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December—Eight Months Before Accident
Skinny chicks should be required to take a class in empathy. I’d call it Fat Girl 101 and I’d teach them all the secret rules fat girls live by:
1) Never use the word fat. It makes the skinny folk uncomfortable.
2) Pretend to be at peace with your body and size while simultaneously and continuously making your best efforts to reduce it to something more aesthetically pleasing.
3) Pretend to be attracted to the guys you stand a chance with and hide your attraction to The Unattainables.
I’ve spent most of my life following these simple rules, but tonight they’re not coming easily.
I don’t want to be that girl. The one who can’t enjoy herself because she’s too busy looking at how much thinner, prettier, or more fashionable the women around her are. The one who can’t believe the man on her arm wants to be with her, so she spends all her energy feeding her jealousy toward the women he should want. But tonight, I’m all that and worse.
The gallery’s winter opening is bustling, and William and Cally are glowing as people circulate through the new exhibit. Cally waves at me from across the room, her smile bright. Max and I are supposed to go out with them tonight after the opening, but Lizzy’s here in a red dress that shows off her long legs and skinny arms, and all I can think about is how inadequate I am.
I’m about to smack myself.
I beeline for the bar and hand a ten to the bartender. “Your biggest glass of your sweetest red, please.”
The bartender’s eyes drop to my cleavage for a minute, and I actually smile. I forget how much men like tits. I forget that some men like tits enough to overlook everything else. And maybe I should be offended by this stranger’s not-so-subtle appreciation of mine, but politically correct or not, knowing that he’s looking seriously lifts my spirits.
I take a long pull off the wine and lean on the bar as I scan the room for Max.
“Waiting for your date?” the bartender asks. He’s cute. Probably a student at Sinclair like me. He’s got that disheveled surfer-boy look going on, even in his white button-up shirt and dress pants.
I take another healthy swallow. Wine goes a long way to make me forget my insecurities, and if I don’t want to be that girl, I’m gonna need a vat of it tonight. “I am,” I say with a sigh. “But last time I saw him, he was checking out my twin.”
The surfer boy coughs and pulls at the neck of his dress shirt. He’s so obviously uncomfortable in it, I almost feel bad for him. As if giving up, he unbuttons the top button. His eyes dip to my cleavage again, but he pulls them back up so fast it doesn’t feel smarmy, just flattering and adorable.
“You have a twin?”
I roll my eyes. Boys and their twin fantasies. Seriously. “Yes, but we’re not identical.” Not by a long shot.
God, if Max had known I was behind him, he never would have checked out Lizzy like that. He’s not an asshole or anything. He’s just a normal guy. And like any normal guy, he wants to fuck my twin more than he’ll ever want to fuck me.
Three dates and he hasn’t kissed me. Sure, he’s held my hand, hugged me, kissed my cheek. But in three dates, his lips haven’t touched mine. That wouldn’t be the case if he’d had those three dates with Liz.
“Gah!” I growl. There may not be enough wine or cute-surfer-boy-tit-gawking to ever obliterate this mood.
The surfer boy’s brows shoot up. “What?”
“I’m instituting my own drinking game.” I prop both elbows on the counter and lean forward, grinning at my own clever idea. “Every time I feel sorry for myself because my date secretly has the hots for my sister, I’m taking a drink.”
He shifts behind the counter and refills my wine without me asking. “Can I ask you a question?”
Max appears on the other side of the room and pulls William into one of those male-certified one-armed hugs. They’re such a handsome duo—Will with his crazy blond curls, Max with his dark mop, both sporting bodies that belong in men’s fitness magazines. Max looks amazing tonight in his pressed slacks and dark blue oxford. Flipping gorgeous and way out of my league. Drink. “Ask away,” I say behind my wine glass.
“If he’s into your sister, why are you with him? Why not be into a guy who’s into you?”
Because guys aren't into me. Oh, shit. There I go again. Drink.
“I mean, if I were your boyfriend, for example, I wouldn’t care what your sister looks like. Look at you.”
I blink at him. Then it occurs to me that the wine is going to my brain. This guy is probably just trying to make me feel better. Drink. “I fell for Max when I was thirteen,” I confess. “He smiled at me and I…” I take another drink. Really, if I’m going to tell him the story, he should save us both the trouble and hand me the bottle.
“Well, if you decide you want a date who’s only interested in you…” He walks around the bar and takes the phone from my fingers to tap on the screen.
I have to smile at him. It’s been a long time since someone has gone this much out of his way to make me feel better. “You’re really sweet, you know that?”
This time when his eyes drop to my breasts, they slide right down on past to my hips and then linger. “For those curves, I’ll be whatever you want me to be.”
“Who’s this?”
I jump at the sound of Max’s voice then back a step away from surfer boy, as if I’ve just been caught doing something wrong. “Oh, this is Max, my date,” I tell the bartender. I widen my eyes and hope he can see the desperate Please don't tell him what we were talking about message in my eyes. “Max, this is the bartender, um…”
“Jimmy,” the surfer boy replies. He’s not bothered in the slightest by Max’s presence. He winks at me like we have some sexy secret.
Max takes my hand and squeezes my fingers. “Will you come with me, please?”
I stop trying to figure out Jimmy’s odd interest with me and look up at Max. “Sure.”
He leads me through the gallery, nearly dragging me along behind his long strides. He takes the stairs two at a time to the loft, where there’s a kitchenette and reception area.
When he finally stops and turns to me, I frown. “What’s going on?”
“Let me take that.” He takes the wine from my hand and sets it on the counter.
“Why?”
“Because I want your hands to be free when I do this.”
And that’s when it happens. He slides his hands into my hair and sweeps his lips over mine. But this is different than the chaste kisses we’ve shared before now. This is a hot sweep, sweep, linger that promises more. His thumb grazes the line of my jaw, and I open instinctively under him until he’s kissing me full-on, his tongue against mine, his lips patient then coaxing, his fingers brushing up my neck and into my hair.
I’ve waited for this kiss since I was old enough to think kisses from boys were something worth wanting. I’ve waited for Max since I realized boys were worth wanting. And here he is. Kissing me as if he’s craved me as long as I’ve craved him.
Slowly, he leaves my mouth and trails sweet kisses along my jaw and down my neck until his mouth opens against that tender skin at the crook of my neck. His hot tongue sweeps over it.
I close my eyes and try to catch my breath. But it’s hard when he’s this close and his mouth and teeth and tongue are doing things to my neck that feel so good my brain is imagining them everywhere else. Imagining them places I’ve never felt a man’s tongue.
When he lifts his head, his blue eyes have gone smoky.
“What was that for?” I whisper.
“I think William’s bartender was trying to steal away my date.”
A puff of air slips between my lips. “He was just trying to cheer me up.”
“Why did you need cheering up?”
I shrug. “I’m just in a mood.” Or was in a mood. Clearly Max’s kisses are a much more effective remedy than wine.
He skims his thumb
over my bottom lip. “You look beautiful tonight.”
“I do?”
Grinning, he tugs me toward the stairs. “Come on. I want to kiss you in front of that bartender.”