“No.
“I said no. Not now.
“Steven, please, I’m begging you . . .
“No—
“No—
“I know what you want, but I just—
“I’m wearing black, Stevie. I just want—
“For once, I just—”
Cherry’s phone chimed. She ignored it. She was trying to hold an overgrown dog at arm’s length while she got out the door.
Trying unsuccessfully. Stevie was too big and too eager to be contained—she pushed forward, tail-wagging, brown eyes pleading for affection. Stevie had human eyes. Like a gorilla.
“Okay, fine.” Cherry gave in, lifting her arms. “Fine, fine, fine.”
Stevie leapt forward, rubbing her big head against Cherry’s black pants, first one thigh, then the other.
“I know . . .” Cherry sighed and patted the dog’s broad back. “You’re a good girl, Stevie.” Stevie was a two-year-old Newfoundland–Great Pyrenees mix. (Some people called this a “NewfiePyr.” Cherry was not one of them.) She was huge and white, with black spots around her eyes and ears—and she was as fluffy as a sheep or some sort of mountain goat. There were dog owners who actually collected their Great Pyrenees’ fur and made sweaters from it. (Again, Cherry was not one of them.)
Stevie looked like a polar bear wearing a burglar’s mask, and she was probably the nicest dog who’d ever lived. Her full name was Stevie Nicks. Cherry’s ex-husband had named her.
Cherry’s phone chimed again. She kept ignoring it. Stevie was still trying to push closer. She was always like this when Cherry had been at work all day.
She wedged her head between Cherry’s legs and charged forward. This was apparently a show of submission—it was one of Stevie’s favorite moves—but Cherry had short legs, and the dog practically knocked her off her feet every time she attempted it.
“Stevie!” Cherry shuffled back, trying to find her balance. “Jesus!” Her phone double-chimed, two texts landing one after another.
Stevie was between Cherry’s legs and also wrapped around her knee. (She was as long as a Chinese dragon.) It was too much.
“That’s it—house!” Cherry ordered. “You have to go to your house, I’m sorry. I can’t do this right now.”
Stevie heard the word “house” and dutifully trotted over to her wire kennel. The dog was well trained, Cherry would give Tom that. She handed Stevie a probiotic treat and closed the door. The kennel took up half the small front room they used as a foyer.
Cherry reached for a lint roller and started at her wrists. She was covered in white hair, even in places that Stevie hadn’t touched. There was hair in the air in Cherry’s house. It was a full Pig-Pen situation. Maybe Cherry should change her clothes . . .
Or maybe she should just stay home.
She didn’t really want to go to a concert by herself. She’d planned to go with her friend Stacia, but Stacia had flaked out, and Cherry couldn’t think of a single other person who might want to take the extra ticket.
Cherry was thirty-six. Her friends didn’t go to concerts anymore—they had kids. Or they watched prestige television. Or they liked to get to sleep early so they could make it to spin class or whatever this year’s version of spin class was. Cherry didn’t even go to concerts anymore.
Tom hated concerts. He didn’t care about music, and he didn’t like people. Anytime Cherry had tried to take Tom to a concert, he’d spent the whole night frowning at everyone, and he didn’t even realize he was doing it. Tom had resting uncomfortable face.
Cherry started with the lint roller again at her shoulders. Her phone chimed.
She’d bought tickets for this concert on the day that it was announced. Goldenrod was her favorite Omaha band. She’d seen them play live twice, before Tom—and before the band had gotten kind of famous and broken up. Tonight was a reunion show. They were going to play their first album straight through. Cherry didn’t want to miss it. She was tired of missing everything.
Her phone chimed, and she pulled it out of her back pocket to take a look. The group chat with her sisters had thirty-five new messages. Cherry opened it.
The first text was from her sister Honny:
“THE THURSDAY TRAILER JUST DROPPED! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!!!”
Cherry silenced the phone and shoved it back into her pocket. She set the lint roller on top of the kennel and gave Stevie a stern look.
Stevie was looking up at Cherry with needy eyes. Stevie had resting yearning face.
“I’m going to let you out,” Cherry said, “but you cannot jump on me. And you’re not going with me.”
Stevie yearned silently.
Cherry unlocked the kennel. “Stay down.”
Stevie hopped to her feet inside the cage.
“I’m serious, Steven.” Cherry backed toward the front door.
Stevie looked ready to bolt.
Cherry ran for the door and slammed it closed behind her.
Cherry parked on the street, as close as she could get to the concert venue—a small club in an industrial part of downtown
Omaha. It was raining and already dark.
Maybe it was foolish to go out at night by herself like this. Cherry should at least tell her sisters where she was going, to be safe. (Though that always seemed less like a protective measure than a way to streamline the process later when people were looking for your body.)
Cherry’s sisters were still blowing up the group chat—and they’d also started texting her individually, to ask why she wasn’t replying. Cherry continued to ignore them. She shoved the phone and her wallet into her pocket and got out of the car, sprinting for the club door.
The young guy taking tickets barely looked at her when he checked her ID. She hoped she was early enough to get a table.
The only seating in this place was at a few high-tops near the bar.
Cherry got inside and made a beeline for the last available table, hopping a little to get up onto a stool. Victory! she thought, then immediately felt foolish. (When had victory become a chair?) But she felt exhilarated, too, just to be here—to be out.
She felt daring, to be out by herself.
She felt old . . . already . . . compared to everyone else here.
She felt fat. (Always.)
She felt kind of cute, in her dark jeans and gauzy olive-green sweater . . .
Cherry liked everything she was wearing tonight: Chunky baby blue leather boots that she’d ordered from Denmark. Dangly pink earrings made by a plastics artist she’d found online. A vintage heart-shaped locket that she wore with almost everything.
She had cute clothes—too many cute clothes, probably. She’d taken over their bedroom closet, and then the entire spare bedroom. Tom had had to keep all his shoes and dress clothes in a closet downstairs. (He never made her feel bad about that.) (But also he never wore dress clothes.)
Clothes were important to Cherry—her appearance was important. Every weekday morning, when she rode the elevator to her office on the twelfth floor of the Western Alliance building, she took real satisfaction in seeing her reflection in the mirrored brass doors.
Cherry had always been able to see herself clearly. She had a good eye, and she could turn it on herself. She knew what she was working with.
Like—she had long, thick hair in a beautiful, unusual shade of chestnut brown, and she knew it. She had hazel eyes and thick lashes. Really nice freckles across the bridge of her nose. Dimples. A good smile. Cherry knew all this about herself. She could see it.
Also . . . she was fat.
Not fat like most women think they are. Cherry was actually fat. Objectively. And she knew it. She could say it out loud. She didn’t hide from it.
Cherry came from a long line of fat women. (There were three fat women lighting up her cell phone right now.) She’d been a fat kid, then a fat teenager, and now she was a fat lady.
She knew how she looked, how people saw her—she thought about it constantly. Whatever else Cherry was thinking and doing (which was a lot; if Cherry were a train car, she’d be the locomotive), she was also thinking about being fat.
Cherry was so used to thinking about being fat, she hardly even noticed that she was doing it. She was so used to thinking about being fat, she never thought about it.
There was dog hair on her sleeve. She frowned and plucked it off.
More people were showing up for the concert now. Cherry watched them pour through the door. The crowd was younger than she was expecting. Weren’t these kids too young to know Goldenrod?
Maybe this was just the crowd for every concert here . . . Guys with patchy beards. Girls with blunt haircuts and tattoos creeping up their necks and onto their cheeks. Everyone had tattoos now. Literally, everyone. Even soccer moms and elementary school teachers.