If the Dress Fits Read online

  If the Dress Fits

  Carla de Guzman

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Carla de Guzman

  What is #romanceclass?

  Copyright © 2016 by Carla de Guzman

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover design by Carla de Guzman

  Cover Titles by Gabrielle de Guzman

  Inside illustrations by Carla de Guzman

  Created with Vellum

  To every girl who has ever been called the f-word.

  You are beautiful. Believe it.

  While I stumble on the floor of your room

  Flushed when you look at me…

  Never you mind

  When I love you imperfectly

  Darling you will find

  My heart has perfect memory.

  Nevermind, Jay E. Tria

  One

  “One order of chicken nuggets, a cheeseburger, large fries and Coke please,” I chirped into the speaker box of the drive-thru before leaning back in my seat.

  After a moment’s hesitation, I slid my window down again.

  “And…could you please add a caramel sundae? Thanks.”

  From my place in the back seats, I could hear our driver chuckling while my mother shook her head with fake solemnity. I scowled and kicked the back of their seats as the attendant repeated my order and instructed our car to drive to the next window.

  “They really starved you on that budget flight, huh?” Our driver, Benjo, teased as I rolled my eyes and paid for my drive-thru meal.

  “Ha-ha, Kuya,” I said, hoping he could see me in the mirror rolling my eyes at him. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

  “Yesterday has only been yesterday for about an hour, Martha,” My mother pointed out, as Benjo chortled and passed the food from the restaurant window to me. I scowled at him through his rear view mirror. Then our car sped off, as fast as cars could in Manila, towards the general direction of home.

  “Seoul is one hour ahead of Manila, so…” I pointed out. There was a moment of silence while I started on the fries. Perfection.

  I may not know a lot of things, but I do know that there is no hunger pang in the world that cannot be solved by salty, greasy french fries from the nearest fast food chain.

  The truth was, I hadn’t eaten since six pm the night before because I was in transit. I barely had time to buy food in Incheon, so a midnight drive-thru before going home was essential. Mom knew that, of course, but she lived to tease.

  I spent the last week in South Korea attending an ASEAN integration conference for accountants. Not my first time to fly to Seoul, but it was my first time to see the city in the fall. It was so pretty, with all the orange autumn leaves crunching at your feet and the cool breeze accompanying you on your long walks. I missed the weather already.

  The only thing Manila and Seoul seemed to share weather-wise was the occasional rain, and even then Manila managed to make rain awful by magically conjuring freak traffic along the major roads during every downpour. Tonight was no exception.

  "You should go on a diet while it's still easy for you, dear," My mother said with a tiny sigh. "Look at me and your father. We survive on salads now because we didn't watch our eating habits when we were young."

  I wasn't really in the mood to debate my eating choices past midnight, so I simply shrugged and said, "You only live once, Mom.”

  "Aw, honey, nobody says YOLO anymore,” my Mom laughed before reaching over to grab a fry from my box.

  I knew she had a point, though. Most girls my age in this country were beautiful, with slim, petite bodies and on the verge of the next stage of their life—getting married, having boyfriends, getting engaged, getting their dream jobs and getting likes for their ‘side-hustles’ and #fitnessgoals.

  I also knew that I was nothing like the girls my age. I was a 200-pound blip in that statistic, still single and spending my money on costumes for my dog and Korean street food.

  My relationship with food was long, simple, and absolutely delicious. My relationship with my weight was a little more complicated. I carried it around, and I was good at making it look effortless. It wasn't something I loved or hated, it was just a fact that I accepted. I know I’m supposed to "love my size," and I did. But forgive me for not being totally happy with it 24/7.

  I felt like I was still waiting for my life to begin, but my weight had nothing to do with that.

  It was nearly two in the morning when we pulled into the driveway, but finally, we were home.

  “Ate Mar-thaaaa!” My little sister Maggie greeted, practically running across the foyer from the kitchen as I entered the house sans my shoes, as was our custom. Mom says it's to keep the hardwood floors clean.

  Running up behind Maggie with his tail wagging wildly was Bibi, the sweet, clumsy little Shih tzu I bought with my second salary. My first pay, as tradition, was used to buy dinner for my family, and Bibi was my first big Life Purchase. Getting a dog with my own money was a promise I made to myself as a child, and taking care of Bibi helped me feel just a little less lonely.

  I still remember seeing baby Bibi in the pet shop in Cartimar, all alone and shivering in a small corner of a cage. Now he craved constant affection and always got himself into little bumps and accidents as a result of his own enthusiasm.

  Between Maggie and Bibi, Bibi reached me first (not before he slipped on the floor), rose up to his hind legs and offered me his paws and his big brown eyes. He looked so excited, I picked him up first, giggling when he kept trying to use my breasts as paw-holds and was so excited he couldn’t stay still. The plastic cone around his head smacked me in the face a couple of times as he adjusted himself.

  “Bibi!” I cooed, scratching him near his tail as we cuddled. He was forever getting into little scrapes and slips, and it wasn’t uncommon for me to see him with a plastic cone on. This was our usual routine, and if I didn’t know any better, I would say that he probably missed me.

  “Oh sure, we don’t see each other for a week, and you say hi to Bibi first,” Maggie said, rolling her eyes and placing a hand on her hip as she chewed on a granola bar for a midnight snack. She’s been spending most of her time in the gym lately to slim down, and I had to say, it was working. Mags had already dropped a dress size before I left for Seoul, and after not seeing her for a week, I could see the results. “Did you buy me presents from Korea? Clothes, perhaps?” I snorted as I put Bibi down.

  “They don’t believe in anything bigger than size medium in Seoul, unfortunately. I did get you makeup though,” I explained.

  Bibi lingered by my legs, cautiously sniffing at the cute new socks I picked up in Hongdae while Mags and I walked to the living room, where Benjo had already deposited my luggage. Maggie flopped onto the couch while I slowly eased myself on it so it didn't break (it’s happened before).

  “Where’s Dad?” I asked. Ellen, our housemaid, served us a hefty plate of shiny banana-cues (her snack staple). The sweet plantains, fried in brown sugar and skewered on barbecue sticks, made my mouth water. I knew I just had a la
rge meal on the way home, but my willpower was no match for those shiny caramel bits.

  Food has always been a part of my life. I ate when I was happy, when I was sad, when I was bored and sometimes when I was sleepy. It’s part of my growing up, and most of my memories are associated and celebrated with it. I didn't hate that I liked to eat. In fact I liked that about myself.

  What I hated were the little ‘issues’ that came with my size. Strapped shoes were always purchased one or two sizes bigger to accommodate my cankles. Getting underwear was next to impossible too, unless I bought from the US. My usual descriptor was either 'big-boobed' or 'the fat one' which at any tone of voice, is hurtful to hear. Any time I was given a shirt to wear for an event, I needed to get it in advance so I could have panels added to the sides so it actually fit.

  They were minor things, but things that annoyed me nonetheless. I try very hard not to let my personality revolve around my size. I wasn't sure if it was showing.

  “Dad's on the phone with Tita Flora,” Mags rolled her eyes as she picked up a stick. “She called just as the clock struck midnight, and they've been talking ever since.”

  I made a face. As much as we all loved Dad’s oldest sister Flora, sometimes she didn’t know what "time zones” meant. There was a 12-hour difference between California and Manila, meaning, the later she called, the later Dad could go to bed. She didn't mean any harm, I knew, but still. I wanted to go rescue him, but Bibi’s sudden leap on to the couch for a snuggle and Maggie’s pasalubong-expectant face made me stay.

  I sighed and reached for my luggage, huffing loudly as I struggled to pull it next to me. My jeans weren't exactly the most comfortable, and it dug in to my stomach as I sat. I undid the button and…aaaah. Much better.

  A couple more grunts later, my bag was open and the goodies spilled forth. I loved the look on Maggie's face when she's seen something particularly amazing. At eighteen, she was becoming less and less of a little girl, but that look of wonder was something she's had since she was a baby. I chewed on my banana-cues, going through the products with her.

  “Oooh, is this lip liner?” She asked, holding up a slim, mauve box. It was the box of lip liner I went through three stores just to find. I nodded.

  “Can I try it?”

  “….sure,” I said hesitantly as Maggie unscrewed the cap and swiped it across her lips. It looked so good on her that I said nothing as she added it to her personal pile.

  Dad and I only managed to say hello after thirty minutes of Maggie exclaiming over the best that Korean cosmetics had to offer. He appeared in the doorway, giving us a stern look. As always, he held a steaming cup of barako coffee in his hands, the strongest coffee in the Philippines, as he proudly proclaimed. Dad enjoyed his coffee the same way every day— black and incredibly strong with a punch of sweetness from muscovado sugar.

  “Girls,” he said in an equally stern voice. A wrinkle appears between his eyebrows when he is particularly tired, and I could see it prominently now in the dim light of the hallway as well as I could see the curls of warmth coming out of the coffee cup. “Bed. Now. Mass tomorrow.”

  “But Daaaad,” Maggie whined. “Makeup!”

  “Bed,” he repeated like Maggie wasn’t already eighteen years old. I laughed as she begrudgingly headed off to her bedroom with her new makeup practically spilling out of her hands. I stopped laughing when I realized that Dad was also staring at me.

  “What?” I asked innocently. He nodded his head and pointed his lips in the general direction of the bedrooms. I frowned and stood up from the couch, looking back at Bibi, who looked up at me, rolled backwards for a belly rub, and fell off the couch.

  “Come on, dummy,” I laughed, nudging my head and indicating for him to follow. I walked up to Dad to give him a quick peck on the cheek. “What did Tita Flora want?”

  His face turned serious suddenly. I knew the question was a little blunt, but it was a little trick I did that let him know that I wanted to know so I could get annoyed.

  "She's scheduling a flight back to Manila, her and Ate Fauna," he said, referring to Tita Flora's twin sister who had relocated to California at the behest of her sister. "She said she had something to tell us...not over the phone."

  "Sounds serious," I said, biting my lip. My father nodded.

  "Nothing I can do about it right now," he pointed out, sighing. “Oh, and Merry called too. She was looking for you. Something about an event she wanted to plan with you to raise funds for the Metropolitan Theatre. You know her and her pet projects,” he shrugged, following me and Bibi up the steps.

  “Oh no, Dad, you didn't say I would do that, did you?” I asked skeptically, raising an eyebrow at him.

  Dad shrugged nonchalantly. Mom, Maggie, and I were always very vocal about our disapproval of Tita Merry's hold on Dad, but since he was the youngest brother to three overbearing sisters, he couldn’t help it. He liked pointing out that his lot in life was being surrounded by wonderful, strong women. I wondered if that included me.

  “She said she was looking for someone to plan it with her,” he said as we reached the second floor. Bibi was already clawing at my bedroom door, begging to go inside. “Should I have volunteered you for the task?”

  “Come now, don’t tease,” I said sarcastically, kissing his cheek again. “Night, Dad.”

  “Night,” He said, smiling a little before squeezing one of the bulges of fat on my side. I yelped and he laughed all the way to his bedroom.

  Bibi was already asleep by my bedroom door. I sighed and gently picked him up, feeling the uncomfortable four-hour flight take its toll on me.

  I feel my sexiest when I’m lying in bed. My entire body feels flat and slim over my sheets, my limbs stretch all the way to the edges of the bed and I feel like I’m six feet tall. Sure, my massive boobs are practically pressing into my throat, which give me a bad case of double chin, but I didn't care. Sometimes, I close my eyes and picture myself beautiful and sexy, still curvy of course, but in the way that plus-sized models are curvy in all the right places.

  Sometimes, I imagine a guy sleeping next to me, impossible as it seems. His face is unclear, like he’s covered in pillows and sheets, but I know he’s there. In my head he gazes at me adoringly every morning, even when I snore or when my face is squished against my pillows. Sometimes, I picture myself as one of those girls in coffee commercials, the ones who wear their guy’s button down shirts to bed and look sexy and fresh. Then I chastise myself for being delusional and silly because the guy would have to wear a shirt thrice his size to fit me well.

  And now I’m awake early on a Sunday.

  I love Sundays just as much as the next person, but there is a laziness to it that makes me not want to get out of bed. My Sundays are for going to church, eating out for lunch, falling asleep for afternoon siesta, and enjoying a leisurely family dinner. It’s tradition for Sundays to be about family, and I am usually diligent about that.

  Either way, I was awake. Bibi was still asleep against me, burying his face in my rolls of fat. I rolled away in the other direction, immediately waking him up as I reached for my phone. After a few rings, he picked up.

  “…hhhmmmph.”

  “You’re not with anyone right now, are you?” I asked, lowering my voice.

  “You can come over now, baby, she already left,” he joked in a half-sleepy, half-sultry voice that was so deep it was disconcerting. Ugh. He loves making me uncomfortable, and he loves making jokes. I heard barking in the background and sheets being ruffled as they were tugged off his bed. It sounded like Wookie also wanted his human to wake up already.

  “Was that Wookie?” I asked, petting Bibi’s fur as my dog resumed snoozing.

  “I knew it was a mistake getting a golden retriever,” he grumbled, but it sounded like he was finally getting out of bed.

  “Quit complaining and get dressed,” I told him.

  “Quit smothering me,” he complained.

  “Oh you love it,” I teased. “See you at Ma
ss, loser.”

  “See you, loser.”

  Ten minutes and a tapsilog breakfast later (the breakfast of champions!), we pulled up in front of the Padre Pio church for Mass. Max Angeles was already standing in the back of the church with his head bowed slightly as the service was going on.

  He was dressed in his usual pair of slim, dark wash jeans, and his Dad’s old Styx t-shirt. He loved wearing his shirts one size smaller, he once told me it was to get girls to focus on the muscles on his long, sinewy arms. I had to concede that it was one of his best features, the others being the long lashes shading his light brown eyes, and his chiseled jaw, if you're into that.

  I called Max every Sunday to remind him to go to Mass with me. He was part-Chinese and very upper class, the kind whose family became rich in the last ten years, and the kind who didn’t go to church except for Christmas and Easter.

  Despite his net worth of approximately seven hundred million pesos (mostly in foreign investments, he’d shrugged when I found out), Max considered himself a pretty normal guy. He graduated from an international school in Manila before taking up Veterinary Medicine in UP Los Baños. He could have easily gone abroad, but he wanted to stay in the Philippines "for the chicks."

  It was a lie, of course, but he never liked talking about himself.

  When he graduated, his parents migrated to the US, leaving him to live on his own in his condo unit in Ortigas to fend for himself. His only companions in life are Wookie, his large golden retriever, the maid that came in once a week to clean and do the laundry, and me, his best friend.

  But Max is the kind of guy that needed to be constantly doing something, and the only time I ever see him sit still is when he's checking on his patients in his veterinary clinic or when he's reading a book. Max loves to read. It was common for me to see him finish one book and pick up another to start on straightaway. When we saw the last Harry Potter movie together, he finally admitted that he had wanted to be a vet because of Hagrid, the hairy half-giant who was forever keeping strange pets.