After a moment, Cam says, “Reality’s settin’ in.”

“I literally thought those exact words not two minutes ago.”

“Great minds think alike. Is my dinner ready yet?”

Despite my worry, I have to smile. “Yes, evil overlord, your dinner is ready.” I remove his plate from the microwave, check it to make sure there are no cold spots, and set it in front of him with a knife and fork. “Why are you eating so late, anyway? You told me I shouldn’t eat after seven p.m.”

He digs into his food without preamble, sawing a big chunk of the chicken off and stuffing it into his mouth. We eat the same way, all flashing utensils and sighs of pleasure, savoring every bite like it’s our last meal before the electric chair. How he can enjoy watching me eat I’ll never know. Although admittedly I’m getting quite a bit of enjoyment watching him tear through that piece of chicken.

That he likes my cooking so much gives me a weird kind of happiness, a fizzy little starburst of sunshine glowing inside my chest.

“Didn’t eat today except for lunch,” he says around a mouthful, his attention on the plate. “Don’t have much in the apartment except stuff for our mornin’ shakes and the odd sandwich.”

“So go shopping! What have you been doing for dinner since our last supper?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Nothin’.”

I’m dismayed. “You haven’t been eating? How do you have the energy to do our workouts in the morning?”

He glances up at me and winks. “’Tis the thought of you that keeps me goin’, lass.”

My eye roll is extravagant. “Okay. That’s it. We’re going back to our nightly dinners. I can’t have my trainer dying on me—I’m almost halfway to my weight-loss goal.”

Cam stops chewing and stares at me. He swallows and wipes his mouth with his hand. “You have a specific number in mind?”

“Yeah. Forty pounds. What did you think this was about, my love for kale and early-morning jogs in subzero temperatures?”

“Forty pounds? I thought you just wanted to get into shape?”

“I do! I am!”

He sits back in his chair and examines me closely, a furrow forming between his brows.

“What’s that look? You’re making me nervous.”

“It’s your body, lass. If you wanna shrink it, that’s your decision. But if I could offer an opinion . . .”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

He says softly, “You look great. Truly. If you were payin’ me to be your trainer, I’d advise you to stop tryin’ to lose weight and focus on healthy eatin’ habits and gainin’ strength, endurance, and flexibility from your workouts. And, most importantly, practicin’ gratitude for the body you’ve got.”

“Practicing gratitude,” I repeat doubtfully.

He nods. “You’re healthy. You’re whole. Your body does whatever you ask it to. There are millions of people who live with chronic pain or physical disabilities who would gladly trade places with you.”

When I screw my face up following that little speech, he sighs.

“Your body isn’t a thing to be looked at and judged against some standard of perfection that doesn’t even really exist. It’s the vessel that takes you through life, allowin’ you to experience all the beautiful things life has to offer. Food. Sex. Sunsets. Music. Hugs. Laughter. A healthy body is a gift. Don’t take it for granted. Don’t treat it like some cheap one-night stand. Treat it like the love of your life. Treat it with respect and tenderness, but most of all, gratitude.

“And a healthy dose of awe, too. Your body is made of remnants of stars and massive explosions in the galaxies. Every few years, the bulk of your body is newly created by the regeneration of your cells, but you have things in you that are as old as the universe. We’re literally stardust. Every one of us is a little miracle. You’re a miracle, Joellen. Think about that the next time you’re standin’ naked in front of the mirror and want to focus on some stray dimple you don’t like.”

He digs into his meal again, as if he hasn’t just completely rocked my world.

I’m a miracle? Who says stuff like that?

“You’re thinkin’ again, lass,” says Cam, chewing. “I can hear the gears turnin’.”

“There’s no way you’re only twenty-nine.”

He grins around a mouthful of chicken. “Why, ’cause I’m so enlightened? Maybe I’m the latest reincarnation of the Buddha, you ever think of that?”

“Oh yes. You’re very enlightened. I can tell from the girly pink robe.”

Cam looks up at me, hazel eyes sparkling. “Exactly,” he pronounces. “Great title for another sonnet about me, don’tcha think? ‘The Man in the Girly Pink Robe.’ I can see it now. Full o’ tender endearments about my extreme lovability. You can work on it tomorrow and show it to me at dinner.”

We smile at each other, Mr. Bingley jumps up onto Cam’s lap and curls into a ball, and I push away the little voice in my head whispering how the man in the girly pink robe will soon be gone from my life forever.

TWENTY-NINE

The man in the girly pink robe and I

Sit on a bench in the park discussing the weather.

He speaks of stardust and miracles while I sigh,

Wondering how it’s so effortless to be together

With someone so different from me, yet the same,

Over laughter and food our friendship is dawning.

Yet strip away the smiling outer shells—what remains?

Two hearts in darkness, filled with unbearable longing.

Pink robes can mask pain as well as spare flesh

Can be used as somewhere to hide.

Each time we meet I’m moved afresh

By his eloquence, his beauty, his pride.

The man in the girly pink robe is like home

The safest and strongest and best that I’ve known.

“I must be getting my period,” I mutter, angrily wiping the tears from my eyes. “This is ridiculous.”

I stand, place my sonnet book back into the top drawer of my desk in my bedroom, and look out the window. It’s snowing. Flakes float sideways past the pane, gathering in white drifts like dustings of sugar on the corners of the sill.

It’s Saturday the twenty-third. The office holiday party starts in three hours.

I’m officially freaking out.

I didn’t sleep at all last night. Or the night before. Or the night before that. Dinner with Cam a few days ago left me raw in ways I didn’t expect and didn’t feel right away. It wasn’t until after he left that night that I got to thinking about what he’d said about having gratitude for my body instead of treating it like a one-night stand.

For some reason that really resonated.

The first time I went on a diet, I was twelve. I hadn’t even gotten my period yet. My mother, on the other hand, had recently turned forty and was inconsolable. Her grief at passing that milestone age was like a black shroud that hung over the house. Everyone spoke in muted tones and tiptoed around for almost a month as if someone had died.

One night at dinner when I reached for a roll from the bread basket in the middle of the table, my mother slapped my hand. “You’ve had enough,” she said tonelessly, looking at my waistline. My sister—beautiful even at nine—snickered.

That was all it took. I remember the moment clearly. It was the last time I put anything into my mouth without feeling guilt.