Chapter 3.

I just want to get my facts right to be sure he's cheating on you before I commit murder," my best friend, Jim, says and I smile affectionately at him, half wondering why he never sees the need to trim his overgrown hair.

Our friendship goes way back to when we were in high school and I was still a freckle-covered teenager. I met him at my first semester of Junior year, in high school.

Him being a jock and me being a loser, we got the whole school talking when we started hanging out. The friendship kind of bloomed when a group of guys from his football team asked him to a party when he was with me one day. I was considering leaving, sure that the only person that made me feel comfortable was going to ditch me to hang out with cool people, instead of staying with some fat girl who's obsessed with ice cream.

But the unexpected happened.

He refused their offer, said he had things to do for the day and winked at me. Maybe that was the start of my feelings for him, but I thought they were stupid and didn't tell him about them.

The inevitable happened, of course, with how intensely we saw each other every day. Feelings were bound to grow and he didn't hesitate to ask me out. I remember squealing like a madwoman into my pillow after I got home that day.

We dated for four months until the attraction dried out. I started to see him more like my best friend and brother, and then I told him about it. He definitely didn't like the idea of us staying best friends and ignored me for a week, but he came around later on. The relationship between Jim and me, though, made me realize one thing: being cool with someone doesn't mean the next step should be a romantic relationship. Getting along with someone flawlessly doesn't mean they should be your life partner or that you should date.

Enjoy the other person. Enjoy your friendship. Revel in platonic interactions.

Of course, we broke up on good terms and he, after some persuading, remained my best friend. I'm happy I didn't get to lose someone like him.

"I'm happy you're here with me Jim," I say now, glancing over at him as he sits beside me.

"Sure you are. I'm never going to leave you, no matter what." A message pops up on his screen and he brings it to his face, his pupils dilating when he reads the message. "Actually, April, I take that back. Don't take it personally, but I do have to leave you. No matter what. It's urgent."

I throw my head back and groan, "What is it this time?"

"Jacqueline's at the airport in town and she wants me to pick her up," he tells me and leaps up from his chair, gulping down the last of his coffee. "She didn't even tell me she was coming. That girl has got to stop showing up unexpectedly..." He glances at me and sees the look on my face. "Oh, don't worry. We can talk about how we'll kill Mr Fuckface when I get back."

"There won't be any killing; he's still my boyfriend!" I yell after him as he dashes out of the coffee shop and into the street. Jim didn't date anyone else after we broke up. At least, not until we got out of college. He remained this cool guy who vibed well with every girl - and maybe sometimes flirted. But the relationships just stayed casual, with no deeper feelings.

I had a hunch he hadn't gotten over me, that maybe that was why he didn't date for all those years. But I didn't want to ask him about it, in case things got awkward. Then, two years ago, he met Jacqueline and - boy - I was so happy for him.

"Are you going to pay for those?"

I adjust my glasses to see the owner of the voice more clearly. The coffee shop lady's face becomes less blurry and I realize Jim has left all the bills for me to pay. The slimy little...

"Miss?" the lady presses.

I rummage in my purse to see if there's any change left in it. I really don't want to be held hostage and forced to wash dishes so I can pay for the coffee. Luckily for me, I find twenty bucks buried deep inside my purse and I fish the money out.

With a small smile on her face, she nods her head at me and disappears behind the back of the counter. My cell phone screen lights up, indicating that I have a low battery, and I see Tony's face illuminating my screen saver. I stare at the eyes that he always complains are too big for his face. To be honest, I kind of agree. They are way too big.

Tony and I have completely different lives and I think they're starting to clash. I'm irked that he's keeping things from me. I'm angry and hurt that he's obviously carving out time for someone else in his life, that he can't even find time to come home to me. I don't want to feel like I'm a burden that he has to fit in alongside all his other responsibilities.

I don't want to be that girl.

I shake the thoughts from my head and unlock my phone to go straight to my favourite app: Instagram. I scroll through my feeds as I leave the cafe, liking a few pictures of models and looking down at my own protruding tummy.

I wish I could look like them.

I continue scrolling until a picture catches my eye. It's a picture of a freshly baked cake with the caption: 'The more you weigh, the harder you are to kidnap. Stay safe and eat cake'.

The caption brings a grin to my face and I'm opening the person's Instagram page to follow whoever it is, when my face collides with a rock-hard back, knocking my glasses off my face.

Shit.

Everything before me gradually becomes blurry and I'm this close to entering panic mode. "I-I'm so sorry," I apologize to the person I bumped into, even if I can't see his face, "I didn't look where I was going."

"No worries. Shit happens. I mean, look at you." This earns a lot of laughter from other deep voices and I realize that there isn't just one of them. I open my mouth to say something and, unsurprisingly, nothing comes out. This isn't the first time I've been publicly shamed because of my weight.

It started in high school when I was humiliated by some wannabe popular people, just because I wore glasses and a brace. Jim jumped in right at that moment and told them off. That was near the beginning of our endless friendship and Jim has stuck up for me ever since. It's only normal that the first person that comes to mind, right now, is Jim and how he would have told these douchebags off, if he was here.

"I-I just n-need my glasses then I'll b-be leaving," I stutter.

"Look! The fat girl talks!" another voice says and the air around me fills with even more laughter. "Oh, and you might want to wipe that coffee off your chin."

My hand flies up to my chin to wipe it off.

"No," interjects the voice again, full of laughter and malice, "Not that one. I meant your other chin."

My face burns. What's wrong with these people? I'm not even that fat! "Well, I think that's plain rude and very uncalled for." My mouth speaks before I have time to think. Did I just say that?

"Fuck off, fancy pants. The only thing 'uncalled for' here is your opinion." The voice says.

Someone else, someone I don't recognise, breaks through the babble of laughter. "Excuse me, but you're a convicted criminal who's been to jail six times for drug dealing, and you've escaped prison every time. You escaped again last week and now you have the police on your tail. I could just call them now, you know, and tell them that I've found their wanted criminal. Now does my opinion count?" His voice sounds raspy and tender, yet it has a domineering and firm aura around it. I've never heard anyone speak that way before.

"Crap! Guys, we have to get out of here," says one of the gang. I'm guessing he's the leader, or something, as the rest of his cronies obey him. I hear feet running away.

It's so hard being weird. Someone just stood up for me and here I am, rocking on the balls of my feet as I try to think of something un-embarrassing to say.

"'Thank you'," says the voice of my savior, rousing me from my jumbled thoughts."What you're supposed to say in this kind of situation is 'Thank you'."

His voice is so deep and raspy... Oh, God. I could listen to that voice all day.

"Sorry... That's not what I meant to say. I meant to say 'Thank you'."

"Don't let those retards get to you. Chubby is the new sexy," he says in a playful tone and, somehow, his words throw a certain reassurance in me, the kind of reassurance I've always craved.

"What's your name?" If I can't make out his face clearly, I should at least know his name.

"I'm Bond. James Bond," he says, his tone playful again, and I see his blurry figure retreat out of sight.

"I found your glasses." A lady presses my glasses into my hands and I hastily place them back on my face rushing away to see if I could catch a glimpse, Mr. Sexy Voice. My head whips left and right in search of him but I can't see him. It's hopeless. Even if I did catch sight of him, I wouldn't know who it was because I never saw what he looked like.

He was gone.