Free Fat Girl by Leigh Carron

The bass percussion of the techno music resounds in my chest and vibrates beneath my feet. Having downed enough cranberry martinis to loosen me up, I move to the rhythm and soak up more alcohol.
    After nearly two years of therapy, I know better than to trade one binge for another. But by the time our server with the Angelina Jolie lips delivers my fourth drink, I’m past rational thought. But not numb.
    I still want numb.
    Lexie and Jordyn urge me on to the crowded dance floor. And for the next hour, I paste on a smile, I drink, I pretend to laugh, I drink, I dance, I drink. Before long, my smile and laugh aren’t fake anymore. The alcohol surging through my bloodstream makes me feel bold and confident, even in my fat-hugging jeans. I find myself flirting back with men I don’t know. That’s not my usual MO. I’m guarded. I was guarded even with the small handful of lovers I’ve had since Mick. But tonight the attention feels good…better than good. It feels fanfucking tas tic. But once I stop dodging grabby hands, Jordyn plucks the glass from my fingers and separates me from Ted or Ed.
    “Let’s go,” she says, placing an arm around my waist and leading my wobbly form to a cab. “Your chariot awaits, Princess.”
    “No…no…no…” I wave my finger at her. “DontsyoucallsmePrincess.”
    “Ookay.” She’s humoring me.
    But I know what I mean.
    The cab drops me off first, and Lexie and Jordyn watch from the vehicle until I get inside. I stumble to my bedroom. I’ve got just enough wherewithal to change into a T-shirt and crawl into bed. Blissfully numb, I’m dozing off when the shrill ring of the phone pierces my partial slumber. I debate letting it go to voice mail. But if it’s one of my friends calling to check up on me, she’ll be worried.
    I get out of bed and sway. Whoa. With no idea where I’ve left the cordless, I attempt to steady myself by bracing my hands on the walls as I follow the incessant sound through the darkened house.
    The flashing light in between the potted plants catches my bleary gaze, and I stagger over to the ledge that divides the living room from the kitchen nook. Without checking Caller ID, I jab my index finger at the speaker button, apparently with a little too much gusto, and send it crashing to the floor.
    “Damn it!” I kneel down and pat the hardwood until my hand closes around the upended plastic. Fully expecting to hear Jordyn’s or Lexie’s voice on the other end, I climb shakily to my feet and answer, “Don’t worry, that wasn’t me. I’m still standing.”
    “Dee?”
    My head spins. But it’s not from the alcohol. I grab the ledge for support. “How did you get my number? I’m not listed.”
    “I have my ways.”
    Of course, he does. Being rich and powerful would get him any information he wanted, which brings me to the more important question: “What do you want, Mick?”
    He doesn’t answer immediately. Makes me wonder if he’s pondering that question himself. Then he says, “I wanted to thank you.”
    “Oh, I suppose I scored some brownie points for taking the case,” I reply, the liquor freeing my tongue. “Well, before you go applauding yourself for my reform, just know you weren’t a factor in my decision.”
    “Whatever your reason, Dee, I’m still grateful.”
    “No, you’re nots,” I say, slurring the last word. “You’re an arrogant ass.”
    “And you’re drunk.”
    His tone rubs me the wrong way. I’m tired of Mick flip-flopping between insults and apology, between thanks and judgment. I’m just tired.
    “So what?” I retort. “I needed to unwind from a miserable couple of days.” Let Mick read into that anything he chooses.
    “Have I made you miserable?”
    I say nothing. I’ve already given him more than enough ammunition.
    “Have I made you face things you hoped to run away from? Have I made you think about us? About our nights at the lake?”
    I gasp, startled by his reference to our sexual past. And yet the