A contented hum rumbles in my mouth. “I do know who you are. And I’m grateful you grace me with your presence. Even if you do say those things sarcastically.”
Her cheeks burn brighter. “I know my worth.”
“I know your worth too.”
“If you’re trying to get in my pants it’s working. But this was about you knowing your worth, not me knowing mine.”
I take her plate and put it on the nightstand, leaning so close to her our chests touch. “I’m trying to tell you that I see you.” I slide her hair off her face, tucking it behind her ear. “All of you. And I like what I see.”
The flutter in my chest tells me it’s more than just ‘like’. It’s been more than like for a little while. Insta-love, isn’t that what the guys babble on about when they’re chatting about their books? It explains why I was so heartbroken when she ghostedme, why I was so angry when she hated me, and why I want to protect her from the worst of me.
“And you haven’t even seen me naked yet.”
From the tone in her voice she means that I’m in for a treat. And I know I am. But from the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, for the briefest of moments, she shows me a flash of her own insecurities. And my heart splinters.
She comes across as strong, and brave, and confident, and fearless, and unflappable, but here and now, staring into her gorgeous eyes, there’s an undercurrent of vulnerability I didn’t know was inside her.
She’s showing me hers because I’m showing her mine.
“You want to talk about that?” Giving her the chance to talk it out is all I can think to do. I don’t want to pretend like I didn’t see it. I don’t want to dismiss her insecurity. I don’t want her to feel like she can’t talk to me about things, even if she harbors them deep inside.
“No.” Her voice is a whisper, her chin trembles, and her eyes glisten with tears.
Fuck.
I can handle a lot of things, mustard in my donuts, scathing retorts, razor-sharp sarcasm, acerbic wit, even my car furniture-wrapped to a fucking pole, but when this emotion wells up in her, I want to do whatever it takes to make her smile.
“You sure?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.” If my teeth weren’t already gritted together, I’d grit my teeth to show my resolve. “There’s nothing you can’t talk to me about that I won’t work on understanding.”
She closes her eyes, setting the tears free. When she opens them again, there’s a world of hurt behind her eyelids I suspect she keeps from the world. And she’s letting me see it.
“I don’t know that you’ll ever understand because you look the way you look, and I look the way I look.” On some level, she’s probably not wrong.
“Will you let me try?”
“I’m not sure it’s something I can explain in a single conversation. It’s just really hard to be a fat person in the world. Everyone is both subconsciously and consciously conditioned to loathe everything I am, and everything I need. I try not to let it bother me, I try to love myself without regret or apology, but it’s hard to maintain.”
“We don’t have to do anything if you feel uncomfortable.”
“I’m not sure if I feel uncomfortable, or I’m concerned you’ll feel uncomfortable. I’m scared of what you’ll be thinking when you see me naked. Knowing that you’re not infallible, that you have insecurities too, that helps.” She pauses, tilting her head a little. “Your confidence is impressive, but knowing you’re human just like the rest of us is reassuring.”
I caress her cheek. “You want me to bring out the big guns?”
She nods.
“I don’t know who I am without hockey. And more than that, I’m afraid to find out. Because what if...?” I swallow, a lump swelling in my throat. “What if hockey is all I am?”
She cups the damaged side of my mouth. “You’re not, but I know telling you won’t make a difference to you believing it. And I can relate to that too, but in a weird, roundabout way. From my side, people assume that fatisall that I am. Few people really take the time to learn that it’s not.”
I’ve never exposed myself like this to another person before, not even my parents have heard these inner thoughts. The closest I got was with Scott on the landing outside my room. From how she shifts her weight in the bed and flicks her gaze to the floor, I’m starting to think Pitstop is in a similar space.
“I hate making anything about my weight. I hate it. Sure, it impacts things I can do, even simple things like tying my shoes, or wiping my ass.”
I love her candor and how frank she’s being.
