Jamie (Part Three)

One evening in late October, a knock on my door interrupted my studies. And by my studies, I mean watching The History Channel and using Napster to download as much music as my computer could hold.

I opened the door to find a huddled mass of sweatshirts and ski pants, standing about five foot three, wearing two stocking caps and a series of scarves and mismatched gloves.

“It’s frickin’ freezing out there!” said Jamie’s voice from beneath the layers.

“Jamie,” I said, “it’s 48 degrees out. That’s not cold!”

“Well I’m cold,” she said as she barged past me and began to peel off her layers of clothing.

“If you’re cold now, just wait until January,” I said. “Now THAT’S cold.”

As Jamie took off her last hat and scarf, I noticed that her eyes were red and puffy.

“You’ve been crying,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to talk about it – how cold does it get here in January, anyway?”

“Jamie,” I said softly, “Will you please tell me what’s wrong?”

She sat down on my bed, took a few deep breaths, and began weeping.

“My mom,” she sputtered through tears, “she wants me to come home next semester.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah. It sucks. She says you’re a bad influence on me.”

“What?” I asked.

Sure, Jamie and I had our “fun,” but we were both going to all our classes, turning in assignments on time, and, generally speaking, being good, responsible students. In fact, midterm grades had just been released the week before, and we were both doing just fine. She had a 3.0 – pretty good for a first semester freshman at our school. I pointed this out to her.

“It’s not my grades,” she said, “it’s my weight.”

Jamie weighed, at most, 115 pounds. Soaking wet. I know this because I had seen her soaking wet (and even supported her full weight once or twice. Let me tell you, sex in a dorm room shower requires a little bit of leverage and a lot of creativity.)

“Baby, you’re beautiful,” I said, kissing her on the forehead as she wept.

“My mom makes me weigh myself every time I come home,” said Jamie. “She’s mad because I’ve gained two pounds since I’ve been here, and she says it’s because I’m spending too much time with you.”

Over the next hour or so, she went on to tell me how her mom and older sister have always hated me – not because I’m an asshole (sometimes I am), not because I treated Jamie badly (because I never did), but because I’m overweight.

And, to put it simply, they hate fat people.

They just happened to have a family member who was really, really into an overweight guy – an overweight guy who just happened to be me.
After I got her a roll of toilet paper (to replace the box of tissues she had already emptied), I sat back down on the bed with her.

“Hey, we are what we are,” I said. “I’m sorry your mom and sister don’t like me, but that’s just too bad. Besides, you’re an adult. They can’t tell you who to like and who not to like.”

“I know,” she said. “You’re right.”

We sat there, holding one another, for an eternity. As we both became sleepy, our silent embrace transitioned from sitting to laying. And then, just before drifting off, Jamie broke the silence.

“Sam, I love you.”