My father’s eyes drift closed, and I think he’s asleep when he says, “I know. Takes after his brother.” And it’s the nicest fucking thing the old man’s ever said to me, so even though I swore to myself I wouldn’t, I sit by my father’s deathbed and feel my face go wet with tears.
* * *
Abbi
I’ve journaled for the last three days and had an entire hour with my new therapist, so I’m pretty much the local expert on self-love and acceptance now.
Maybe not, but I see a path toward a place that’s better than where I am now, and that’s more than I’ve been able to say in years.
I love that Dean looks at and touches me in a way that makes me feel truly sexy, but it only took one meeting with Dr. Katherine before I was painfully aware of the fact that I was giving him a job I can only do myself. Even though I have got my work cut out for me, I feel optimistic on Wednesday as I leave the bank. Optimistic about my journey to self-acceptance and about my potential future business.
I’ve been on a “data-collecting mission” this week: find out what it’d take to open my own bakery in downtown Orchid Valley. No pressure. No expectations. I just wanted to have the information I need to make an informed decision about what’s next for me.
Of course, this mission resulted in me finding a beautiful bottom-floor storefront for lease and my amazing brother promising to help renovate it for me. It resulted in my mother asking to be a silent partner and part-time employee, which meant I had capital to discuss when I met with the bank today, and it resulted in my “let’s see what’s possible” becoming a real option.
I’m giddy and nervous. And all I really want to do is talk to Dean about all of it.
“Hey, Abbi!” Hudson calls. He waves then jogs across the street to where I’m standing in front of the bank. “I had a cancellation for tonight. Can I squeeze you in?”
I cock my head at him. So damn persistent. “Layla thinks you have a crush on me.”
His eyes go wide and then he does the fish-mouth thing for a few beats before shrugging. “I mean, you’re so cool. You’ve got a pretty smile, and I’m kind of obsessed with your cookies.” He releases a rough, kind of dorky laugh. “You wouldn’t believe the diet acrobatics I have to do to make those fit my macros.”
I laugh. “I imagine that would be difficult.”
“You know if you made them a little less fattening, it wouldn’t be so bad. Have you ever considered—”
“Hudson.”
He snaps his mouth shut. “Huh?”
“They’re good because they’re fattening. Not everything is meant to be lean and macro-friendly.” Not everyone, either, I think.
“That’s cool. I get it,” he says, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t.
“Can I ask you a question? If you have a crush on me, why do you keep trying to get me to diet and work out?”
“’Cause you’re so pretty,” he says, as if this makes perfect sense. “You’d be a knockout if you worked on your body composition. You might not even have to lose much weight. You start eating better macros and lifting weights and—”
“Hudson.”
“What?”
Oh, he’s so sweetly oblivious. “If you like a girl, maybe just let her be. Most people don’t enjoy flattery in the form of our bodies’ potential.”
“Oh.” He cringes suddenly. “This is what my sister’s trying to say when she says the exercise stuff is insulting sometimes?”
Maybe I had Hudson all wrong. Maybe he’s less macho bro-dude and more awkward fitness nerd. “Exactly,” I say.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“I forgive you, but I’m not looking for a new diet or exercise routine, okay? So maybe next time we talk, you could bring up something else instead.”
He nods eagerly. “I could do that.”
“Great.” I smack him on the shoulder. “I need to go win my boyfriend back, so I’ll talk to you later.”
“Good luck,” he says, but I’m already walking away.
* * *
Dean’s truck’s in the drive, and my heart races as I walk up to his door. I should knock, but I’m so scared he’ll tell me to go away that I use my key and walk inside uninvited instead. I can hardly breathe, I’m so tangled up in nerves. He has every right to throw me out on my ass again. But I have to do this. I have to try.
I find him on his living room sofa with gaming headphones on, a video game on his big-screen TV and a controller in his hand. He has his glasses on, and the sight of them reminds me of the last time I stayed the night. The way we woke tangled up together, our hands moving before our bodies were fully awake. He reached for his glasses, and I didn’t understand why he needed them. Even with something so obvious as that, I refused to believe he might want to look at me. That moment, that whole day, felt so much like a dream. When he brought me breakfast in bed, I just stared at him and tried desperately to enjoy the moment, but I couldn’t. Not when the ugly voice in the back of my mind kept warning me it was about to end.