I Want Candy Read online

  I Want Candy

  By Tiana Laveen

  Copyright © 2012 by Tiana Laveen

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotes embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover design by Shelley and Jerry Drury

  June 2012

  First Edition

  Acknowledgment

  This book is dedicated to all the women who have torn themselves in two running away from the wonderfulness that lies within. It is for the women who do not believe they are good enough, smart enough, or strong enough to have a loving union. You are worthy. You are lovely. You will attract what you think you are.

  Prelude

  (The author speaks to the readers)

  The sticky pink sweetness was what the restaurant called “Watermelon Smash.” It was cold and smooth and sent my mouth into a quivering orgasm that got better with each and every lick. The relationship was almost pornographic. My thin frame carried me right back down the street, delicately holding my sugar cone so that it would not fracture. A moist napkin was wrapped around the bottom of the cone to prevent the precious bubble-gum colored drops from being devoured by the cement. Surely the concrete wouldn’t honor and cherish it the way I did. We had exchanged vows. I was there not of my free will, but to be saved. My love affair with ice cream continues to this day. It is truly my favorite dessert. It is quick, available in a variety of flavors, and never gets old. Of course, many would believe that most children enjoy sweet, chilled treats, but my fixation with ice cream surpassed many.

  I had no idea that I was falling in love with something that didn’t know how to love me back. It could only mimic desire, affection, and serenity. My love of sugary, fatty foods never had to show me its true self because I stayed a decent weight as a result of periods of manic exercise, dieting, and restraint. These weren’t usually brought on by healthy reconditioning, but by trauma as I wanted to gain control before I fell into the abyss of depression or paddled up “self-hatred creek.” Not until my first marriage, and subsequently my second, did my weight rise to undeniable proportions in which I would have to stare my “love affair” in the face and find out why it had betrayed me. I never before questioned myself. I simply went straight to fasting, the gym, or a diet. There was never a detox of the spiritual kind. There was never a deep reflection that propelled me to another dimension so that I could look at myself from a bird’s-eye perspective. My time was spent wrapped in shame, anger, and blame, but none of these feelings manifested their true self from behind the locked door of the past. There was never an open invitation. I ran from the pain and scoured my room in search of a dollar for a bag of Swedish Fish. This later turned into a hoagie with fries, homemade chili, conies, or a fried chicken dinner with all the trimmings.

  When I would fail a diet, I would tell myself, “Screw it. There’s nothin’ wrong with likin’ food. I like to eat. So what!” And back I would go to the grocery store. Of course, I would throw in some of my favorite cultural delicacies such as collard and turnip greens, calling them “health conscious.” The only problem was I would boil them with a ham hock until they would scream for mercy, or in pork-free years, a smoked turkey bone that could barely fit into the pot. It would be salt-and-peppered and served with thick filets of fried tilapia and a mound of macaroni and cheese, the seven-cheese variety to be specific. Cooking became my second love affair. I received hugs and kisses. The aromas were the most beautiful one could imagine.

  My finest cooking occurred after my first divorce in an apartment I rented inside a “senior building.” Neighbors would comment on the steaming peppers, pots of chili, and haunting brownie scents that would permeate the hallways, letting everyone know that some culinary medicine was being prepared. Oh, and do not forget the nuts. Brownies without nuts were nothing more than bland chocolate cake in my cookbook of life. The hatred I had for myself was hidden in depression, with a little cheese on top. Hatred would have been too strong to simply allow it to mosey on in. I was not dealing with my emotions. The little bit I would acknowledge was very watered down and unseasoned. It never correlated to what was in my refrigerator and later in my stomach after unrestrained consumption. I had to be physically full since I was emotionally empty. I kept piling on the emotions one by one until there were so many that I had forgotten where I had put what and how they got there in the first place. The disorganization was overwhelming. I did not want to be left alone with them. I did not realize I was in the midst of a vicious cycle. After two divorces, several broken relationships, a lost sense of self, and an unfulfilling career, something had to give. My relationships with men and my eating habits both were signaling my problem and my solution. They were one in the same, not independent. This basic observation eluded me for years. If I had just looked, I could have seen the “how,” “what,” “when,” and “why” that God had already provided. My answer was steamed, boiled, or fried inside the problem. It was wrapped in lettuce, buried under ground beef, and folded in a taco shell. The dollop of fat-free sour cream didn’t hide the heart-wrenching train wreck that was just below the surface.

  This book isn’t about me, but it’s for me, and it’s for you. The characters in this book are from my imagination, but they are all of us. This is the story about a woman named “Candy Benet” who was madly in love with food, but terribly out of love with herself. She is a representation of me, you, and people we all know. This book is dedicated to great meals, brilliant chefs, caring dieticians, enjoyable exercise programs, and the love of God and individuality. It is dedicated to you, the one that needs to step out of the shadows and smile at the brand new day lying before you.

  CHAPTER 1

  Candy’s grandiose, walk-in cedar closet has an assortment of beautiful vibrant, textured, and high-fashion clothing that ranges from size 4 to 18. This means that should a zombie attack ensue, and her apartment becomes one of the places of refuge, not only would she be able to feed everyone three square meals daily for a month without forcing them to go out into the brain eating frenzy, but all the adult ladies would have wardrobes for days. She keeps all that clothing because it tells a story – the one where “I’ll get into this again” and “Don’t get rid of that. You could use it for a future pregnancy.” Candy rationalizes that she could “use it as a nightgown or oversized shirt” if it got too chilly. There was always an excuse when the true reason wasn’t being acknowledged. “You haven’t dealt with your issues, so you’ll need the bittersweet size 16s again, maybe even the legal eagle size 18s. They will stay there waiting patiently for you, Candy, as you pair them with an XL blouse and a bra that is too small, giving you the famous, yet loathed, quadruple bust.

  The clothes hang in her closet like old friends. They don’t judge her; they just smile and say, “Nice to see you again.” Candy would slide them on, enjoying the comfort of the elastic bands and additional rump room. The sizes 4 to 8 wait silently. They beckon her to the treadmill because they miss the sparkling, confident Candy who feels so pretty and alive. They knew it would be fleeting, but they enjoy the brief recurring times they have. They miss her thin, sculptured legs sliding into the tight but well-fit jeans and the button-down shirt that exposes her flat, almost concave tummy. The shirt ties ever so sweetly right above her navel, sealing it with a kiss. They’re envious of the size 16s because the 16s, though hated, get more wear as of late and offer a much easier relationship to maintain. They’re also more accessible because they
accept her as she is. They allow her to eat an extra slice of pizza piled with pepperoni and cheese. They allow her the room to breathe. The size 4s judge silently but still cheer her on, even though they talk behind the rolls of her back.

  Candy sighed as she selected her outfit for the morning. Today, she was between a size 14 and 16. She slid the gray tweed dress slacks up. They caught slightly around her ample thighs. She grimaced, sucked in her stomach, and zipped them up, smiling at her accomplishment. The white silk blouse felt cool against her warm skin. She readjusted her bra straps, trying to prevent the dreaded “dug-in trail” marks they would leave by the end of the day. Despite the rigorous routine, there was one part of her body that Candy loved – her hair. It was thick, healthy, and envied. No weave, extensions, or wigs adorned her head unless she was attending a costume party or vacationing in Jamaica, at which times long rope-like braids draped down her back. Candy picked up her ceramic flat-iron and began to painstakingly section off the tresses until they were perfectly layered, shiny, and full. She topped off her look with the glistening, clear gloss she had picked up from her local beauty supply store, checked her French manicure nail polish for chipping, then slipped on her size 8.5 heels that she had gotten for a steal on eBay, snagging them at the last second in a midnight auction as she polished off a snack-sized bag of ranch flavored Doritos.

  Candy walked past the keys to her Chrysler and grabbed the set to her new, loaded Honda Accord as she headed out the door. She listened to the radio as she made her way to the office. Her mind was deep in the thoughts of the tasks she had scheduled for the morning. She pulled into her parking space and threw on her award-winning smile as she opened the building’s front doors.

  * * *

  Candy gave a nod to several coworkers before entering her expansive office. She had decorated it with large, exotic potted plants; a small, stone, water fountain; and a clear credenza filled with an assortment of Pier 1 imports. She had a window view of downtown Cincinnati, near the Reds stadium. She sat in a dark-red leather high-back chair and immediately turned on her laptop while simultaneously scanning her iPhone for her neo-soul compilation playlist. She saw the voicemail light flashing on her office phone after a three-day holiday weekend. As she scanned her emails, one caught her eye:

  To: Candy Benet

  From: Quentin Evans

  Date: July 6

  Subject: Just had you on my mind

  Cee-Luv,

  I was just thinking about you. I think about you a lot lately. I tried to call you, but I guess you’ve changed your number. Give me a call when you get this.

  - Q

  Candy bit her bottom lip as unsavory memories drowned her mind in a tidal wave of emotions. ‘Quentin – what nerve!’ she thought. Her mind could not help but revert to a time that once was.

  Candy met Quentin at a company function held in Toronto a few years back. It was rare for her to be invited to such lavish events since there was never justification for the Director of Finance to attend marketing and sales outings. This time, however, was an exception. Candy laughed playfully with a small group of her coworkers as they sashayed next to the open bar, dipping their olives, lime wedges, and candied cherries seductively in their mouths as they flirted shamelessly with attractive men from other divisions.

  Blue Sun, Inc., which specialized in the production and sales of high-end writing instruments, had several divisions all over the world. It was the largest company of its kind in Toronto. Everyone was slightly tipsy during the celebration of a fantastic fiscal year. Candy, dressed in a platinum pantsuit with a dipping V-neckline, wore her hair elegantly pulled back, exposing her high cheekbones. Her pantsuit appeared dramatic against her smooth, honey-colored skin. Her large, almond-shaped eyes and full, glossy lips resembled those of a doll. It was only a matter of time before she captivated the eye of Mr. Quentin Evans, the company’s Information Technology director.

  Standing 6’3” with mocha skin and dimples a mile deep, he cracked a smile and held his beer bottle high for her to see before placing it onto his lips. His hair was cut low, showing off his natural waves. His crisp, white dress shirt was tailored to accentuate his toned upper body and narrow waist. Candy smiled nervously at him before returning slowly to her seat as Gabriel Justice, the president and CEO of the company approached the podium and began to speak.

  “Dedicated employees of Blue Sun, this is a momentous occasion. This year, due to your dedication and hard work, we’ve accomplished record-breaking sales. It was a difficult journey. We faced major budget cuts, and the prevailing idea was, ‘Why would people purchase ink pens, mechanical pencils, specialty markers, and dry erasers when they can’t even pay their mortgages?’ We found out that people still want to give the beloved geek in the family, the graduating student, and even that special someone a writing instrument or accessory. It’s an investment towards that person’s dreams and aspirations. Engraved with their names, these gifts last the test of time. Astronauts have our products, as do professors and everyday ‘Joes’ who appreciate quality over quantity. We met the market demands, even in these challenging times. We became more competitively priced, we offered smaller-end products, and we stamped it with our seal of approval. One person who helped us achieve this success is Candace Benet, our Director of Finance. Candy met with our HR Department day-after-day, finding ways to ensure there would be no layoffs. What was the solution? – innovative ideas. The way to meet our new challenges wasn’t to let go of hardworking, dedicated employees; it was to have everyone understand that we had to face the challenges head on. We put our trust in Candy as she helped the Sales and Marketing Department release new products. Her unconventional suggestions turned out to be just what Blue Sun needed. By redistributing available funds, Candy provided a new path. We are gathered here tonight to celebrate the results.”

  The CEO then smiled and lifted a plaque into the air. It glistened in bronze and ebony, like freshly minted pennies on black licorice. Candy rubbed her eyes in disbelief as many at her table patted her back and cheered. Gabriel leaned back and waited for her, crossing his arms and bending his knees with swagger. There was a running joke that though he was obviously white, he would stand as if he had all the soul in the world, full of confidence and style.

  “Candy, please come accept this small token of appreciation for all of your hard work. You deserve it!” Candy slowly stood up, blushing ten different shades of red. She approached the stage and hugged Gabriel, thanking him for speaking so beautifully of her accomplishments. She held the plaque close and was silent for a few seconds.

  “I want to thank you, Mr. Justice, for this award. I also want to thank all of you here for believing in me even when my suggestions seemed impossible to implement. I can’t blame anyone who was concerned. It was a difficult time for all of us, but I knew if we continued what we had been doing, we would not prevail. When times change, you have to change. You have to meet those challenges head on with something different, something unexpected – a difficult task for the Finance Department, which is never supposed to be creative.”

  “Unless you’re Enron!” someone shouted. Everyone laughed. Candy joined in the laughter as she continued.

  “Exactly! You’re all very talented, charismatic, and goal-oriented. I knew it was essential for you to have incentive to pull us out of this rut, and not only did you meet the challenge, you exceeded my expectations. You’re the reason people know Blue Sun, Inc. You’re the reason that our products are chosen time and time again over our competitors. I want to thank everyone that encouraged me, even when it looked bleak. I knew I had gone out on a limb, but Blue Sun is very important to me. We’re not just a company, we’re a family. Thank you,” Candy concluded as she wiped a tear from her eye and took her seat. People stood and clapped. She could feel Quentin’s eyes on her. She glanced his way out the corner of her eye and saw him clapping. She watched him purse his lips and whistle. She blushed again, making sure he didn’t see her looking his way.

/>   She picked up her cocktail and listened to the remaining speeches that evening, watching gleefully as some of her uncoordinated coworkers and managers tried to cut a rug to the tunes of an eclectic jazz trio. Occasionally she glanced down at the fading mark on her left ring finger, a steady reminder that a “Mr. Right” once existed, but now the only trace of him was her two-tone finger. Still drizzled in the freshly laid praise she had received, her appetite was tempered. Waiters floated past carrying beautifully presented layers of Kobe beef with fresh mint, shrimp rolls, slices of white cake drowned in fudge, and lady fingers with whipped cream, but she didn’t bat an eye. She looked down at her purse, then her shoes, and yawned. Suddenly someone was standing next to her. She looked up, and there was Quentin, still nursing a beer.

  “Do you mind if I sit here?” he asked.

  “Uh, no. I don’t suppose Mandy will be back soon. She seems to be having too much fun dancing right now,” Candy said as she pointed to a rail-thin woman dancing almost robotically as the alcohol in her body made her do things she would not recall in the morning.

  “Wonderful,” Quentin said as he pulled out the chair. “My name is Quentin – Quentin Evans. I’m from the Illinois branch office. I designed our global website.”

  “Oh, it’s nice to meet you! It’s good to put a face with a name. I see your name in company announcements sometimes and hear people say, ‘Call Quentin!’ regarding the website.” Candy laughed.

  Quentin smiled. “Yeah, ‘Call Quentin’ is said more than I’d like to hear. I’m bombarded with messages about what needs to be added and deleted – you name it. I love it, though. A lot of people don’t understand how much work goes into it.”