Fall to You (Here and Now 2)

“Yes.” I know how much that admission is going to hurt, and my voice breaks on the word. And maybe my heart.

His head bobs as he nods. “Okay. And me?” The pain’s right there in his voice, but it’s not the hot and fresh wound I expected. It’s hard and calloused. Old hurt brought to the surface.

“I love you too.” It’s the first time I’ve said it since I lost my memory, and he bows his head at the words. I whisper, “But love isn’t enough. The way you really feel about my body, about the real me. That will stand between us.” I swallow hard. “I know you believe that I’m what you want. And maybe I am. But you don’t want me the way a man should want his wife. Maybe it’s stupid that I care. But I want someone who’s going to be as crazy for my body—in all its flaws—as he is for my mind.”

He turns and drags his eyes over me. Slowly. Deliberately. “You don’t believe I’m crazy for your body?”

“She said, ‘What’s it like to fuck a fatty?’ and you said, ‘I’m not going to let it get that far.’” Hurt slices through me at the memory. “How the hell else was I supposed to take that, Max?”

His jaw hardens. “Don’t pretend that her words were my thoughts.”

“They might as well have been.” Anger bubbles into my voice, making my words pop and snap. “You have no idea what it’s like to always fall short. To be the reason your mom won’t serve full-fat anything at family functions. To be the one who never had a date to prom. You have no idea what it’s like to be so in love with the same guy since you were thirteen years old and have him look at your twin sister like she’s the sprinkles on a sundae. You have no clue what it’s like to have someone you want find you unattractive.”

“I never said I found you unattractive,” he growls.

“You said I wasn’t your type.”

“You aren’t my type, Hanna.”

The words hit me like a bucket of cold water against my anger-heated cheeks. “Exactly.” I turn to leave the room, the conversation—because fuck him—but suddenly he’s there, his body in front of mine so I’m looking at his chest.

“Ask me what my type is,” he says, but his voice isn’t gentle anymore. It’s low and foreboding, the rumble of thunder before the wild storm.

“I don’t have to ask. I know.”

“Do you?” He steps toward me, and I find myself backpedaling until I’m against the wall. He stalks closer until he’s leaning over me, a hand against the wall on either side of my head, pinning me in. “You aren’t my type.”

“I heard you the first time.” I’m trying to sound fiery, but the words come out weak. Damn it. “Why are you doing this?”

“You have never been my type.”

“Because you like blondes. Like Meredith. Like Liz.”

“Because I don’t like women who are as soft as you are.”

That’s it. I smack his chest with both hands, but he doesn’t budge. “Fuck you. There are men who like my body.”

“You think I don’t know that? You think I’m blind to the way guys look at your ass when you walk across the room? You think I don’t hear the guys at the club making comments about your tits?” He scoffs at my grimace. “No, don’t play politically correct on me now. You started this conversation, and now we’re going to finish it.” His gaze is on my mouth. Hot. Hungry. Wanting. I don’t understand, but I know what I see. “I’m well aware that men want you. Because I’m one of them.”

“You just said I’m not your type.” God. I don’t want to have this conversation. He’s not making any sense, and every reminder about my imperfections is another splinter digging into my battered heart. “You just said I’m too soft for you.”

“I wasn’t talking about your body. I was talking about your heart.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“My mom has a soft heart too, and she let my father beat her down every day because of it. He may not have used his fists, but he didn’t have to. Words are so much crueler. She took the blame for every insult he threw, swallowed every manipulation. And when he left, she believed it was because she wasn’t good enough. He nearly destroyed her. You aren’t my type because you give and give and give, and that scares the fuck out of me. Someone like Meredith could never hurt me. She’s too hardened to get close enough to hurt me. But you? You open your heart so much and get so close that I’m more vulnerable than ever.”

“I don’t make anyone vulnerable.” I’m confused. I want to believe what he’s saying, but it doesn’t fit with what I’ve spent my whole life believing about myself and how men see me.

“You do,” he says softly. “You make me vulnerable and you hurt me more than Meredith ever could. And fuck it if you’re not worth every bit of pain I feel right now.”

“You don’t understand what it’s like to feel so completely inferior to everyone around you just because of the size of your body. And to know that it was all some ruse, that you weren’t even attracted to me when you asked me on that date—”

“Does it matter when I’m attracted to you now?”

I shake my head. “I’m not the same woman I was then.” I drop my gaze down to my body, the weight creeping back on little by little every day. “And I had to starve myself to get here.”

“I loved you before you lost the weight. I asked you to marry me before you lost the weight.” His lips hover over mine, and I so badly want him to come a breath closer. My knees are weak with need, and I crave his lips on mine. Instead, he asks, “Do you remember the first time we kissed in the gallery?”