Chapter 1 - i

I was at dinner with a fairly good-looking gentleman when I got the notification. A facebook (yes, I know "facebook" should be a proper noun, but if the company wants to "be cool" and keep it lowercase for the logo, I refuse to capitalize) message from my ex fiance, Dean.

What. The. Hell.

We split over..."creative differences."

He had this weird...fetish, I guess. While he was pretty thin with a bit of chub, he loved the idea of intentionally getting fatter.

I know, right?

Not only that. He also wanted me to get fat with him. Like, really?

I mean, I can't say I don't see the appeal. No more early morning runs, no more careful studies of menus, no more gym membership...there's definitely an appeal. But to not be happy with what I saw in the mirror? To not feel comfortable in my own skin? Just to make someone else happy?

I wasn't sure I could do it.

But I have to admit a modicum of selfishness. I'm going to try to be absolutely clear. I just couldn't stand the thought of no longer being attracted to him. And I wouldn't have been if he had just let himself go. And that was the deal breaker.

We both agreed that there was no compromise to be had. I tried to return his ring, which he had joked about getting resized (he was always making cute little quips about a fatter us), but he told me to keep it. Sell it. Whatever I wanted to do with it.

I don't wear it anymore, for obvious reasons, but I do still have it.

Anyway, we went our separate ways five years ago and that was it. Radio silence. Media blackout. "And now for something completely different..."

I can't say it didn't hurt. Dean was amazing. There was a reason I was with him for so long and ready to grow old together. I just wasn't on board with growing fat together. And it was as important to him as not doing it was important to me.

But here we are. A text. Out of the blue. While I'm trying to revitalize my dating game.

I wasn't exactly single in the subsequent five years. I got eight years of sexual repression out of my system. Though that isn't fair. Dean and I had good sex. I just think we both wanted something else entirely from those experiences. So we were always at least a little disappointed. But isn't everyone? That's another discussion for another time.

Point is, I was in love, it didn't work out, trying to move on, and here he was again.

One of my favorite songs sums it up succinctly: "I'm so surprised you want to dance with me now. I was just getting used to living life without you around."

So while I'm out to dinner with this square-jawed distant Gyllenhal cousin, I notice this message. With a laugh, I effortlessly segue to: "I'm sorry, I need to run to the restroom. Would you please order me another drink if she comes back around? Thanks."

In the restroom, I nudge open a stall door on another lady by accident. "Sorry!" I shout, already moving on with a, "No worries," following behind me.

The next stall is open so I slide right in and have a seat, pulling out my phone in one quick go.

I open the messenger app and...there it is. A novel.

"Hey, Miranda-

I hope you're doing well! I'm sorry to hit you up like this. I know it's been a while.

But if you're up for it, I'd like to see you sometime soon. No pressure. Sometimes I just get to thinking about the old days and I think I'm at a place where I can fondly revisit them.

Truth be told, I just wanna see ya. No pressure, no expectations, just a simple check up. Because I still think of you as a wonderful person. Hell, you're still one of my favorites! And I just...I miss you.

So, anyway, there's that! Yep! Thanks for taking time out of, what I assume is, an insanely busy schedule to read this message. I look forward to hearing from you but if I don't, I completely understand!

Or...yeah, cool!

-Dean"

That idiot. I can still hear his maladroit voice reading every word. The same cadence and everything. Though I did sense more confidence in his words here than I would have guessed the Old Dean even capable of.

So yeah. Why not. Let's do it.

"Dean!

I'm doing just fine! Just hanging out at home, Netflixin' hard. How have you been?

I would totally be down to reconnect. Thursday evenings are best for me. Just let me know! Thanks!

peace,
Miranda"

And se - NO WAIT!

Don't send yet. Just...save to drafts. Alright. Keep it ready to go. Wait, does he see me typing right now? Goddammit.

=============================

I sent the reply the following morning. I returned to my date and had, maybe, one more glass of wine than I should have. Or...you know...three more than I should have. Either way, it wasn't a great morning.

However: Hating myself, feeling like shit, and still thinking that sending that reply was a great idea (all combined) made me more confident than ever that a meetup was at least a good idea.

He sent me an address and wrote, "I'll put your name in the visitor list for this Thursday at 7p. Gate code is: ****# (censored for privacy)"