Fat Girl (41 page)

“It’s not just for me,” I say. “I’m doing what’s best for him, too.”

She pats my hand. “You also thought that fifteen years ago.”

I drive back to Chicago with thoughts of Mick scratching beneath the happy hum of seeing Mama T again.

She nailed it. I am afraid. I fear that Mick’s professions of love stem from his guilt. I saw him with another girl…I lost his baby…I likely won’t ever be able to conceive again. I heard Mick crying when he thought I was asleep. He blames himself for my miscarriage. He pities me for the way I lost my mother. Mick’s a fixer and an honorable man. Wanting to make it all better is how he’s wired. But love that’s born out of a sense of obligation is a burden. I wouldn’t want that for myself…or for him.

And if that’s not roadblock enough, he’s a celebrity. I could never fit into that world or be what he’s used to. I detest how inadequate that makes me sound, but it’s the truth. He dates flawless supermodels. I have battle scars from years of warring with my weight. Our lives aren’t just miles apart, as they were in high school. We now exist on different planets. I wouldn’t just be the fat girl dating the local basketball star. I’d be the fat woman dating Micah Peters, a national phenomenon.

He sneezes and it makes front-page news. Any word of him having a significant other—especially, a plus-size significant other—would bring the paparazzi out in droves. I’ve seen what the tabloids do to large women—the kinds of unflattering pictures they publish and the debasing captions they write. The negative attention would be humiliating for both of us.

In the distance looms a rest stop off the highway with several fast-food restaurants. Overwrought, I come close to exiting. Most days, it’s a struggle to eat what I need for nourishment and stop. Under stress, it’s even harder to resist a binge. The urge to feed those empty places in me is constant. I didn’t tell Mick that when my mother was in one of her dark moods, I would eat to comfort myself. Or that every time I was sent away, I compensated for the hurt and loneliness with an overabundance of food. Or that anytime I feel anxious, the craving in me stirs. Therapy has helped, but the compulsion is still there. Always there.

When I arrive at Victor’s, I’m not nearly as together as when I started my journey this morning. As nervous as I was about facing Mama T, at least I knew she’d be welcoming. Victor is an unknown.

I climb out of the car to the drizzle of rain. Orange ribbons of sunset can be seen painting the horizon. On legs of jelly, I make my way toward the large Tudor house. It’s in an upper-middle-class neighborhood and is surrounded by a manicured yard and lush trees. A nice place to raise a family. Two modest sedans sit in the driveway, and a basketball hoop is mounted above the garage door.

I press the bell and wring my hands.

A dog barks, followed by a male shout for quiet and then approaching footsteps. I want to bolt, but I stay there waiting, sweating it out, while the lock turns and the door opens.

An instant later, I’m standing face-to-face with my foster brother.

From his appearance to his demeanor, Victor looks every bit the cop. Military-style crew cut. Long, wiry body. And ebony eyes, sizing me up with an unreadable expression.

“I’m sorry to just show up,” I say in a rush. “I was hoping we might talk if you had a moment, but if it’s a bad time or you’re not ready to see me, I understand. We can do this when you are,” I ramble on, my fingers numb from how hard I’m squeezing them. “But Mama T invited me to Maria’s on Sunday, and it would probably be better if we did this before then. Not that it has to be today.”

His expression softens. “It’s not a bad time. I’m just taking it all in. You look great.”

Relieved, I lick my dry lips and loosen my grip. “You too. You cut your hair.”

“Yeah, when I joined the police force.” He runs a hand over it in a gesture that reminds me of Mick.
Brothers of the heart.
“Come on in,” he says, stepping back.

The brown-and-white bulldog growls low in his throat and starts forward. “Stay!” Victor orders.

“It’s okay. You must be Rufus,” I say, recalling his name from Mick’s interview. I bend down to let him sniff my hand. Voices sound from the back, and the smell of chili wafts through the foyer. “Am I interrupting dinner?”

“No, it won’t be ready for another twenty minutes. Can you join us?”

Is he just being polite?
I straighten and look at him. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Family doesn’t impose, Dee.”

The tears start. “Mama T told you everything?”

Victor shakes his head. “Mick beat her to it. He called at the crack of dawn, threatening to kick my ass if I said anything to upset you.”

That only causes me to cry harder.

“I’m sorry for my judgment, Dee, and for the hell you went through.”

When I can barely manage to voice my own apology through a stream of tears, Victor opens his arms and I gladly walk into them. As they close around me, I hear him say with familiar warmth, “It’s good to have you back, brat
.
”

LATER THAT NIGHT, THE PEAL of the doorbell yanks me awake. When I roll over and nearly fall face-first off the couch, I remember where I am and why. After a wonderful dinner where I had reconnected with Victor and Gabi, gotten to know Isabelle, and spent time with Dwayde, I went home to meet my friends. Over two bottles of Merlot I told them about my pregnancy and my loss. They were supportive as I tearfully recounted my regrets and shared the joy of having my family back. Once Lexie and Jordyn left, feeling tipsy but too restless to sleep, I changed into PJs and curled up under a blanket to watch TV with another glass of wine. I must have drifted off.

Squinting at the screen, I determine that the eleven o’clock news is under way. As my foggy brain clears, I don’t have to wonder who’s here at this hour. The sudden fullness that floods my chest tells me. Climbing to my feet, I pad through the dark house to the foyer and crack open the door.

Silhouetted against the backdrop of a moonlit, rainy night, Mick takes my breath away. He’s wearing jeans and a hoodie. His mussed waves are dewy and his five o’clock shadow looks more like the eleven o’clock shadow that it is. I’d think I was dreaming if not for the kiss of cool, damp air, confirming I’m wide awake and that the beautiful man in front of me is real.

But he’s no less out of reach.

“I know it’s late,” he says, his turbulent gaze sweeping down the length of my flannel pajamas. “But I had to see for myself that you were okay.” He looks at me closely. “You’ve been crying.”

“I’m fine,” I lie.

“I’m not.” He steps over the threshold and kicks the door closed before he hauls me against him for a fierce embrace. I can feel the slight shake of his body as his buries his face in my hair.

“I’m sorry you worried,” I say, hugging him back. “I left you a note.”

“I didn’t want to wake up to a note. I wanted to wake up to
you
. God, Dee,” he murmurs hoarsely. “Finding you gone again made me crazy.” He pulls back only far enough to gaze down at me. “When I finally saw your note I understood you needed this time to reunite with the family. I stayed away and let you do it alone. I knew you needed that too. But don’t ask me to stay away any longer. Or to love somebody else. That could never happen.” He presses a soft kiss to my lips. “You’re the one who makes me happy, Dee. You’re the one I love.”

“Mick…” I breathe.

“Don’t shut me out,” he pleads, and scoops me up into his arms.

In his embrace, I’m achingly aware of how incredible he smells…of how amazing he feels. Mick takes me to the couch and sits down. One arm is around my waist and the other is beneath my knees as he cradles me on his lap and nuzzles beneath my ear. “Tell me what’s scaring you, and we’ll figure it out together this time.”

What he’s doing is immensely distracting. I close my eyes, tightening my arms around his shoulders. How do I let him go when all I want is to hold on? “There are so many things that scare me about us, Mick.”

“Start with one and we’ll take it from there,” he urges me, raising his head to give me every ounce of his attention.

I inhale deeply to calm my frazzled nerves. “You’re a responsible man.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Not bad, no. But I fear it makes you want to be with me for the wrong reason.”

He draws his arm from beneath my knees to sift his hand through my curls. “What reason do you think that is?”

“You feel guilty that I lost the baby.”

“Of course I do,” he admits.

“It wasn’t your fault, Mick.” I smooth out the grieved frown creasing his forehead. “I wish I could have spared you from ever knowing about it.”

“No, don’t ever think that. Keeping that secret was eating you up inside.” He captures my hand and rubs his thumb over the knuckles. “I’m not confusing my feelings for you with guilt, Dee.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

There’s no hesitation in his response. “I walked through your office door more than a week ago without a clue as to why you left. Mad as hell, I expected to feel only anger but I didn’t. I fought it. I hurt you. I tried to talk myself into a coldhearted seduction. All because I didn’t want to still be in love with you. But I was and now that I know the truth, I love you even more.” He brings my palm to rest against his left pectoral. Through the soft cotton, the pulsing of his heart beats straight to my soul. “Guilt has nothing to do with what’s in here. I want to be with you, Dee, because of everything you mean to me and everything you are. You’re strong and brave—”

“No. Don’t put me up on some pedestal, Mick. I’m still pretty screwed up from my childhood. The miscarriage only added to my issues. I have scars that may never fully heal.”

“I have scars, too. You know the demons I carry. And now I know yours. We’ll help each other through them. Chase the ghosts away.”

I look into his expectant eyes. He’s not acquainted with all my demons. I should tell him, but the words won’t come. “We can’t just fall into an old relationship and pick up from where we left off.”

“I realized that today when I tried to write. After retiring,” he explains, “I had this idea to turn
Princess Dionna and the Dark Shadow
into a book series under a pen name. I was going to succeed or fail on my own terms, not because I’m Micah Peters. But in four months I’ve made zero progress. I haven’t written anything worthwhile. And today I finally got what was standing in my way.”

“What?”

“It’s time for a new story, Dee,” he says, lifting my palm to his mouth and pressing his lips into the center. “I’ve been stuck in the past, and so have you. It’s not what we
had
that I’m after. It’s what we can have
now
. Something stronger and even better than before.”

My longing is bone-deep, but I’ve had a lifetime of learning to go without. “It wouldn’t work, Mick.”

“Don’t say that.” His mouth brushes across my fingertips. “We can make it work.”

How I wish that were true. “You’re famous. Fans approach you on the street. The media invade your privacy. Women show up at your door to offer you sex. I couldn’t live that way.”

His persuasive eyes fence with mine. “That’s not the way I want to live either. You know that. My retirement is recent, so I still draw attention. And the incident with O’Malley put me back in the spotlight again. But the public and the media are fickle, Dee. In time, my celebrity status will fade out.”

“Who knows how long that will take?” I protest. “Meanwhile, reporters will hound us and women will hound you.”

“I’ll do everything in my power to protect you and our relationship from the media. As for women, don’t let my one stupid indiscretion keep you from trusting me. I’m not going to have sex with anyone else, Dee. No matter what woman throws herself at me. Not when I have you.”

“You’re not hearing me, Mick,” I insist. “I can’t be what you need.”

“You’re everything I need.”

“Do you like cottage cheese?” I ask.

“What?” He looks at me baffled.

“Do you, Mick?”

“I’ve never tried it. Why?”

“Take it from me, you wouldn’t like it.”

“O-kaay,” he responds.

“It’s not okay. It’s far from okay. But it’s all I’ve got. And it’s not at all what you’re used to or what you’re going to want day in and day out. It’s unappealing…it’s…” My voice trails off when his eyes dart over to the wineglass on the coffee table beside the empty bottle of Merlot.

“How much did you have to drink?”

“I’m not drunk.”

His eyes slide back to mine. “You’re not making any sense either.”

I’d laugh at the absurdity of our conversation if it weren’t so pathetic. I’m an intelligent, enlightened woman who knows the inferiority trip the diet industry has laid on us…who knows that no real woman can live up to the plastic image the media tout as the female ideal. And yet I can’t magically stop finding fault with myself or make my lingering insecurities go away.

“What exactly are we talking about here, Dee?” he asks. “I gather that ‘cottage cheese’ is a euphemism for something else.”

“My body,” I say and feel my face heat.

“You’re comparing your body to cottage cheese?”