Every Time I Fall (Orchid Valley 3)

“Dean?” I say softly.

He turns to me, and his eyes go wide for a beat before he pulls off the headphones, pauses the game, and puts the controller down on the coffee table. “Hey,” he says.

I bite my bottom lip. I wish I could just apologize and beg for another chance, but I know he needs more than that. He deserves more than that. “I have so many things to apologize for.”

“Me too,” he says.

I shake my head. “Me first?” He nods. “First, you need to know how sorry I am for everything I said the night of my twenty-first. I didn’t even believe the things I was spouting that night. I should’ve just said what I was really feeling—that Cody hurt me, and I never wanted to be hurt like that again.”

He swallows. “I don’t understand.”

“Cody’s dad wasn’t around much when he was growing up, and Cody would use that as an excuse any time he screwed up. I think his mom taught him to do that—because she felt guilty that his dad wasn’t around—and then Cody picked it up and it became a defense mechanism. I don’t know why I said those things that night. I always knew it was a lame excuse he used so he didn’t have to feel responsible for his mistakes.”

Dean draws in a deep breath. “I didn’t know that.” Four words and some of the knots in my stomach loosen.

“And I didn’t know you’d been carrying around my words all this time. I didn’t know the details about your dad or about your grandmother.” My chest aches and my eyes fill with tears, though it’s way too soon to start crying. I have a lot more to say. “I hate that I added to that hurt in any way. When I thought the worst about you and Amy, it wasn’t because of your dad at all. It didn’t even have anything to do with you. You are kind and strong and loyal. I was the problem. I believed you were messing around with her because it was easier than believing someone as amazing as you would want someone like me.”

Disappointment washes over his face before he closes his eyes. “Abbi . . .”

“Wait. Listen, please?”

Blowing out a breath, he nods and opens his eyes again. “I’m listening.”

I take a deep breath and peel off my sweater. “I’m not sure I’ll ever like my arms,” I say, and before he can object, I push on, “but I like my hands.” I stretch out my fingers. “It’s a silly thing, maybe, but I’ve always liked my hands. Maybe it’s from all those years playing piano or because I spend so much time watching them when I’m in the kitchen, but I like the way they look. Even though they get rough and dry from work, and even though I always keep my nails short and stubby. They aren’t elegant like a lot of women’s hands—but it’s okay,” I blurt. I’m already ruining this. “Because I like these hands just as they are.”

He gives me a crooked smile. “I like them too. A lot.” His voice is raw.

“Okay.” I feel a little braver now that I’ve started. “My back. I’ve always liked my back. I like the smooth skin and the freckles sprinkled across it. I like that it’s strong and I don’t have to rely on my staff to unload a truck when inventory comes in. But I also like the way it looks. When you touched my back, when you were behind me and kissed your way across it, I never felt like I needed to hide anything or suck anything in. I just . . . felt good about it.”

“You have a sexy back,” he says, and I have to block out the impulse to find the lie in his words. That instinct will take some time to correct, but I’ll work on it. For him. For me.

“Thank you,” I say with a smile. “I’ve spent most of my life hating my breasts,” I continue. Dean holds my gaze, but there’s an undeniable sadness in his eyes. “That surprises a lot of girls, because any time size or weight comes up, they say I’m curvy, and I’m so lucky to have the breasts so many women shell out thousands of dollars for. But my breasts were always in my way growing up, and as much as our culture fetishizes that part of a woman’s body, if you don’t dress just right, they can just make you look even heavier.” I look down at my hands, embarrassed all over again for bringing this up, but it’s not like I’m telling secrets. “I hated that. I’ve always hated anything that makes me look heavier.”

“Abs . . .”

Slowly, I lift my eyes to his. “But I loved my breasts when I was in bed with you. I liked the way your hands looked on them, and the way you’d touch me. You said it’s impossible for you to love me enough to make me stop hating myself, and you’re right. At the end of the day, that’s my job and no one else’s. But I was on my way there when I found Amy in your bed. Maybe I didn’t believe I was beautiful, but I believed you thought I was, even if I didn’t understand why. And maybe I didn’t believe my size doesn’t matter, but I did believe it doesn’t matter to you. And honestly . . .” I swallow hard and give myself a moment to find the words I need. “I’ll never be someone who oozes confidence or someone who believes she’s the prettiest girl in the room. Most of the time, I just want to hide anyway. I don’t want people to notice me, and a lot of that comes from not wanting them to see what I perceive as flaws, but I like when you notice me. I’ve always liked when you noticed me, even when I didn’t think I deserved it, even when I thought it was some sort of weird mistake.”