Read Online Life in the Fat Lane by Cherie Bennett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cherie Bennett
Ads: Link
was a nude young woman on her knees, head thrown back, hands raised to the sky. The engraved copper plate on the pedestal read THINGS I CANNOT CHANGE .
“This is so beautiful,” I told Jett, barely touching the cool marble with one finger.
“It’s my favorite piece of Mom’s,” Jett said. “It’s just … it’s all feeling. Like when you play the piano.”
He understood. I reached up and kissed him. He kissed me back.
“What’s it like, having your mom be so famous?”
He shrugged. “She had a piece in the Museum of Modern Art by the time I was two, so I have no basis of comparison.” He sat on the sofa.
“What do you think it means, ‘Things I Cannot Change’?”
He thought a moment. “That everything isn’t in our control, even though we want it to be.”
I was still standing by the sculpture. “You think she’s happy or angry or what?”
“I say both,” he decided. “Happy to believe in a power greater than she is, and angry that she has to surrender to it.”
I sat down next to Jett. “I believe we create our own destiny.”
“Yeah, but there’s a lot we just don’t control.”
“A lot of times that’s just an excuse,” I said firmly.
“But a lot of times it isn’t.” Jett sipped his Coke and lifted a lock of my hair. “Sometimes …”
“What?”
“Sometimes I wish I were a musician,” he mused.
“Or—I don’t know—a photographer. Anything but an artist.”
“Because you think people will compare you to your mom?”
“No, because I
know
people will compare me to my mom.” He sighed. “Hey, how about if I build a fire?”
“That’d be great. I can never get a fire started.”
“Don’t be impressed—my parents bought these fake cheater logs,” he explained as he knelt in front of the fireplace and held a match to the synthetic log. The flame took. He got up and turned out the light, then came back to me on the couch.
“Nice,” I said. I leaned my head against his shoulder, his arm around me. Slowly he turned toward me, holding my hair away from my face. He looked so beautiful in the firelight.
“I think about going to Europe, you know?” he confessed. “To art school? And changing my name, just so no one will know I’m her son.”
I didn’t say a word.
“Sometimes I think that’s all I’ll ever be—famous artist Anastasia Anston’s son.”
“No,” I said firmly. “Someday she’ll be famous artist Jett Anston’s mother.”
And then he kissed me, softly at first, and then more passionately.
“Jett, I—I …,” I said breathlessly.
“What?”
I didn’t know what to say. I want us to make love? I
don’t
want us to make love?
“The light on your skin is so beautiful,” Jett said. He got up from the couch. “I’ll be right back.”
I sat there, panicked. Please, God, I thought, don’t let him come back in here naked. No, he would never do that. He could never—
His
sketchpad
. He came back in with his
sketchpad
.
I had totally forgotten that was why we were supposed to be there.
Without a word he stretched one hand out to me, and I took it. He lifted me off the couch. And that’s when he said it.
“Take off your clothes,” he whispered.
“What?”
“So I can draw you.”
“Not
naked
!”
“But, Lara, you’re so beautiful—”
Not anymore! Not with eighteen pounds of hideous fat on my body! Why, oh why, couldn’t this moment have come just a few weeks later, when I would be thin again?
“I am
not
taking off my clothes,” I said firmly, crossing my arms over my breasts.
He reached out for me. “Look, if you think this is some sophomoric bid to get your clothes off—”
“Forget it.” I moved away from him.
“Okay, okay,” he said, holding his hands up.
“Just forget it,” I repeated, my arms still wrapped around my body.
“Look, I said okay.” His voice had an edge to it.
I sat back down on the couch. He sat next to me.
“I’ll draw your portrait. Neck up.”
The mood was
“This is so beautiful,” I told Jett, barely touching the cool marble with one finger.
“It’s my favorite piece of Mom’s,” Jett said. “It’s just … it’s all feeling. Like when you play the piano.”
He understood. I reached up and kissed him. He kissed me back.
“What’s it like, having your mom be so famous?”
He shrugged. “She had a piece in the Museum of Modern Art by the time I was two, so I have no basis of comparison.” He sat on the sofa.
“What do you think it means, ‘Things I Cannot Change’?”
He thought a moment. “That everything isn’t in our control, even though we want it to be.”
I was still standing by the sculpture. “You think she’s happy or angry or what?”
“I say both,” he decided. “Happy to believe in a power greater than she is, and angry that she has to surrender to it.”
I sat down next to Jett. “I believe we create our own destiny.”
“Yeah, but there’s a lot we just don’t control.”
“A lot of times that’s just an excuse,” I said firmly.
“But a lot of times it isn’t.” Jett sipped his Coke and lifted a lock of my hair. “Sometimes …”
“What?”
“Sometimes I wish I were a musician,” he mused.
“Or—I don’t know—a photographer. Anything but an artist.”
“Because you think people will compare you to your mom?”
“No, because I
know
people will compare me to my mom.” He sighed. “Hey, how about if I build a fire?”
“That’d be great. I can never get a fire started.”
“Don’t be impressed—my parents bought these fake cheater logs,” he explained as he knelt in front of the fireplace and held a match to the synthetic log. The flame took. He got up and turned out the light, then came back to me on the couch.
“Nice,” I said. I leaned my head against his shoulder, his arm around me. Slowly he turned toward me, holding my hair away from my face. He looked so beautiful in the firelight.
“I think about going to Europe, you know?” he confessed. “To art school? And changing my name, just so no one will know I’m her son.”
I didn’t say a word.
“Sometimes I think that’s all I’ll ever be—famous artist Anastasia Anston’s son.”
“No,” I said firmly. “Someday she’ll be famous artist Jett Anston’s mother.”
And then he kissed me, softly at first, and then more passionately.
“Jett, I—I …,” I said breathlessly.
“What?”
I didn’t know what to say. I want us to make love? I
don’t
want us to make love?
“The light on your skin is so beautiful,” Jett said. He got up from the couch. “I’ll be right back.”
I sat there, panicked. Please, God, I thought, don’t let him come back in here naked. No, he would never do that. He could never—
His
sketchpad
. He came back in with his
sketchpad
.
I had totally forgotten that was why we were supposed to be there.
Without a word he stretched one hand out to me, and I took it. He lifted me off the couch. And that’s when he said it.
“Take off your clothes,” he whispered.
“What?”
“So I can draw you.”
“Not
naked
!”
“But, Lara, you’re so beautiful—”
Not anymore! Not with eighteen pounds of hideous fat on my body! Why, oh why, couldn’t this moment have come just a few weeks later, when I would be thin again?
“I am
not
taking off my clothes,” I said firmly, crossing my arms over my breasts.
He reached out for me. “Look, if you think this is some sophomoric bid to get your clothes off—”
“Forget it.” I moved away from him.
“Okay, okay,” he said, holding his hands up.
“Just forget it,” I repeated, my arms still wrapped around my body.
“Look, I said okay.” His voice had an edge to it.
I sat back down on the couch. He sat next to me.
“I’ll draw your portrait. Neck up.”
The mood was
Similar Books
