Free The Cinderella Pact by Sarah Strohmeyer

your name?”
    â€œUh.” Deb shoots a glance at Suze, who seems to know what’s going on by the way she winks at her encouragingly. “You want to know the real reason?”
    â€œNo,” Nancy says. “Tell us the made-up version.”
    Deb seems temporarily confused. She bites her lip and then says, “About six months ago I started looking into this because, like I’ve said, no diet works for me.”
    Nancy throws up her hands. “I can’t believe it!”
    â€œWait,” Deb says, clutching her arm. “Look. It’s true. You and Nola have already lost, what, six pounds since we formed the pact?”
    Actually, after my slip-up on pizza last night, the ice-cream sandwich the night before, not to mention those amazing piña coladas at Caribe’s on Thursday, I haven’t lost one ounce. But really getting into a diet takes time. I don’t want to shock my body, after all.
    â€œDo you know how much weight I’ve lost? None. I’ve gained.” Deb is near tears, her perpetual state these days. “It’s like my body is working against me. But I know that if I have this surgery, I’ll be able to get my weight under control. I thought that maybe if you went to Suze’s seminar you might get enlightened.”
    â€œEnlightened?” Nancy says.
    â€œBecause you’re always so quick to dismiss it. I mean, even after I got insurance approval and was ready to go I didn’t tell you because I was sure you’d either laugh at me or try to talk me out of it or . . .” She’s crying so hard now, she can’t go on.
    Nancy holds out her arms and Deb collapses into them. I pat her shoulder and tell her that of course we understand, of course this is right for her, though I’m thinking that this changes everything. With a stomach the size of a thumb, Deb is going to zip right past us on the weight-loss front. I mean, what are Nancy and I supposed to do, walking around with these stomach fists that need to be filled?
    â€œI’m so glad you came,” Suze says, having concluded that we are now safe to approach. “Deborah’s told me so much about you during her counseling sessions.”
    Nancy and I smile politely, both of us silently wondering what, exactly, Deborah has said. I hope she didn’t mention anything about me ripping my pants and exposing my pink granny underwear in front of Nigel Barnes.
    â€œDeb’s lucky to have such support when she comes in for surgery Monday.”
    Monday? So soon. That’s just two and a half days away. Only two more days of normal eating for her—ever!
    â€œRight,” Nancy bluffs. “Monday. We’re looking forward to it.”
    â€œAnd Paul?” Suze asks tentatively. “Has he changed his mind?”
    Deb fiddles with the ring of her notebook. “He’s coming around. Slowly.”
    Suze reaches out and squeezes Deb’s hand. “I’m sure he will. It’s not uncommon for a partner to have doubts. After all, this surgery is not without its risks.”
    â€œAnd he says he likes me the way I am.”
    â€œHe’ll like you even better,” Suze says confidently, “alive and healthy.”

Chapter Eight
    â€œOK,” says Nancy when we emerge like blinking moles into the light of day. “This calls for champagne.”
    â€œI can’t have champagne. It’s two days before surgery,” Deb says. “I’m supposed to drink only clear liquids.”
    â€œAnd what do you call champagne?” Nancy opens the door of her Saab and practically pushes Deb into the backseat, giving me a we-need-to-talk look over the roof of her car.
    I still haven’t completely comprehended Deb’s undertaking. Gastric bypass. She’s really going to do it. No more popcorn. No more margaritas. No eighteen inches of intestines. Now I wished I’d paid more attention to Suze’s lecture instead of