And she knew that her telling him to do it wasn’t going to do the trick.
A week or two later, on a quiet Sunday morning, she bit the bullet. They were finishing breakfast (pancakes and bacon...a lot of bacon). “Hon, why don’t you come to the gym with me today?”
“I’m really busy,” he answered instantly. And it was true; his job as a corporate tax attorney kept him at the firm till late in the evening, and he did work at least for a few hours each weekend.
She covered his hand with hers. “Kev, I love you. You know that. And I’m so excited to be married and have kids and all that good stuff. But I want us to have a long and happy life, and...well...I’m worried that we won’t if you don’t get healthier.”
She knew not to use words like diet or portion control or exercise more and the like. Focus on health and love, the literature had said. She’d read dozens of articles on the subject. Obesity interventions, they called them, and she cringed a little at the phrase.
Kevin looked at her for a long minute. There was hurt in his eyes, and her own welled with tears.
“I just don’t want anything bad to happen to you, babe,” she whispered.
“I could get hit by a bus crossing the street,” he said, a defensive edge creeping into his voice.
“I know. So could I. But—”
“Fine. I’ll go.”
“Really? That’s great!”
“I’m not making any promises. I’ll go once.”
“Thank you.” She kissed him, and he smiled. Her sweet Kevin, the nicest guy in the world. She took him to bed first, to show him how she felt. Yes, he was a big man, but she felt so safe with him, her head on his chest afterward, his heavy arm around her.
They had to stop to buy gym shorts that fit, and Emmaline was horrified at how big they were. The weight had crept on, ten pounds here, another ten there, and somehow or another, Kevin had become immense.
He was quiet on the way to the gym. “You okay?” she asked.
“I’m disgusting.”
“Oh, Kevin! You’re not!” She squeezed his arm. “Honey, you have a big frame, and, yeah, you’re heavy. But we’re doing something about it. Okay?”
He gave a dejected nod.
Em held the door for him, chattering away, hoping to God Naomi wasn’t there. Her goal was just to get him to walk a little on one of the treadmills, make it fun, chat about the wedding, try to keep him distracted, because Kevin hated exercise (obviously). The more painless this could be, the better it could work.
Kevin registered as Em’s guest, signing the waiver they made people sign if they topped the scales at more than 30 percent of their ideal weight.
Kevin weighed almost twice what he should, the skinny, muscular man with bleached teeth told them. His ideal body weight was 188; he weighed 354.
“It’s fantastic that you’re here,” the man said. “Congratulations.”
Kevin mumbled in response. He didn’t make eye contact with Em as they walked to the treadmills, past the weight machines and the muscle-heads screaming with exertion. Kevin was out of breath by the time they got there.
He was dying inside, Em knew. She smiled at him and set the treadmill at the lowest speed. Set hers at the same.
“This was probably the hardest part,” she said in a low voice. “Just walking in the doors.”
Kevin didn’t answer. He bumped up the speed a little higher and started jogging.
Em knew he wouldn’t be able to keep that up. Too much, too soon.
Sure enough, he had to lower the speed a minute later. She pretended not to notice and kept walking, though if she were alone, she’d be running at her usual seven miles an hour.
Then she saw Naomi.
The trainer was wearing microshorts and a sports bra. Her arms curved with perfectly defined, elegant muscle, and her stomach was flat and lean but not ripped. Long, tanned, beautiful legs. Her body was perfect. Not unappealingly muscular...just perfect. There was no other word for it.
And evil personified, because her face changed as her gaze stopped on Kevin. Her hands went to her hips, and she sauntered over, slowly, her eyes narrowing.
“What are you doing in my gym?” she asked Kevin, her voice just shy of yelling. “Really. What the f**k are you doing in my gym?”
All around them, people grew quiet.
“How dare you,” Emmaline said. “Back off, Naomi.”
“Is this your man? Are you here to be supportive? Huh?”
Kevin’s face flushed even redder.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Emmaline bit out. “He’s here. He’s taken the first step, so shut up.”
“Oh, how sweet.” Naomi sneered. “Guess she has the balls in the family, huh, fatty?”
It was nearly dead silent now.
“I’m reporting you,” Em said. “You can’t talk to us this way.”
“Is that right? We’ll see, won’t we?”
“Be quiet,” Kevin muttered.
“Yeah,” Em echoed. “Shut up, Naomi.”
“I was talking to you,” he said.
Emmaline stopped walking, then jerked to a run to avoid being thrown off the treadmill.
“You’re disgusting,” Naomi said, her eyes on Kevin. “You know how much fat you’re carrying right now? Slick, yellow, nasty-ass slabs of fat? Oh, wait, you have a big frame, right? You’re a big guy. Is that what you tell people? Is that what she tells you? You have a slow metabolism? Thyroid problem? Bullshit.”
“I do have a thyroid problem,” he mumbled.
“Right. You’re a fat, lazy food addict, and you make me sick. You’ve done this to yourself. You made yourself disgusting.”
“I have an eating disorder,” Kevin said, his voice meek.
“I have an eating disorder,” she mimicked. “No, you don’t. You have no self-control, no self-respect, and you’re lying to yourself. I bet she lies to you, too. ‘I love you just the way you are, honey!’ Right?” Naomi looked around at the other gym members, who were unabashedly staring. “Well, guess what? Everyone here looks at you and thinks you’re grotesque. No one cares about your great sense of humor and beautiful mind.”
“That’s not true! Stop it!” Emmaline yelped.
“Shut up,” Kevin ground out.
He had never said anything like that to her. Ever.
Naomi reached over and pushed the stop button on Kevin’s treadmill. He was drenched in sweat; the seven minutes they’d spent walking just now was more exercise than he’d had in a long time.
“Get out,” she said. “Go home, lard-ass. Order a pizza. Bet you have Domino’s on speed dial.”
Just last night, Em had made a big salad with grilled chicken; Kevin had a huge serving, then called for a pizza. Extra cheese.
Now he just stood there, his head hanging.
“You want to lose weight, lard-ass? It’s not gonna happen from climbing on a treadmill twice a week. You think just walking in this door is enough? It’s not. You may as well not even try.”
“Jesus,” Emmaline breathed. “Honey, let’s go. There are plenty of other—”
“What do I have to do?” Kevin asked.
Naomi smiled. “Every f**king thing I say.”
It went against all the literature. It went against everything her parents had said. Bullying wasn’t supposed to work. Humiliation wasn’t supposed to motivate.
Kevin signed up for a six-month membership with two hours of personal training a day.
“Why?” Emmaline asked as they went to the car. “I don’t get it, Kevin.”
“She told me the truth,” he said. He wouldn’t look at her.
When they got home, he went straight to the bathroom and turned on the shower. A minute later, she heard him crying. It broke her heart, but he wouldn’t unlock the door when she knocked.
He didn’t eat for the rest of the day.
The next day, he wasn’t there when she got home from work. She texted him; he didn’t answer. Around nine, he came in, sweaty and red-faced, a stiff new SweatWorld gym bag in his hand.
“Hey!” she said. “How was it?”
“Good.”
“Um...honey, I’m so glad you’re doing this, but do you think Naomi is the best person to—”
“Yeah. I do. Thanks.”
Three days later, he came home from the gym with a list in his hand and, without further ado, opened their cupboards and began tossing everything into the trash, making disgusted noises as he read labels.
“What are you doing?” she asked, retrieving a can of chicken stock. “Come on! That’s not even opened!”
“It’s poison,” he said. “Look at the sodium count.” He gave her a condemning look. She did the grocery shopping, after all. He picked up a packet of pad thai sauce and tossed it in the trash.
“Okay, hon, we can donate this to the food pantry. But can you tell me what’s going on?” He tossed an unopened box of Special K, which she snatched. She loved cereal. “Are we going gluten-free or something?”
“Yeah. And sugar-free and dairy-free.”
“What’s left?” she asked, trying to make a joke.
He turned on her. “Do you think this is funny? Look at me. I’m sickening.”
“No, Kevin, you’re not.”
He rolled his eyes and went back to the purge.
That weekend, he was so sore he could barely put on his pants. But he went to the gym, anyway. “Naomi says pain is weakness leaving the body,” he told her.
She went with him, but Naomi ignored her, preferring instead to screech at Kevin, calling him lazy, a quitter, a slug. Twice Em had to go to the ladies’ room to cry.
“I think it would be best if you and I went to the gym at different times,” he told her on the way home. “I appreciate the support, but I need to focus.”
“But...well, sure. Whatever you need, babe. Whatever works.”
“Thanks,” he said, squeezing her hand.
Naomi took Kevin grocery shopping, and when Em saw the receipt, she yelped; two bags of gluten-free, dairy-free, sugar-free, organic food cost more than she spent in a month.
All through the fall, he kept it up. He ate only lean protein and hard-to-digest vegetables and lumpy shakes made from green powder and soy milk. Quinoa and flax and wheatgrass. Egg-white omelets and raw broccoli, grilled fish and red peppers. He did fasts and cleanses and purges. The bathroom smelled ghastly. His sex drive dropped.
And all he could talk about was working out. “Naomi says” became the two words that began most of his sentences. Caloric load, adipose, anaerobic, layered eating... It was all they ever talked about. Well. All Kevin ever talked about.
He did, however, start to lose weight.
Nine pounds the first month. Eleven the second. In December, they had a big fight over her wanting to bake Christmas cookies to send to her parents and Angela. Kevin said they “couldn’t afford the risk” of her baking something not in his diet plan.
She baked the cookies anyway when he was at work, boxed them up, sealed them with packing tape and addressed them, then went for a run. When she came home, she found Angela’s package ripped open and a furious Kevin. He’d eaten at least a dozen cookies, he said, and it was her fault. She threw temptation in his path when he was at a vulnerable point, and how was that being supportive?
“See, I thought I was baking cookies for my family,” Em said frostily. “I didn’t realize I was such a temptress.”
“Laugh it up. You’ll be crying over my coffin if you can’t support me.”
“I do support you! And, my God, I’m so sick of that word!”
“I have to go to the gym,” he said with a martyred air. “And I’ll have to fast now for three days. Please have the rest of the cookies removed from our apartment when I get back.”