The Right Fit by Daphne Dubois

No one was more surprised to be sitting on a park bench in the dead of winter, pretending to read a romance paperback, than Maxine. After a month’s worth of emails, she finally agreed to go on a blind date. She told him she’d be wearing a long white coat with a red scarf. She had arrived a half hour early, nervous and unsure. To kill time, she’d gone into a small bookstore close to the front gate of the park. A leftover Valentine’s Day rack of staff picks of romantic books was still on display. On a whim, Maxine picked out the one with a formally dressed couple in each other’s arms, Waiting for Fate. A sign, she decided.

Earlier, when she was getting ready in her apartment, Maxine turned to the mirror on the back of her bedroom door knowing she’d need her spandex girdle for today’s escapade. The green Dior dress with the vixen neckline had been too good of a find at Carmine’s second hand shop to pass up, but she knew even with the size discrepancy of the vintage outfit, it was still a tight squeeze. Carmine had told her it was a dress made for seduction. She bought it on the spot, planning to lose enough weight for it to fit perfectly.

Maxine’s shoulders drooped at her reflection. “I changed my mind,” she’d said. “I’m not going.”

“That’s fear talking,” Crosby’s voice came from the inside of Maxine’s closet. There was a grunt then a curse as shoeboxes tumbled from the upper shelf.

Maxine’s heart moved to her throat as her younger sister stumbled backward out of the closet.

Crosby easily gained her footing, even in her stilettos and tight pencil skirt. She’d taken an early lunch from work and had arrived at Maxine’s apartment to help her get ready. She held out a pair of black patent heels. “Wear these, they’re adorable,” she ordered, the shoes dangling from her fingers.

“I can’t wear those in the snow.”

“But they match the dress,” she insisted, her tone defiant, indignant even.

Maxine zeroed in on the long white box still tucked away on the upper shelf. Still unopened. Still safe. Her pulse calmed.

Instead of taking the shoes, she began to play the usual ‘pull and tug’ game with the dress, trying to make it longer, wider—the right fit.

The right fit had eluded Maxine ever since puberty. Now, at twenty-seven she had to contend with wearing body squeezing, seamless shapewear under almost everything she owned, which as Crosby pointed out on a regular basis, were wardrobe leftovers from black and white movies.

“Stop stalling,” Crosby said. “You’ve blown this date off too many times, Maxie.” Then her voice softened. “You deserve this bit of adventure.”

A wave of heated embarrassment rose up Maxine’s neck. It was bad enough that her heart had been broken, but the fact everyone knew how was almost as painful as the physical ache in her chest every night— especially every time she looked at that damn box in the closet.

An image superimposed itself, buoyed from a memory she’d never be able to suppress. Maxine could see the box’s contents strewn across the floor while she stood dumbfounded in the doorway, staring at the couple on her bed.

She blinked hard to erase the vision, but the voices were still in her head, burned into her memory like a scar.

“Yes, Johnny. Oh God, right there, baby.”

A nudge brought Maxine out of her daydream. Crosby took Maxine by the shoulders. “It’s been almost six months,” she said.

Six months and five days.

Crosby continued, “You need to move on.” “Actually, I need my girdle.”

“You also need a bit of fun, something exciting!” Crosby thrust the shoes at her sister. “Wonderful, meaningless, rebound sex with a nice, temporary guy whose main purpose is to give you back your confidence.” She then motioned to the bed. “And you’re not going to meet him if you keep loafing around eating Winkies and watching Dynasty reruns.”

Maxine’s laptop was permanently in place on the left side of her double bed—her new bedmate it would seem. “But I’m really good at loafing around,” Maxine rebutted. “It’s important to know your strengths. Besides,” she said, tucking a generous wave of red hair behind her ear, “you can’t shame the Carringtons. Those rich people had to deal with family drama every week while still looking good in shoulder pads. The Kardashians could learn a thing or two from that show, you know.”

Crosby gave her a smile that was a mix of relief and amusement. “Don’t worry, just go with the flow.” She motioned to the bed again.

“I’m only meeting him to see what he’s like and maybe grab a coffee together. You make it sound like we’ll be hitting some sleazy motel.”

“Oh please, Maxie. You cleaned your apartment. Plus, there’s an antipasto tray from The Blue Olive and two bottles of wine in the fridge.” She grinned. “You’re bringing a man back here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, that’s how I always celebrate Tuesday.” Then Maxine lowered her voice, feeling a twinge of shame nestle under her ribs. “You didn’t tell Rose, did you?” she asked. Her other sister, Crosby’s identical twin, was the epitome of caution and logic, plus working as a reporter for the crime section of the Globe and Mail made Rose naturally suspicious of any potential danger.

Crosby snorted then said, “I only told her you were going to coffee with a new friend. No fun intended.”

Maxine turned to the mirror for one last inspection; she’d spent an hour on her makeup making sure she had the right look to match her vintage dress. Makeup never let her down. No matter how ill-fitting her clothes, her lipstick always looked good. She then glanced at her fresh manicure, the white pearl color went nicely with her winter coat, plus it was called Fate. How much more of a sign did she need?

But now, waiting on the park bench, she felt an awful foreboding of mortification, and wished she’d called it off. Her long white coat made her look like a plump snowman. The high heels made her thick calves monstrous by comparison. And instead of a scarf, she should have worn a hat, something to keep her long hair from swirling around her face every time the breeze picked up.

The man she’d agreed to meet was a friend of a friend of a co-worker who knew someone in Crosby’s office. He was a high school history teacher, divorced for over a year—no kids. He admitted all of this upfront to Maxine in his first email. He’d been liberal with the adjectives and never used capitals. She replied and since then they’d been emailing each other every day.

He’d sent her a picture of himself; shaggy blond hair, sunglasses in place, sunburnt cheeks and smiling at the camera. She could tell his arm was around someone’s shoulder—someone who had been cropped out of the picture. He told her she looked like an actress he couldn’t remember the name of, someone from long ago. Maxine’s head shot had been taken at a flattering angle, accentuating her eyes while hiding her double chin.

The wind picked up, Maxine adjusted the scarf. She uncrossed then crossed her legs at the ankle, cursing the heels and thin nylons. Footsteps crunched over the icy gravel path. Suddenly nervous, she raised the romance book in front of her face, peeking over the pages like some kind of cartoon spy, but the walker kept going.

The minutes dragged on. A dull ache of misery began to creep into her thoughts. Her blind date was fifteen minutes late.

There was a flash of neon as a jogger with bright sneakers went by, a toque pulled down low with wraparound sunglasses shielded his face. There was two days’ worth of dark stubble. She turned and watched until he disappeared around the far corner. He was huge actually, like a muscled lumberjack, not the typical svelte body type of someone who was crazy enough to run all year round.

Maxine never understood the compulsion, especially marathon runners. Why would anyone want to do anything steady with no stopping for hours at a time? She couldn’t even do the things she liked for that long, well, unless sleeping counted—and maybe watching movies on her laptop.

She stared at the space she last saw the jogger and frowned, realizing he’d passed by when she’d first sat down. Must be doing laps. She wondered how long it would take him to reach her again. The pages of the book flipped under her thumb.

Footsteps neared. She turned frontward again and watched as a slim man in a black leather jacket and jeans approached her. Maxine lowered the book, slipping the receipt into a random spot before closing the cover. “Hello,” she said, hating how her voice quivered.