Ma Petite

Chapter 1

Ella stood on the scale in her cramped Ohio apartment for the last time.

The digital numbers flickered-131.8, then settled at 132.0. She exhaled slowly, staring at the blue glow. Four years ago, she'd walked into freshman orientation at 117 pounds, all sharp elbows and jutting collarbones and a flat stomach she'd done absolutely nothing to earn. Now, at twenty-two, with a diploma in graphic design and a lease signed on a Brooklyn walk-up, she weighed one hundred and thirty-two pounds.

The Freshman Fifteen had been real-she'd hit 128 by sophomore year-but it had spread out like butter on warm bread. Her hips had widened into something womanly. Her chest had filled out. Her belly, somehow, had remained flat. Her mother called it "the family blessing." Her boyfriend Liam called it "annoying" whenever she demolished an entire pizza and didn't gain an ounce.

That was then, she thought, stepping off the scale. The extra four pounds were new. Graduation stress, maybe. Or the celebratory dinners. Or the fact that she'd stopped walking across campus now that she lived off-campus with Liam.

She didn't care. 132 at 5'5" was still thin. Still good. Still enviable to half her friends who'd gained twenty or thirty pounds over four years. And in a few weeks, she'd be in New York, walking everywhere, losing those extra pounds without even trying.

"Babe, you almost ready?"

Liam's voice came from the kitchen, where the blender was already whirring. His dark black hair was still wet from the gym shower, and he was making his morning smoothie-kale, spinach, half a banana, unsweetened almond milk, a scoop of plant protein that smelled like damp dirt. She'd tasted it once. It tasted like punishment.

"Almost!" she called back, pulling on a pair of high-waisted shorts and tying her brown hair on a loose bun.

She found him leaning against the counter, lean and shirtless, drinking from a mason jar like some kind of wellness influencer. Twenty-two years old, freshly licensed as a physical therapist, with a body that looked like it had been carved from marble rather than grown. His shoulders were wide and capped. His waist was narrow. His abs-she knew from four years of intimate observation-were a set of six distinct ridges that appeared whether he'd eaten carbs that day or not. He tracked his macros religiously. He went to the gym at 6 a.m. even on weekends. He'd never once missed a workout, not even during finals week.

He set down the smoothie and pulled her into a hug, his hand instinctively landing on her lower back, just above the curve of her ass.

"You're soft this morning," he said, not unkindly. His fingers pressed slightly into the flesh there.

"I'm always soft in the morning. I haven't had coffee."

He kissed her forehead, his lips dry from the smoothie. "You're going to love New York. All that walking. You'll be back to 117 in a month."

She stiffened slightly against his chest. "I don't need to be 117. I'm fine at 132."

"Of course you are." He said it too quickly, the words tripping over each other. "I just meant-you always said you felt sexiest at 117. Remember? Freshman year, that bikini. The one you wore at the lake house."

She remembered. She also remembered that she'd been hungry for most of freshman year, too broke to afford meal plan upgrades, living on dining hall salad bars and stolen granola bars from the campus convenience store. She'd been skinny because she'd been poor.

"That was four years ago," she said flatly.

He shrugged, releasing her. "Anyway. Let's go over the schedule."

They sat on the worn couch-she on one end, he on the other, a printed calendar between them like a contract. The plan was simple: Ella would move first. July 1st. Her new job at Hue Studio started July 10th, mostly remote, just one day a week in the office. She'd find them an apartment, get it set up, start earning. He'd stay behind through August to finish his clinical rotation. His last day was August 31st. He'd drive out with his remaining things over Labor Day weekend.

"September 3rd," she said, circling the date with a red pen. "That's when you arrive. That's when it's real."

"September 3rd," he agreed, nodding. "And you'll have everything ready. The apartment, the furniture, the Wi-Fi. Maybe even a home-cooked meal." He grinned, the teasing familiar. "And maybe-" he paused, "-a few pounds lighter from all that walking. You'll be unstoppable."

She threw a pillow at him. He caught it, laughing easily.

"I'm serious," he said, setting the pillow aside. "You're going to look insane in Brooklyn. All those fit hipsters. You'll fit right in. They'll think you're a model or something."

She wanted to believe that. She wanted to believe that she'd walk ten thousand steps a day, that the city would sculpt her back into that sharp-edged version of herself, that she'd step off the scale in October and see 117 again-or at least close to it. She wanted to believe that New York would fix everything.

But somewhere, very deep down, she also wanted to believe that Liam would love her just as much at 132. Or 142. Or 152. That his hand on her back would feel the same even if there was more of her to hold.

She didn't know yet that she was about to find out.

She didn't know that the bakery downstairs would change everything.

She didn't know that by the time Liam arrived in September, she'd already be a different girl entirely-softer in all the ways he'd never expected, and hungrier in ways neither of them understood.

But for now, in the last days of June, surrounded by cardboard boxes and bubble wrap, Ella just smiled and kissed his cheek and told herself that 132 pounds was fine. Perfect, even.

And she almost believed it.