by Meghan Quinn
“You are not.”
“Yes, I am. You know Amanda; she’s going to bitch about the fact that I’m sick, and I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Slowly, Leah nods her head. “You’re right. She will.” Leah tilts her head from side to side stretching. “I’m so sore.”
“If you say it’s from sex I’m going to smack you.”
She’s silent.
“Ugh,” I groan. “Come on, everyone is getting sex, and here I am trying to live my life, avoiding men, growing a healthy self-image, and all I want is penis.”
She chuckles. “Well, you’re definitely not getting penis with mucus dripping out of your nose.” She tosses a tissue at me that I quickly use to wipe the snot away.
“What?” I hold out my arms. “This isn’t attractive?”
“Not even in the slightest. But you know, Tyler was telling me his friend Donovan is single now and looking to date.”
“No.” I shake my head, feeling foggier by the second. “I’m not going out with anyone.”
“He’s so hot though, has an amazing body, and he has money.”
“Oh wonderful, because money is on the top of my list of must needs when it comes to a man.”
Leah examines her freshly manicured nails. “Doesn’t hurt.”
“I don’t want a hot guy with money. Been there, done that. I want someone who’s going to want to be with me, hang out with me, take me out to lunch, care for me.”
Leah rolls her eyes. “You want Colby.”
“No.” Although, if I think about it and connect all the dots, maybe I do want someone like Colby. And is that such a bad thing? To want someone genuine and kind, someone with a heart of gold, who would do anything for me?
It’s not.
I’ve been through horrible relationships, survived some of the toughest criticism and bullying growing up. I think it’s time I wait to find someone who will treat me like a queen, and not by showering me with gifts, but someone who will drown me in their kindness and sweet gestures.
I deserve a Colby.
“Would it be bad if I wanted a guy who had the same values as Colby?” I ask, biting on the tip of my finger.
“No,” Leah answers honestly. “But good luck finding someone like him. He’s a once-in-a-lifetime guy.” He is. That’s exactly what Colby Brooks is. But he’s not my once-in-a-lifetime guy. There must be another man out there like him. And I’ll find him. Because I deserve a Colby.
* * *
“Fast money,” I groan with tissues stuffed up my nose and a water bottle clutched to my chest. Steve Harvey is the only good thing in my life right now and Family Feud. I’m on episode five so far for the day, my second box of tissues, and a round of cold medicine in my stomach.
Taking the night off was a really smart idea. There is no way I would have been able to make it through work later on tonight. I’m barely making it through lunch.
Steve Harvey is funny, at least in my delirium he is. I would be so good at this game. I would be the leader of the group, that’s how good I am. And if I were to assemble a team, if it was a friends group instead of family, my right-hand girl would be Rory, then Stryder, then Colby and finally, I would take on Rowdy because he’s the wild card, the guy you need who gets the obscure answers that only four people answer with. We would kick ass.
If only Family Feud didn’t require us to be a real family.
Damn you, Steve Harvey.
There is a knock at my door. Ugh. I don’t want to get up.
“Not here,” I call out.
“Ryan. It’s me, Colby.”
Colby? What the hell is he doing here? I quickly assess my attire and cringe. Holey sweatpants, oversized sweatshirt, hair tied on top of my head in a frantic mess, and absolutely zero makeup.
“Uh, what are you doing here?” I call out, sitting up on my bed.
“Don’t make me talk through the door.”
“I’m sick,” I call out, inching off my blowup mattress while looking around my apartment. There are tissues everywhere, one of my camping chairs is flipped over from when I tripped over it this morning, and there are dirty dishes in my bathroom sink. This is not good.
“Open the damn door, Ryan.”
“Uh”—I give my room another once-over—“give me a few minutes.” Or an hour. Or maybe come back when my place doesn’t resemble Snotville. Now, that’s a plan.
He bangs on the door, the force of his fist startling me. “I’ll be obnoxious until you open up.”
God, my neighbors are going to flip. I hobble to the door, my legs half asleep from being crossed a good portion of the afternoon. Unlocking the locks, I swing the door open just in time to halt one more pound to the wood.
Colby stands in front of me, wearing his flight suit and carrying a bag. He looks me up and down and the scowl in his brow softens.
I cover my face with my hands and say, “Don’t look at me. I’m not wearing any makeup.” Turning away, I go to my bed where I bury my head in my pillow and turn toward the wall.
The soft click of my door shutting echoes through the room, followed by the sound of Colby’s boots approaching the bed. He sits down next to me, places his hand on my hip, and rolls me so I’m forced to face him. I throw my pillow over my face and say, “Why are you here?”
Not saying a word, he takes the pillow from my hands and tosses it to the other side of my bed. I quickly cover my face with my sweatshirt-covered arms. “Stop it,” I scold.
Leaning over some more, he grips both of my arms and pins them to the bed, his body slightly hovering over mine.
Eyes blinking rapidly, I look up at him. His pupils are wide, his irises dark and sinister, but there is a sense of calm in his features as his eyes roam over my face, taking his time, almost as if he’s memorizing every curve.
“Colby, stop.”
Gently, his thumbs rub my wrists, sending a soothing warm ripple through my body, his assessment making me feel raw and exposed—a feeling I absolutely hate.
I’ve had to deal with that feeling for so many years. I was so grateful when I was finally allowed to wear makeup, because it’s my safety blanket, my mask, my ability to stay on the right side . . . It provided the ability to fool people into thinking I’m perfect rather than the little girl who was called chunky her entire childhood, or the girl who was made fun of at parties, or the girl whose boyfriends constantly cheated on her.
Right now, with Colby intently taking me in, I can feel all those emotions resurfacing, and I hate it.
I. Hate. It.
I try to shift out of his grasp, but he doesn’t let me go. Instead, he holds me in place.
Panic starts to set in. “Colby, let go. Stop looking at me.”
I close my eyes, hoping that will help. Maybe if I don’t see him, he might not see me.
“Open your eyes, Ryan.”
“Will you just let me go?” I snap, doing everything in my power to release myself, but he tightens his grip.
“Open your damn eyes, Ryan.” His voice is sharp, commanding, and it reminds me of something Rory once told me years ago when she was dating Colby. He has this voice that he pulls out only on occasion, a voice that will send a shiver from the tips of your toes to the top of your head, and there is nothing you can do but listen to him when he uses it.
It has the same effect on me.
Despite the war raging inside me, my insecurities surfacing and the need to bury myself in a hole, I open my eyes to find the most sincere look on Colby’s face, soft and full of concern. My breath hitches in my chest as I try to bring air into them, the panic deep within me rising and rising until Colby opens his mouth.
“You look beautiful, Ryan.”
Everything inside me comes to a halt, my body turns numb, my blood no longer pumping, my lungs no longer taking in air as his words float into my ears and trying to register in my brain.
I what? I’m sick, I look revolting, I haven’t showered since yesterday, and I know without even going
near the bathroom mirror, that beautiful would not—could not—describe me.
I blink a few times, trying to understand if I heard him correctly. He must sense my confusion, because without skipping a beat, he repeats himself. “You look beautiful, Ryan.”
I search his eyes, looking between them, trying to find the humor in them, or the lie, or the pity, but when I come up short, my eyes start to well up with tears.
You’re not the right shape to wear that.
Stop eating all that junk food. You’ve grown another size larger.
You’re not his type.
Boys do not want fat girls, Ryan.
If you shed some more pounds, you might be pretty.
Luckily you’re smart, Ryan. It’s good you’ve got that going for you.
Words after words after words rush through my mind. I can see my mom’s face, the constant sneer, and I can’t hold back the pain.
You know I love you, but . . .
Why? Why is there a but?
How on earth has this all come to the forefront of my mind right now? And why the fuck can I not stop crying? I am not that girl too. Weak. Emotional.
“Come here.” Colby sits on the bed, his back to the wall, and pulls me onto his lap, wrapping his arms around me and hugging my tightly. The tears escape, falling rapidly on my sleeve, years upon years of pent-up hatred for myself pouring out of me. It hurts. It hurts so much. Why was there always a but? Why?
Family Feud plays in the background, cheers and laughter filling the silence between Colby and me as he gently rubs my back and presses his chin to the top of my head.
He doesn’t ask any questions.
He doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t pressure me to explain.
Instead, he acts like the man I know him for—protective. He holds me close to his heart, letting me purge my sorrow.
* * *
“Are you okay?” he asks, after what seems like an hour. His voice feels warm, rolling over my body, reminding me that there is more to life than the little cocoon he has me in.
There is nothing more I want to do than keep myself buried in his strong arms, but I realize not only does this position seem mildly inappropriate, but Colby has a barbecue to put on tonight, and I’m sure he needs to get back to his place to prepare.
Wiping away any stray tears, I nod my head as I slowly back off his lap and lean against the wall next to him, feeling slightly embarrassed.
I need to say something to clear the air, but the only thing I can think of is an apology.
“I’m sorry,” I say, pulling on the ends of my sleeves, keeping my eyes cast down.
“Don’t be sorry.”
“You must think I’m stupid.”
“I don’t hang out with stupid people, so don’t insult me by saying something like that.” He turns my head so I’m forced to look him in the eyes. God. Now my eyes are so puffy, and I can barely see through them. And he wants me to look at him? “I meant what I said, Ryan. You are beautiful, just like this. There is no need to hide behind your hand or a pillow, or behind all that makeup you wear. This girl right here with the red nose, puffy eyes, and the light splattering of freckles on her cheeks, she’s gorgeous.”
I try to shake my head but the grip he has on my chin prevents me. “Why are you doing this? Why are you here?”
The pad of his large thumbs runs across my jaw before saying, “I came here to bring you soup and Gatorade, to check up on you. And why am I doing this? Because I care about you, and it’s about time someone told you the damn truth. This girl right here, the one I’m staring at, she’s beautiful, she’s stunning . . . she’s on the left side of perfect, and it’s about time you accept that. I’ve known you for a long time, Ryan, and I’ve always seen you hide behind new clothes, new hairstyles, and tons and tons of makeup. This is the first time I’m seeing the real you, and you’re fucking beautiful.”
My lip trembles, my heart beats wildly in my chest—palpitating, skipping, pounding—shooting a wave of nerves and anxiety through my veins.
You’re fucking beautiful.
Words I never associate with myself, especially when I look in the mirror.
Words I’ve heard before, but never have they impacted me before, like they are in this minute.
Words I’ve strived to be for so many years that I’ve convinced myself I would never achieve them.
Words I’ve projected on the outside but never truly felt on the inside until right now.
“Colby . . .” My voice catches.
“Shh.” He pulls me into another hug and kisses the top of my head.
I snuggle into him, press my face against his chest, and wrap my arms around his waist, allowing myself to close my eyes and just feel as I drift off into a deep slumber that takes over every muscle and bone in my body. I should thank him for coming. I should thank him for saying such lovely things. I should explain why I cannot believe what he’s saying. I try desperately to ignore the first time I was called ugly by a classmate, to let the hateful words fall from my head temporarily. Can I? I want to. But those words, and the many, many after them plague me. I should communicate this with Colby, so he knows why I’m such a basket case.
But I can’t. I’m too sick and too emotionally drained to say anything. All I want to do is sleep.
* * *
“Hey, I have to go.” A strong hand cups my cheek, a deep voice wakening me from my deep slumber.
Lazily, my eyes start to open as I take I my surroundings. I’m lying on my bed, my blanket up to my waist. A hot bowl of steaming soup is on my nightstand along with a bottle of Gatorade. Staring at me with warm eyes, in a squatted position is Colby.
“Oh, yeah. What time is it?”
“Doesn’t matter. Can you sit up for me?”
I cough a few times, covering my mouth with my sleeve as I nod and sit up. Colby helps me adjust my pillow, his touch gentle.
Once settled, he grips my knee and asks, “How are you feeling?”
“Emotionally drained.” I chuckle.
“I’m not sorry about that.”
Shaking my head, I catch the darkness outside the window. Night has fallen, the moon casting light on the parking lot below my apartment.
My eyes dart to Colby. “Did you miss your barbecue?”
“I’m a little late, but I told everyone I was checking up on you. They understood and told me to tell you they hope you feel better.”
“Colby, you should have left a while ago.”
He shakes his head. “Nah, caught up on some Family Feud and made sure my best friend was going to be okay.”
Fuck. My heart turns into a pile of mush, the feeling of his thumb stroking my knee just about doing me in.
“I’m fine, but thank you.”
“Are you sure?”
I nod. “Yeah, I’m going to take a nice long hot shower, put on some new PJs, and snuggle up with some more Steve Harvey.”
“All-day marathon.” Colby winks and smiles. “But eat this soup first, please. It’s hot and ready for you, and hopefully it helps.” He hands me the bowl and gives it a quick stir. “It’s my favorite thing to eat when I’m not feeling well.”
Do not cry. Do not cry.
If you cry, he’ll never leave, and you need him to leave because . . . because you are feeling way too many things right now and might do something stupid.
“Thank you. It smells really good.”
“All right.” He stands and smooths his flight suit down. “Will you call me tomorrow to let me know how you’re feeling? I want to plan our day to get that tattoo.”
“When I’m feeling better.”
“When you’re better.” He stands there, not moving, just staring at me. “Are you sure you’re okay, with . . . everything?”
I nod. “I’m good,” I say, attempting to reassure him. “I just . . .” I bite my bottom lip and look away. “You kind of ripped off a Band-Aid that’s been holding my heart together for several years. I wasn’
t ready for it.”
“And now . . .”
“Now I feel raw, but the good kind, the healing kind.”
“Good.” He squats down again and takes my cheek in his giant hand. “Because this is the girl I want to see more, this honest and true girl. She has so much to offer this crazy world, so don’t hide her behind layers of clothes and makeup. Let her shine, because fuck, Ryan, she’s one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen.”
Leaning forward, his powerful body sucking all the air between us, he gently presses his lips against my forehead, forcing my eyes shut and my heart to plummet into a spiral of realization.
In this moment, with Colby eating up my space, his protective instincts seeping into me, it hits me.
I love him.
Leah was so fucking right. Colby is a once-in-a-lifetime guy. And there are no other men out there like him. Which means I am absolutely screwed.
Because not only do I love Colby Brooks, but I’m desperately and hopelessly in love with this man.
Chapter Twenty-Five
COLBY
“Are you ready for this?” I grip Ryan’s shoulders from behind and massage them playfully as we walk toward her tattoo chair.
“I swear to God, Colby, if you tattoo something stupid on my body, this friendship is over.”
“Nah, you could never cut me off; you’re too dependent on me.”
For a moment, something flashes through her eyes, but before I can catch it she smiles and sits in the chair.
Ever since I visited her at her apartment to check on her, she’s changed. She’s been a little distant, a little short with me, and I can’t help wonder if it was from what I said to her. Some text messages have gone unanswered, and when I’ve asked her to hang out, she’s been busy. This is the first day in two weeks I’ve actually been able to see her.
It wasn’t until she came walking up to me wearing barely any makeup and shorts with a red plain T-shirt that I realized it wasn’t what I said, because she’s taken what I said to heart.