Page 81 of The Do-Over

Before I could second-guess myself, I marched to my closet and pulled out the red zebra-striped dress.

I ran my fingers over the cool, stretchy material and cringed a bit at the pattern. After dressing quickly in my underthings, I put it on, anyway. It hugged my body to my knees. Channeling Mimi, I slid my feet into black wedges with three-inch heels and wobbled back to the bathroom to apply make-up. When I finished, I was sure I hadn’t worn this much eye make-up since senior prom. Biting my lip, I felt my confidence waver.

“Stand tall when you feel small.” I adjusted my posture, straightened my shoulders, pushed my chest out. I had to admit, I looked pretty damn good. Not at all like I usually did, but maybe that wasn’t a bad thing.

Giggling, I spun in a circle. My foot connected with the bathroom scale, and I frowned. Stupid scale. How many mornings had it made me wince or panic or cry, sometimes all three at once? I kicked it. It bounced on the tile floor with a clatter. Snatching it off the floor, I strode into the kitchen, pulled a garbage bag from under the sink, and shoved the scale in it.

That felt good. So good, in fact, I didn’t stop there.

I yanked the inspirational weight loss calendar Mom had given me from the wall and stuffed it in with the scale. Next, I hustled to my bedroom. From my top dresser drawer, I pulled out every Spanx, body shaper, and tummy control apparatus my mother had ever purchased for me and tossed them, too.

The tips of my fingers tingled, and I felt a little drunk with excitement. I looked for another victim. The cookbooks! The lowfat, low-carb one, the high-protein one, the eat-like-a-cavewoman one, the gluten-free, dairy-free, soy-free, nut-free one. I gathered them all and dumped them in the garbage bag.

The cabinet by the stove held an entire shelf of supplements—pills that encouraged weight loss, suppressed appetite, and claimed to take inches off my waist. The bottle of essential oils that stimulated weight loss was there too. Above them, the vat of whey protein mix for those meal replacement shakes I’d tried for a half a week, the bars, the sugar substitutes, and the digital food scale—I chucked them all.

Grinning, I tucked my fists at my waist, enjoying the wave of freedom washing over me.

New Perci was a badass.

Next, I raced over to the bookcase by the TV where an entire row of exercise videos—Pilates, Zumba, yoga, kick-boxing, core and abs (I really hated that one), dance it off—taunted me. I tossed them, too.

A fine sheen of sweat coated my forehead. Apparently chucking all the stuff I bought to lose weight was an intense workout. Ironic.

I half dragged, half carried the two garbage bags into the hallway, to the elevator, down to the first floor, and through the service door. It took a few tries, but I hefted them into the dumpster. From the corner of my eye, I swore I saw a flash of red swoop by. Grinning, I marched back into the building.

When I got in the lobby, I slipped my shoes off. I might have to rethink wearing heels that night. But what I didn’t do was pay attention to where I was walking. Three steps later, I bumped into Nate. Literally—my head on his shoulder. Nice shoulder, very solid.

Flustered, I scrambled back and tucked my shoes behind my back. “Sorry. Didn’t see you there.”

Then I curtsied.

Nate grinned. “Hey.”

A small band of kittens chased a ball of yarn in my stomach at the sound of his voice.

Lift your chin and you can face anything, Mimi whispered in my head.

Right. Yes. Play it cool.

I smoothed a hand over my hip and edged around him. The elevator dinged, and he pressed a hand to keep the door open and indicated for me to enter.

We both faced the doors as they closed, me barefoot and clutching my shoes, Nate, all smiley eyes and slashing mouth. I was jumpier than a virgin at a prison rodeo. (Mimi stole that one from an episode of The Golden Girls.) It made eye contact hard, like college-statistics-hard.

Nate leaned against the elevator wall. “You going somewhere?”

“I’m meeting Mathias for dinner.”

“That’s your best friend, right?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s in love with your sister?”

“Correct.”

“But she’s engaged to the news guy with the hair plugs and the fake tan?”

I laughed. Mathias and Nate would get along well. “I’m impressed.”