Page 2 of Big Girl Panties

I blinked slowly. "You think I should go to the gym?"

"I think we should explore an open marriage for a couple of years."

"Open marriage." I drew out each syllable, as if I were learning a foreign language. "A couple of years."

"I know it probably doesn't appeal to you the same way it does me," he continued, apparently on a roll now. "I'm in my prime, and you're…" He caught sight of my expression, which probably looked like a deer in headlights. "I mean, it's going to be harder for you to find someone…"

"What the actual fuck, Chris?"

"This isn't coming out right." He held up his hands.

But it was coming out right, wasn't it? He was the catch, and I was the consolation prize. He was the main character, and I was the quirky best friend who existed solely to make him look better by comparison.

Chris had that effortless appeal that drew people in, tall and lean, with perfectly styled dark hair and eyes to match. I'd always felt like we were on equal footing, that I had as much of a chance with him as anyone else. How naive I'd been.

As I sat there in my anniversary lingerie, which now felt less like a romantic surprise and more like a costume malfunction, six years of memories began rearranging themselves like a jigsaw puzzle, revealing a completely different picture.

Chris and I had met in the café where I worked. He'd come in every morning for a specialty coffee and a bagel, and I'd thought his persistence was charming. Now I wondered if he'd just been really, really committed to his long-term career strategy.

"I want a divorce." The words surprised me by how steady they sounded, like they'd been waiting backstage for their cue.

He laughed, actually laughed, like I'd suggested we get matching face tattoos. "Don't be silly, Brooke." He flopped onto our bed. "I don't want a divorce. I want an open marriage, and maybe you can work on yourself during that time."

"Work on myself?"

His mouth lifted in what I could only describe as his mansplaining smile. "I know you hate gyms and working out, but you're going to have to put on your big girl panties and get it done." He paused, looking pleased with himself. "No pun intended."

The audacity. The sheer, unadulterated audacity of this man.

"And if I say no? If I do not agree to you dating other people?"

"Come on, Brooke," he sighed, like I was being unreasonable about something simple, like refusing to let him rearrange the furniture. "We both know it's your only option."

What the actual fuck?

"No, it's not, Chris. I want a divorce."

"Trust me, Brooke, you don't want a divorce. You have no idea how hard the dating world will be as a plus-size woman."

The casual cruelty of his words hung in the air like a bad smell that refused to dissipate. But instead of crumbling, something strange happened. A calm settled over me, not the calm of defeat, but the calm of someone who'd realized they'd been playing a rigged game and could finally stop pretending to enjoy it.

"I don't care." And I really, truly didn't. I would rather be alone with a Netflix subscription and a decent vibrator than spend another minute with someone who saw me as a consolation prize.

"I'm going out tonight, and you should go out too. I'm sure you'll change your mind once you see how hard it is out there."

I turned to look at him, really look at him, and felt nothing. Not anger, not hurt, just… nothing. Like looking at a piece of furniture I'd grown tired of.

"Go fuck yourself, Chris."

I walked to the closet with the pace of someone who'd finally figured out the punchline to a very long, very unfunny joke. The soft click of the door opening. The whisper of fabric as I pulled down my suitcase, the good one I'd been saving for our dream honeymoon that was never going to happen.

Behind me, Chris shifted his weight, and I could practically feel his confusion radiating like heat from a broken radiator. He'd expected tears, begging, maybe some desperate promises to hit the gym. He hadn't expected this.

"I would rather be alone than be with someone who thinks so little of me."

And as I said it, I realized it was the truest thing I'd spoken in years. Maybe ever.

"I know you think that, but…" He trailed off, probably realizing that his usual manipulation tactics were about as effective as using a chocolate teapot. "We should ​both go out tonight separately with our friends. I'm sure you'll see things my way tomorrow."