The Best Years - by Big Beautiful Dreamer (~BBW, ~BHM, ~~WG, Mutual, Romance)

[Big Beautiful Dreamer]

~BBW, ~BHM, ~~WG, Mutual, Romance - An unexpected reunion has equally unexpected results.

The Best Years
by Big Beautiful Dreamer​

“Excuse me.”

Startled out of my wool-gathering, I looked up. There was a woman standing by my booth, and she wasn’t the waitress. I blinked.

“I’m sorry ... this is a really stupid question ... you wouldn’t happen to be Ed Fanhagen, would you?” She blushed, turning alabaster apple cheeks rosy.

Well now, how to answer that one? I was, in fact. If she was a scam artist, she was kind of a cute one.

“I am, yes.” I closed my eyes for a second to dispel the pomposity in my tone. Then I looked back up at her, eyebrows quirked. “And ...?”

“Oh! Sally. Sally Millwright?”

“Sally. From Glens Falls High? Really?” I stood up and stepped out of the booth. “Sally?” We both frankly eyed each other up and down. In high school, which was ten years ago, I’d been on both the track team and the baseball team and my 5'11" frame, with nicely broad shoulders, supported a cleanly muscled torso and strong legs. I’d worked summers for a moving company. Now, however, I had a desk job for a publishing company and what had once been a hundred and seventy-five pounds was dangerously close to two hundred, most of it in my gut. I sucked it in, but since I’d just cleaned my plate of a cheeseburger and a pile of fries, nothing moved. Damn.

Sally had been about five five with a compact, hourglass figure. Not ideal for the preppy look that then prevailed, but I’d always enjoyed the back view of her walking down the hall. And the front view. But she’d dated mostly drama club members and we’d been acquaintances, nothing more.

Now, her long, artificially crinkled hair was cut in a shining pageboy, brown with glints of blond. Her face was fuller than I remembered, and a pink sweater was stretched over a little bit thicker waist. But her smile was still full wattage, and there was a stab of memory at the way she thrust her chin up as if waiting for a response.

One she expected, with cheerful optimism, to be a happy one.

“Sally!” I said again, now dependent on volume to cover up my long staring session. “Wow. Um, um, how long have you been living in Boston?”

“About a month,” she said, blushing. “I was engaged to a medical student at Tufts.”

“Oh. Oh ... you was? Um, you were?”

“Yeah,” she said with a little catch in her voice. “He married a classmate over fall break.”

Oh.

“Hey,” I said. “Can I buy you lunch?”

“Oh no,” she protested, sitting down. “No...”

“I insist,” I said. “You’re new in Boston and I’ve lived here for ten years now. Let me.”

I drank a cup of coffee to keep her company and also, frankly, to settle my stomach. I came here only about once a month. Every time, I’d wonder why I didn’t come here more often, and every time, afterward, I’d remember. Their portions were huge, and I always felt a little queasy afterward. More ready for a nap than for an afternoon of work. I tried to fill such afternoons with paperwork to avoid making a fairly large editing mistake.

“I’ve started temping in the HR department of a company that makes Post Office supplies,” Sally was saying. “I think they might hire me on.”

“Where are you living?”

“Oh ...” her voice thickened. “Charles moved into her apartment. He’s given me thirty days to find a new place.”

I bit my lip. It took an act of the gods to find an affordable apartment in Boston ... on temp office wages ...

“I’ve got a couch,” I found myself saying. “You can stay as long as you want.”

By the time it was dark that Saturday evening, we had her moved in and were more than ready to phone for pizza. They had a two-for-one deal, so we did.

Exhausted, sweaty, and pleased with ourselves, we sat flumped side by side on the sofa and caught up. My mistake, too-fast marriage my senior year in college, my momentary wife quickly running off with a building contractor and settling in northwest Georgia. Her scum of a medical student who was disgusted that she wanted to wait until marriage.

“It’s not actually true,” Sally finished. She’d had a few beers and her voice was getting a little fuzzy.

“Which part?” I hiccupped. I suppose I had finished off the other three beers. And my stomach was full up with pepperoni. I was eating out of habit now, finishing the fat slice in my hand.

“The waiting till marriage.”

I shot her a glance.

“I didn’t want him to see me ... naked.”

“Hummm?”

“I’m ... pudgy. He said so himself. He’d hug me from behind, then pinch my tummy. ‘Pinch an inch,’ he’d say, kind of sing-song. Then he’d pat my tushy.” Sally took a huge bite of her slice in an effort to quell the puddling tears.

“What a rat,” I said fiercely. I meant it. I’d noticed that Sally was a little cushier than in high school, but who wasn’t? I bet Doctor Scum was buckling his belt a little looser. I shoved the end of the slice in so I could finish up and be free to keep talking. It went down a little too fast and I winced at the resulting pain in my sternum. With my free hand, I rubbed it.

“Oof. That’s really–hic–ugly of him.”

“Well, it’s true.”

“Sally. Happens. Look.” I stood up, wincing at the stiffness in my knees. I rubbed a hand back and forth, half-exposing my sloppy belly, now stuffed with pizza and beer. “I didn’t used to carry my own personal spare tire.”

She sniffed, then giggled weakly.

“Anyway. Charles is now unhappily married and you are now happily in possession of a roommate. Urp.” And with that, followed by a huge yawn, I took off for the bedroom. I had chivalrously tried to give her possession, but she insisted on the couch.

I climbed somewhat ponderously into bed, but at once my aching stomach communicated that lying on my back was unwise. The weight of what now seemed like a lot of pizza pressed down, my sides stretched, my gut distended, and my head was a little loose from several beers. I grunted and uffed my way over onto my side, feeling the heavy slosh of my stomach. After several more spicy belches, I fell asleep.

When I woke up, my nose immediately informed me that there were advantages to the roommate thing. As I now recalled having heard, Sally had majored in home ec at college, which was hard to do now. I think they called it domestic science anymore. I shuffled drowsily out, unthinkingly scratching my stomach. That must have looked lovely.

“Morning,” Sally sang, plunking a coffee mug onto the kitchen table. I picked it up and swallowed a large mouthful. Mmm. Sally placed a plate in front of me. Eggs, sausage, a couple of doughnuts. Huh?

“I’m an early riser,” she said, sliding into a seat opposite. “I did a little marketing.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled around a mouthful of doughnut. I happily cleaned my plate, had two servings of stewed apples, and insisted on at least doing the dishes. Somehow we made history of the rest of the doughnuts while we worked our way through the Sunday paper. Sally made chicken and dumplings, which called for a nap, then a walk in the park, then dinner.

Of course, no roommate arrangement goes completely without glitches. I had to polite up my bachelor habits, such as padding around in my boxer shorts, leaving the seat up, and considering items within a foot of the clothes hamper being “close enough.”

Sally was bad about misplacing her key and had to be persuaded that I didn’t want to see her “feminine supplies” strewn on the counter, and we had a couple of discussions when one of us was out late enough for concern without reporting in. Sally was a dynamite cook and laughed at my offers to share. If I did the dishes, that was terrific payback as far as she was concerned.

Neither one of us seemed to want to date anyone ... but we weren’t dating each other. Nope, nuh-uh, no way.

Right?

Just as well, because instead of winging it on meals, I was now being fed three squares a day, with a full cooky jar in the kitchen besides, and my mushy little desk-job belly swelled like a spare tire being filled with air. Ugh, unfortunate metaphor, that. I had a spare tire all right, one I could practically have kept in the trunk. Speaking of which, I seemed to have more junk in my trunk too. My chin became a pair of chins, and when I lay on my side in bed I could feel a cushion of cheek being squashed against the pillow. My profile in bed spread a lot farther forward and took up a lot more space.

Sally was filling out too – blooming, to my eyes. The T shirt and sloppy shorts she affected when not going anywhere were shrinking a tad. Her hourglass figure became more like a stack of marshmallows, and I was beginning to find that I wanted very much to nibble and lick that stack. Why in the world hadn’t we ever dated each other in high school?

One evening after having killed a bottle of wine, we lazily turned the pages of our senior annual. There was a picture of Sally helping make a bulletin board display. She was on tiptoe. Her figure seemed skinnier than I remembered, and her tugged-up sweater revealed a concave belly, her Jordache jeans hugging an uninspiring backside. Add to that her mane of frizz and too much lip gloss, and she wasn’t the least bit attractive to me.

Another page flip and there I was trotting around the track, winning a race. My legs seemed scrawny beneath the nylon shorts, my torso not muscular but chicken-like, my shoulders pathetic, my face almost hollow-cheeked. Yuck.

We glanced at each other. “Oof, who says high school is the best years of your life?” Sally said, laughing. A little tipsy.

“Cheerleaders,” I said. “Hic.” I closed my eyes and leaned my head against her shoulder. She stroked my hair.

“Mmm,” she murmured. “Take me to bed.”

“Umm?”

“Please.”

Slowly, fumblingly, she undid the buttons of my shirt, now untucked, and tugged off my undershirt. There was my gut in all its pudgy glory, pale and flopped into a couple of rolls of flab, hanging over the waistband of my trousers, with my once-firm pecs soggy and spreading. My midsection seemed stuffed into my pants, and when Sally undid the waistband, I felt instant relief.

I pushed her shorts down, lingering a bit more than necessary to get them past the curves of her backside and lush rounding of her hips, then drew the shirt up, tossed it aside, and slowly traced a wobbly line up and down her cushy front, wriggling a fingertip in the belly button, cradling the warmth of her softening tummy, gently bobbling a ripening breast.

Oh, boy.

Our coupling was slow, intimate, somehow holy, as though we had both come home. Afterward neither of us spoke for what seemed like years. Sally nestled her head on my squashy chest, idly rubbing my gut, while my hand stroked her soft shoulders, the delectable curves of her back, and fondled her fascinatingly thickening heart-shaped backside.

There might have been a happy ending in the proximate future had it not been for the next day. It was a Saturday and we were touristing around the Fulton Fish Market when we heard a drawling patrician voice.

“Sally?” I felt Sally stiffen and heard her intake of breath.

The man had to be Doctor Scum. Doctor-to-be Scum. He had a couple of inches on me and (of course) the rugged good looks, broad shoulders, and trim waist of an outdoor model. A stethoscope was casually stuffed into the pocket of his expensive down vest. He had his arm around the waist of a breathakingly pretty girl with an obviously pregnant belly.

Sally’s chin went up. I took the initiative.

“Hi, I’m Ed Fanhagen, friend of Sally’s. You must be Charles.”

“Charles Fanthorpe,” he drawled, not moving his lips, and languidly extended a smooth and pampered hand. He eyed me up and down, then, more slowly, did the same with Sally. He and the girl were both dressed in casual-but-costly duds, while Sally and I were straining the seams of well-worn clothes that got worn a lot because they were among the few items in our wardrobes that still (sort of) fit. I was sure I was well past two hundred pounds, and all I knew of Sally was that her ever-changing landscape got more bounteously lovely every day.

“My ... wife, Martina,” Charles was adding. Martina smirked.

“Charmed,” she said. Really, she did.

“Well,” Sally said softly. “Congratulations.”

Martina giggled and patted her tummy. “Thank you.” She gave Sally one more searching look. “When are you due?”

“March,” I said quickly, and tugged Sally’s arm. “Sorry, we’re late for the doctor’s appointment.” I quick-marched her along until I was sure they were well out of sight and hearing, then I sat Sally down on a bench and fished for my handkerchief.

I kept quiet while she had her cry, then tugged her to her feet. “Come on.” I steered her into a coffee shop for tea and a scone, and she absently nibbled at it.

“You’re so well rid of that jerk I can’t tell you,” I began.

“Ed ... don’t,” Sally said softly. “Just let me curl in on myself for a little while.”

Sally spent most of the rest of the weekend in bed, claiming to be coming down with something. When I got home Monday evening, there were no enticing smells greeting me. Sally was on the couch reading a magazine.

“Look in the freezer,” she said flatly. It was stocked to the brim with diet frozen meals. I bit my lip and heated a couple up, but she shook her head when I offered her one. I ate them both, went to bed early, and lay there listening to my stomach growl.

This miserable state of affairs went on all week until Friday, when I persuaded her to Legal Seafood. I got a drink into her and then poured out my carefully prepared speech.

“Sally Millwright. You grow more lovely with every passing day. That scum will ignore, mistreat, and probably leave his wife once he discovers that a postpartum figure seldom looks as good as the prepartum one. Meanwhile, I am lucky enough to be sharing an apartment with a woman who started out pretty and is rapidly heading to gorgeous.

“I love you, Sally. I love your apple cheeks, the dimples when you smile, the cuddly part under your chin. I love the way your hands look like little birds when you talk, I love your impossibly soft shoulders and your lovely ripening bosom and the warm soft welcome of your tummy in bed and ...” I took a breath ... “and the impossible flare of your hips and the generous heart-shaped treasure of your backside. I love the lushness of your thighs and the indescribable curve of your calves and your plump little toesies and I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who literally gets prettier every day. Do not ever even try to get rid of one ounce of your gorgeousness.” I stopped for a gulp of beer.

Sally’s lips twitched. Then she shoved a large bite of appetizer into my mouth.

“You, Ed Fanhagen, you better stop trying to suck in your gut because you’re a lot better looking when you let your tummy be itself,” she replied, and shoved another large bite into my mouth. “And if I’m feeding you, someone better be feeding me right back.”

So I did.

 

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