winking snowman decorated with block letters readingFrisky Frosty.
“Rivaled only by the sweater collection.”
“That’s saying something.” James picked up a nutcracker that looked as though it had been split down the middle, right through its nutcracker crotch, and held it up to me. “I think this guy has had an accident. No more nuts for him.”
“That’s okay,” I laughed. “Because he is salad tongs.”
James turned it sideways. “Ahh.”
He carried the first load of plates into the kitchen, placing them carefully in the dishwasher while Oscar and Bambi guarded the operation. I took the Christmas dish towels into the garage and stuck them in the laundry machine.
Coming back, I found James laughing and playing keep-away with the dogs, taunting them with a carrot. It was no mystery why I hadn’t registered his self-consciousness. It was subtle. And I hadn’t been looking.
But, of course, everyone’s insecurities and coping methods were unique. I didn’t know a single person who didn’t have some sort offeelingsabout their body.
I’d once told Miranda how I thought I was “a solid five, a six when I made the effort,” and she’d given me a twenty-minute lecture on self-love. What I saw as being realistic and managing expectations, she saw as self-flagellation. “You’re somebody’s ten, Marley,” she’d said to me. “That makes you a ten.”
