Chapter Text
It started, as all awful things tend to, with a pair of ill-fitting jeans bought off the internet.
Unlike Elle, who was the Michelangelo of carving out spots in her hectic work schedule for retail therapy, Emmett had never been big into shopping. Buying clothes had always been more of a chore than a luxury. In the past, he’d allocated one Saturday a year to updating his wardrobe, scouring through every thrift shop in a five-mile radius in order to replace jeans and jackets and pick up shirts at the cheapest possible price. Now he was a little more financially comfortable, shopping meant scrolling through a few websites and buying anything on sale that looked remotely nice. Admittedly, it wasn’t the most sophisticated shopping system but hey, it worked.
That is, of course, until it didn’t.
They really weren’t joking about these being skinny fit, he thought as he tried to wriggle the offending article higher over his hips. They budged a little, but any attempts to button them resulted only in breathlessness and a mild stomach ache. Glancing down, he sighed, lying a hand across his middle. It was easier to blame the cut, or the company, or any other excuse rather than look in the mirror and see the truth.
He’d gotten chubby. Again.
Pinching at his hip, he wondered how he had let this happen. Laziness, he supposed. Too many mornings curled up with Elle and endless cups of sugary coffee as she painted her nails and showed him cute clips of corgis on Instagram while he half-heartedly attempted to read the news. Too many celebratory pizzas after a successful week or case, accompanied as always with Elle’s favourite rose wine. Too many attempts at his mother’s old recipes, bringing back all the sweet treats of his childhood with double the serving size.
He shucked the jeans off, scowling all the while. It wasn’t Elle’s fault, or his mother’s. No, he was sole suspect in the case of the lard-ass lawyer, and he didn’t need a jury or judge to tell him who was going down for it. Tugging on a well-worn (and larger) pair of trousers, he finally raised his eyes to spar against his reflection.
For a moment, he tricked himself into thinking nothing had changed, that he could skate by just a little longer without looking too deeply at his appearance. But he’d always had an eye for detail and all too soon, his gaze settled on the flaws. The slight tug of the lower buttons of his shirt, the wider splay of his thighs, the softness around his jaw.
It hadn’t always been like this. Sure, in his childhood and teens, he’d faced his fair share of bullying for his weight (and his braces and for the holes in his shoes and clothes) but somewhere between all the studying and shift work he’d needed for getting and keeping his place at Harvard, the majority of his bulk had slipped away. He’d even been able to see his ribs at one point, would spend hours running his fingers over his chest and counting the bones. That had been just before he met Elle, when money was tightest, and no-one apart from his mother would have noticed if he’d shrunk down into nothingness.
In truth, being skinny hadn’t been great. He’d felt every chill, which was almost a death-sentence in his tiny drafty flat. It was harder to study too, as constant sleepiness seeped through his bones like lead. Hunger pangs were by far the worst, striking him at the worst moments. Once his stomach had growled so loudly in a class that the professor had him removed. He remembered curling up on the floor of his room weeping, with only the emptiness in his belly for company.
But as awful as it felt, it was still a damn sight better than this. Emmet paused, listening for Elle’s footsteps in the apartment. She wasn’t due home for another fifteen minutes, but she always delighted in getting back early enough to surprise him. Luckily, she hadn’t pulled that particular stunt today, and he’d avoided the shame of unflattering outfits in her presence.
The thought of confronting Elle in that state caused his traitorous stomach to clench tight. He knew from experience that Elle could never be outwardly cruel – hell, she’d watched the former love of her life propose to another woman in front of her and hadn’t said a word. But fashion had always held a special place in her heart, alongside the law and animal rights, and Emmett didn’t know if she’d be able to hold back if he made a truly atrocious faux pas. And sizing up anymore than he already had was definitely in that territory.
Sinking down on the bed, he tried to ignore the feeling of his stomach pressing against his waistband. He bet Warner never had that problem. Tight toned Warner, who’d switched law school for modelling, for fuck’s sake. No wonder Elle had been enamoured with him; he could probably bench-press Emmett’s weight and more without so much as breaking a sweat. That was the norm in her social circle, she’d told him once when he’d dared to ask. Tennis clubs and protein shakes and regular features on the front of magazines. Well, he could do that too. Maybe not the magazines bit, but the sport and the shakes. Lose weight. Get ripped. Whatever it took.
But first, to dispose of the evidence.
Balling up the (awful, useless, terrible) jeans, he stuffed them back into their plastic envelope and made a mental note to send them back as soon as Elle was out of sight. Yanking open the door to his wardrobe (Elle had an entire room of their apartment dedicated to fashion, so she never came sniffing around his), he flung the envelope behind a few old shoe boxes, and let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. It felt good, for just a moment, to have the wretched thing out of his hands. Yet his gaze dribbled down and settled instead on the most beautiful item of clothing he’d ever owned: the suit Elle had bought him for the Wyndam case. He tried to keep it as pristine as possible, barely wearing it outside of special occasions. He ran his fingers lightly over one sleeve and savoured the soft material. It was at least two sizes too small at this point, not that he’d ever admitted that to Elle.
And yet maybe that worked to his advantage. Emmett had pulled enough all-nighters to know that he needed motivation to stick at tasks, especially momentous ones like this. Slimming down enough to slip into his old suit would do perfectly. And with Elle’s birthday only a few months away, he even had a timeline. Now all he needed was a methodology, and he’d be well on his way.
A few rooms away, the front door opened with a click, and Emmett hear Elle calling his name from the threshold. Letting the wardrobe door fall shut, he shot himself one last glance in the mirror as he made to greet her. He had a consequence too, he realised, as her sunny smile came into view.
Lose weight or lose Elle.
He knew which one he was going to choose.