Good Girl (Love Unexpectedly 2)

“It’ll get easier. By the way, I bought you subscriptions to some of my favorite fitness magazines. My treat.”

“Treat’s a strong word there, Am.”

“Sorry, babe. But we’re not nineteen anymore. We’re twenty-two, and gone are the days when we could eat pints of ice cream every day and look like sticks,” she mutters.

“Says the girl who’s still a size two.”

“Because I’m eating a spinach and quinoa salad right now.”

I make a face. The truth is, Amber Fuller, best friend since preschool, is far more Hollywood than me, and she’s never even been here. The girl’s never lived anywhere other than Tennessee, and yet somehow she’s learned to embrace a gluten-, dairy-, and flavor-free existence in the land of barbecue, biscuits, and cornbread.

“Seriously, though, you know you’re freaking gorgeous as you are, right?” Amber says. “Is that what I’m doing here? Pep talk?”

“I’m burrito pregnant,” I mutter.

“I hate that you’re letting that bother you,” she scolds as I go to the pantry and grab a bag of chocolate chips. “The tabloids are crap. You know that.”

I do know that. But I’m also human. Reading the not-so-flattering things about yourself sucks. Even more so when they’re untrue. And not being able to go to the hair salon without a dozen paps in your face, not being able to get a manicure without every beauty blog weighing in on the color you choose…it gets old.

I know, I know. Poor little famous rich girl, right?

I’ve got zero right to complain, but knowing that doesn’t make me any less inclined to burn every single picture of my belly bump.

Being in the media spotlight, I can handle. I don’t like it, but it’s part of the job. I get that. But never in my wildest dreams did I imagine just how much of the stuff you read in the magazines is pure fiction.

I knew I’d be followed, ridiculed, analyzed. I just thought it would be based on stuff I’d actually done.

I dump a handful of chocolate chips into the blender. Chocolate fixes everything.

Tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder, I put the lid on and flick the blender back on, sort of relishing the hacking noise the chocolate chips make as they whir.

“What the heck is that noise?” Amber asks.

“Just throwing some carrots into the blender,” I lie.

“Oh, good call! I love how carrots add that delicious bit of sweetness,” she says.

I roll my eyes. Sweetness my ass. They’re carrots.

“It does make for a sort of ugly color, though,” Amber continues. “Yucky and brown.”

My smoothie is now indeed yucky and brown, although not from vegetables.

I stick my finger into the brown sludge and scoop out another sample, more enthusiastic this time.

The enthusiasm, as it turns out, is not warranted. Chocolate and kale are not complementary flavors. Shocker.

I give up. Grabbing the bag of chocolate chips, I ditch the blender and head into the living room, Dolly trotting behind me with her stuffed chipmunk clenched in her little mouth, pausing every two steps to thrash it.

I sit on the couch, and she hops up beside me, curling into a little ball and resting her head on the toy.

“How’s the smoothie?” Amber asks.

“Good,” I say, popping a couple of chocolate chips into my mouth. “Super good.”

“We’ll make them eat their words,” Amber says gleefully. “Next time they post a picture of you, it’ll be to talk about your washboard abs.”

“I don’t want washboard abs. I’d settle for somewhat flat,” I say, patting my little tummy pooch. The truth is, I have a pretty good-ish body, I think. Not as skinny as Amber, but I’m healthy-looking. Five-seven, medium boobs, good legs. But the belly’s always been a problem area. Every bit of chocolate and, yes, burrito goes straight to the stomach.