A clunk sounds in front of me, and I glance up. Claire’s let go of her carry-on and is lurching forward, but she takes a hopper over her bag. She stumbles toward me, trying to recover her balance, and I catch her.
As her skin touches mine, everything inside me notches back into place. She looks up at me, her eyes glassy. She opens her mouth, but before she can be saying anything, I tell her, “Wait.”
She arches a brow.
Of course there’s a ring of folks around us watching, but I’m not letting that stop me. I do, however, lower my voice. “I’m sorry I didn’t take your feelings into account. I should have trusted you at least enough to know you’d be having a good reason for not coming here. I shouldn’t have been making assumptions, yeah.”
I hand her the plastic bag and the balloons. “Got you these.”
She looks in the plastic bag. Closes it. Then looks up at me, confused. “You got me panties? White panties?”
My heart’s beating like mad, while my brain is going, You gowl, muppeting plonker, over and over. But I soldier on. I take a deep breath. “Yeah. I was wanting you to know I like you the way you are.”
She tilts her head, and the eyebrow goes up again. “And white panties say that? Is that one of the designated couple gifts for anniversaries? I don’t keep track of those things.”
I laugh. “Yeah, sure. Never hide from myself. That’s what they’re saying.” Since she still looks confused, I continue. “That first night, I saw you tuck your knickers out of the way when you showed me around the hotel room.”
She blushes a beautiful shade of pink, and her eyes get big and tender. And it says volumes that I even notice that shite. And then, thank fuck and all the saints, she’s standing on her toes and planting one on me.
Cheers break out all around, and since we’re giving them a grand show, I give in to what I really want to do—I cradle her face and return that kiss with one of my own, pouring into it all the hope and relief I’m feeling in this fine moment.
Chapter 19
Claire
An hour later, the Lyft driver drops us off at my hotel. We didn’t say much in the car, just logistics. We held hands, though. I think we both needed the time to absorb what this all means.
I know I needed that time. I mean, this is huge, him just showing up like this, and my heart’s fluttering in excitement and panic, and I want to make sure the excited part of me prevails.
Maybe that’s also why I need the time too.
Plus, I still have things I need to tell him.
We register and make our way up to the room. Inside, it’s a standard hotel room, no business suite like we shared for several days in Atlanta.
Conor throws his duffel on the floor. “You hungry, yeah?”
My stomach growls. “I think that’s a yes.”
“You grand with ordering room service? I’m famished, but I don’t want to be going out, yeah. I’m just wanting to be here, with yourself.”
Okay, now my stomach does that fluttery thing, but this time because holy shit. “That would be nice.” I sit down on the bed, run my hand along the bedspread, the cool surface calming, and look at him. “I need to tell you something. About why I freaked out like that.”
He takes a moment to look at me. “Sure.”
“But let’s order food first.”
So we pull out the menu and place our orders. We settle on the bed, sitting cross-legged across from each other. I take a deep breath. “I was a bulimic.”
Conor straightens his spine but remains quiet. I like that he’s not acting all shocked and immediately asking questions. He gives me his full attention, knowing I have more to say.
Before, the urge to share had been strong, but I’d stomped on it. Too afraid. Now I let that urge free, because Conor’s been understanding even when he didn’t know—setting the table, being considerate inside and outside of the bedroom.
I look to the side. “I was on the fast track for Olympic trials for the US sailing team back when I was in junior high.”
“Well enough. And something happened, I take it?”
I smooth my hand across the comforter and make a starfish pattern. “It wasn’t something I actually wanted, but I don’t think I fully understood that then. It was something my mom wanted, and so, by extension, I did too. To please her. And she saw my chance at the Olympic team as the financial golden ticket. She raised me by herself.”
“Where was your da?”
I glance at him, already steeling myself for the standard pity, but I see only curiosity, and maybe a touch of sympathy. “I don’t know. And since I never had one, I don’t really miss one?” I shake my head. “That’s not quite right. I do in an abstract way. I wonder what it would have been like having one. But it was always just my mom and me. She has a…strong personality.”
He chuckles. “That’s not surprising me.”
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t me then.”
He cocks his head to the side.
Yeah, okay, that sounds odd. “What I mean is—how you see me today is not how I was then. In fact, it’s because of what I went through, and had to do to heal, that I am the way I am.” I edge closer on the bed, stalling. “And it’s…it’s also why I freaked out on you. I was a bit of a doormat as a preteen.” I look at him and wince.
His forehead wrinkles, his eyes confused. “I can’t see you being much of a doormat.”
I wave a hand to the side. “I was. I let my mom overwhelm me, and her desires came to be mine. Therapy helped me realize all this and that I’d also been trying to conform to a certain body type I thought I should have with a swimsuit on. I was always in a swimsuit. Well, anyway, to deal with the stress, I’d eat. It was another girl at school who showed me the trick”—I air quote—“of throwing up after eating a lot. At first, I only did it if I ate too much. But then I wanted to slim down and…you can guess the rest.”
I was always chasing after my mom’s body shape. She was tall and lean like a super model. And I didn’t look anything like her. Since getting healthy, I can now see our resemblance, of course, but as a kid, I felt like the ugly duckling next to the swan. Brown-haired and chunky next to her ethereal blonde.
Conor takes my hands. “You’re saying you made yourself unhealthy.”
I swallow. “I did. So much so that I failed the trials.” His strong, warm hands ground me.
“Sure, and how did you break free of the cycle then?”
I take a deep, shuddering breath. “That was a wakeup call. I got help from a counselor at my high school. But the real headway came when I broke ties with my mom and moved to Sarasota, to start my life over basically.”
We’re interrupted by a knock on the door, and we take a break while we set out our food, designating the middle of the bed as our table.
After a few minutes, Conor wipes his mouth and sets his napkin down. “You’re a fine thing, you know. Utterly incredible.”
“Because I broke off with my mom?”