“I never understood why you were so self-conscious.”
“I know.” She holds up a hand and shakes her head. “Intellectually, I know that you thought I was beautiful and whatever.”
“And whatever? I was head over heels for you just the way you were.” I hate the idea of her making herself sick.
“Does your family know?”
“Mom does. She’s the one who took me to the counselor after Dad died. She said her heart wouldn’t ever recover from losing Dad if she had to watch me waste away too. I asked her not to tell the boys, and she agreed. I’m all better now, though, so stop giving me that look.”
“But you still don’t eat pizza?” I take another bite and watch her consider how to answer this.
“Part of my recovery was identifying triggers for me—emotional triggers, food triggers. It’s not like I had a healthy relationship with food before I lost the weight. The anorexia was just a new manifestation of existing issues.” She shrugs. “So as I recovered, I had to deal with those issues and try to form new, healthy habits. I choose not to eat foods that make me feel angry with myself after. For whatever reason, I can drink a beer or have the occasional ice cream sundae without feeling like my life is spinning out of control, without feeling like food is some evil sin I’ve succumbed to again. But I associate pizza with . . .” She bites her lip, like she’s trying to keep the words in.
“With what?”
“Self-loathing?” She laughs, and I can tell it’s because she’s uncomfortable sharing that and not because she thinks anything’s funny.
“Does it bother you for me to eat in front of you?”
“Not at all. Seriously, I’ve come a long way. And I’ve learned to love my body through exercise. I love what it can do—how I feel after a long run or after squatting heavy weights.”
Bigger or frighteningly thin, she’s always been beautiful to me, but I have to admit the healthy curve of her glutes and the muscle in her shoulders look good on her. And the confident sway of her hips looks even better.
She shrugs. “I still have my moments, but I’m in a pretty healthy place.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Maybe we could run together someday. I enjoy it too.”
“I’m not like my brothers. I like to enjoy my workouts—not kill myself to compete.”
I’ve worked out with her brothers a few times now. They like to do CrossFit-style workouts and bust their asses to beat each other. As a lifelong competitor, I love that, but that’s not always what I’m looking for when I go to the gym. “I promise I won’t race you.” I glance around the kitchen as I finish my second slice of pizza. The space is small but tidy. There’s a stack of books beside her laptop on the table. “Were you working?”
She nods. “I just finished up the last of my revisions and sent my final dissertation off to my committee.”
“That’s incredible. Why aren’t you out celebrating?”
She snorts. “A night at home with no work is my idea of a celebration. And anyway, nothing’s official until after my defense.”
“But your committee’s read it at this point, right?”
“Yeah, they’ve read pieces of it along the way and given me feedback. George has read everything except my most recent revisions.”
“Then you should be fine. Right?”
She wraps her arms around herself and seems to shrink. “Assuming George doesn’t hold it against me when I tell his wife he slept with me.”
Well, shit. “You think he will? Do you think you should wait?”
“If I wait, I’m only doing it to protect myself, and that feels wrong. I should never have slept with him to begin with. I might not have known he was married, but I went to bed with him when he was the chair of my committee. This is part of that fallout, like it or not, and I can’t wait to tell a woman her husband is unfaithful just because it’s inconvenient to me.” She straightens a stack of papers on the counter. “Knowing and not telling her makes me complicit.”
“What happens if George holds it against you? What if he doesn’t . . . pass your dissertation or whatever?”
“Then I don’t get my PhD, and I’m suddenly under-qualified for all the jobs I’ve been interviewing for.”
Jobs that will take her away from Jackson Harbor. I close up the pizza box while I consider this. Fuck. I’m so selfish. I don’t want her to leave, but if that’s what she wants . . . “Did you ever email that agent?”
She ducks her head, and I already know the answer before she says, “Not yet.”
I grab a napkin and wipe off my hands. “Why not?”
She studies the stack of papers and straightens it again. “Because reading and writing fiction has always been my safe place. The stories I read as a kid got me through high school when I thought the size of my body made me less important than skinnier girls. And writing got me through college—when I was so stressed, it was there to help me unwind.” She looks up at me through her lashes. “It was there to help me work through losing you. Both times.”