Page 90 of Thick

Feeling prideful toward another wasn’t a common thing, and it didn’t come easily. At least not for me.

I viewed pride in one’s own actions or accomplishments to be akin to arrogance. Pride in another person’s choices or actions was a matter of expressing praise. Caring enough about someone to allow myself to harbor such feelings was new to me.

But I wasn’t about to argue with how I felt.

I finished my ice cream, waited until Bobbi finished hers, and then collected the bowls. After placing them in the sink, I returned to the table.

I pulled the card I’d bought from my kutte and handed it to her.

She looked at the crumpled envelope and grinned. “What’s this?”

“It’s just something I got for you.”

“Can I open it now?”

“That’s why I gave it to you.”

“I was just checking, grump.”

She ran her nail along the edge of the envelope, opened it, and pulled out the card. After reading it, she set it aside and stood.

She didn’t speak, but she didn’t have to.

I stood, wrapped my arms around her, and held her close. As she lowered her head to my shoulder, I whispered into her ear.

“I’m proud of you, Baby.”

Saying those five words was much easier than I ever would have expected.

And far more rewarding.

Chapter Thirty-One

Bobbi

A large delivery of flowers arrived, marking the passing of yet another Wednesday. It had become a weekly occurrence, and one I hoped would never stop. As I drove to Oceanside, the thought of sitting in my tiny apartment caused me to smile.

Tate was different. So much so that I was beginning to wonder if he viewed me as sexually attractive, or simply attractive. He was the absolute opposite of any other man I’d met, but being on the other end of the sexual spectrum wasn’t everything I’d hoped it would be.

I was undoubtedly attracted to him sexually, and had hopes he felt the same way. As much as I trusted him, and as much as I’d grown to love how he made me feel, I was slowly sinking into the pit of reality regarding my weight.

Real men didn’t want to fuck fat girls.

I parked my car in the drive and walked to the front door. As soon as the doorbell went ‘ding’, he pulled the door open.

“I heard you two blocks away,” he said.

An apron.

He was wearing a fucking apron.

“What in the world are you wearing?”

He looked at it as if he’d forgotten he had it on. “Oh. An apron.”

The home smelled like Italian food. Italian food I knew I couldn’t eat. A plate of spaghetti alone would exceed my daily points allowance. Anything else of the Italian variety would be in excess of spaghetti, and end up putting me in the points total for a week.

“Why?”