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cup . . . your jokes . . . I mean, are they jokes? Should I be laughing? What should I say? I’m really uncomfortable right now.”
    “Calm down,” he said, chuckling, then looked her over. “You’re so adorable when you’re nervous.”
    And that’s when she opened wide the door to her heart. She was fifteen. She knew nothing.
    Regan sighed, remembering.
    “What’s on your mind?” Brandon asked as they walked into the familiar parlor.
    “You don’t carry around your measuring cup anymore,” Regan noted.
    Brandon scratched his cheek. “What made you think of that?”
    “Just thinking about our first date,” Regan replied.
    She smiled at her boyfriend. He wore his chestnut-color hair short to his scalp—nearly buzzed—and she had a hard time keeping her hands off it. It was prickly soft, and she liked to rub it for good luck. He stretched tall over the years, but he kept a slightly pudgy belly. He was obsessed with slimming it, but she didn’t want him to. She thought his belly kept his conceit in check. Gave him perspective. Softened his attitude.
    Just then his hand went to his stomach.
    “You think I should start measuring things out again?”
    “Seriously?”
    He looked down. “Yeah. Seriously.”
    “You’re perfectly fine.”
    “Am I?”
    Regan stopped short midway to the counter.
    “I’m gonna ask one more time. Seriously?”
    Brandon scowled.
    “As long as you’re happy with me, I guess that’s all that matters,” he replied.
    “Isn’t it supposed to go more like ‘as long as you’re happy with yourself’?” Regan asked.
    “No. That’s what fat people say to make themselves feel better,” Brandon responded.
    And just like that, the memory of the sweet, silly, insecure boy faded into oblivion.
    “That’s acid on your tongue, Brandon,” Regan said softly. “You may wanna go rinse it out.”
    “Huh?”
    Regan smiled patiently. “Be kind.”
    “I am kind.”
    “You’re being intolerant.” She held out her palms. “Acid,” she said, bouncing her left hand up and down. “Intolerance,” she continued, bouncing her right hand. “Get it?”
    Brandon’s nostrils flared—the first sign of annoyance.
    “I’m not a dipshit,” he said evenly. “And anyway, I get to be intolerant because I used to be fat. I was there. And then I chose to do something about it.”
    “Congratulations,” Regan replied. “Although growing six inches over the course of one summer is not a choice you made. You were fortunate in that regard.”
    Brandon stared. “I chose to carry around a measuring cup,” he pointed out petulantly.
    “True,” Regan replied. “Now, please don’t ruin the memory.”
    “What is it with you and that cup?” Brandon asked.
    “It’s not the cup.”
    “Then what?”
    “It’s you,” Regan said, then dropped her voice to a whisper as they approached the counter. “It’s how you used to be.”
    “You think I’ve changed or something?” Brandon asked.
    “I think . . . you’ve grown a bit hard.”
    Brandon’s eyes dropped to his pants.
    “Really? Is that honestly what you thought I meant?” Regan asked.
    He chuckled. “Just joking with you, Regan. Remember we do that?”
    “I’m not joking right now,” she replied. “I’m serious. Tone it down.”
    “Tone what down?”
    “The hardness.”
    “I’m having a difficult time understanding this. Are you saying you want me to be fat again?”
    “I’m not talking about your body! God! I’m talking about your attitude!”
    He was quiet for a moment, staring at the girl behind the counter, who stared back at them.
    “You enjoying this?” he snapped at her.
    She blushed and turned away, pretending to busy herself with menial tasks at the back counter.
    “That’s what I’m talking about,” Regan hissed, grabbing his wrist. She pulled him close. “Why talk to her like that?”
    “She was all up in our business,” he replied.
    “She was not all up in our business. We brought our business in