Moore To Love

by Faith Andrews

  I should’ve known that any guy who wanted to be part of a clan run by cruel, arrogant, jerkoffs would become one himself. Or maybe he’s been just like them the entire time and I was too blinded by his charming good looks and hauntingly blue eyes to care. No, I can’t even blame Alex for this. I was blinded by my own self-doubt. I thought losing a little weight would make the world a better place to live, but I was wrong. It just made it more bearable. And I allowed myself to believe that everything was perfect because for once I had the guy I wanted.

  “It’s not what you think, Leni.” Alex pulls me off to the side, away from all the gawking eyes, where we’re secluded from everyone else. Funny, now that I think of it, we always met up in some secretive way; alone in my dorm room, at a table in the furthest corner of a pub, the most desolate section of the school library.

  “Don’t you dare play me for more of a fool than you already have. It’s exactly what I think. You’re a liar and an asshole and I’m just some stupid, pathetic, fat girl, borrowing someone else’s made-for-society image for my fifteen minutes of fame. Only this isn’t the kind of recognition I was looking for, Alex. This is—this is cruelty! I’ve never felt so low, so humiliated, so . . .” I bring my hands to my face and sob. Alex doesn’t comfort me. He doesn’t reach out to coax me or tell me I’m wrong for thinking those things about myself or for believing Ty’s words without giving him a chance to tell me they’re untrue. Instead, he backs away like a coward and gives me an insincere explanation that leaves me wishing the ground would swallow me up and help me disappear for good.

  “I’m sorry, Leni. I did what they told me to do. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “Please stop crying, Leni. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Lane can’t have any clue how that phrase burns a hole in the very marrow of my being.

  I want to look at him, tell him I just need time to process this, to hear him out and make him understand my reaction is about me, not about him or who he once was.

  But I can’t do it. Not again. Just like with Alex, I feel the man I’ve gotten to know and love is a phony. He’s been hiding something from me all this time and that something just so happens to be the one thing I’ve been obsessing over for the last twenty some odd years.

  I’d like to think I’ve finally found a way to dull the fixation. I’ve learned to ignore the Alexes and the frat boys, the rude comments that fly from people’s tongues, lashing me without remorse, my own embarrassment staring at me from the reflection in a mirror. Once I accepted me for me, I was finally able to wear my flaws for the world to see, even when I tried to cover them or compensate in other ways. I am who I am; I’m a heavy girl. There’s no hiding my personal imperfections because they’re as plain as the nose on my face. But Lane masked his weight issue, clearly embarrassed by the person he used to be. If he’s this afraid to be himself in front of a person who thinks the world of him, I’m terrified to know how he truly sees me.

  With Lane hovering and oblivious to the root of my emotions, I cry until my body shakes. I feel betrayed by his secret. I feel inferior. I’ll never be good enough. Oh my God! Is he only dating me because I’m all he thinks he deserves?

  “This explains everything!” Sadness suddenly mutates into anger, especially with that asshole Alex in the back of my mind. I muster the energy to stand and push past Lane, shoving the picture frame into his chest.

  He drops it on the counter and runs after me into the living area, where I use the towel to wipe away any excess dampness so I can put my clothes back on and get the hell out of here.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Lane’s frantic. Confused. He sidesteps me to block my path to the door. To my escape.

  I’m not sure I can take any more humiliation—thank God he never gave me the chance to tell him I love him—but I swivel to face him after I pull my shirt back over my head. “This is why you’re with someone like me, isn’t it? I couldn’t figure it out, but now it’s painfully obvious.”

  He speechlessly tries to interrupt me, but I continue to spew my feelings so I can get rid of the pit in my stomach. I’ve never stood up for myself with a guy. I’ve never had the upper hand. But this time—I’m not going down without fighting for myself. “I never understood why a guy as perfect as you would want me. I mean, let’s face it, someone who looks like you does not belong with someone who looks like me. Unless, of course, you still have the chunkster mentality. And you know what? I’ve heard of this before. Except it’s usually the other way around. Sometimes when a guy morphs from loser to hot shot, he winds up becoming a cocky son of a bitch and forgets all about his humble beginnings. It happened with Reynold for a while—if you saw pictures of him growing up, you wouldn’t even recognize him—but it was just a phase. He smartened up and realized his dick wasn’t made of gold just because he grew out of the ugly duckling stage.

  “But you? You’re the worst kind of fraud! A wolf in sheep’s clothing. You chose someone like me because you don’t think you can do better. You want a perfect girl like Jenny or her sister Karen because, well, who doesn’t? But you’re so hung up on your own insecurities that you clung to me because I’m all you can relate to. A fat girl for a former fat guy. I’m such an idiot! I fell for a man who only likes me because he’s too weak to like himself.”

  My words come out in hysterics. I’m not even sure they make sense once they’re spoken. But I know how I feel. This is Alex all over again. I feel used. I feel that Lane chose me by default. Because he doesn’t feel worthy of anything better. And although I can see he’s hurt and confused and completely blindsided by my rant, I can’t do this to myself. I need to choose me.

  I’m tired of being the butt of the joke. I’m so damn worn-out from worrying about what other people think of me, especially since I’ve finally succeeded in loving the skin I’m in.

  That all comes crashing down when I realize that so much of my journey toward self-love had to do with how happy Lane made me. I want to believe that without Lane, or any man, I can still be as confident with myself as I was an hour ago. But I’ll never know unless I’m faced with it and as Joel would say, be a victor, not a victim.

  I will no longer be a victim of my flaws.

  “I have to go,” I announce, bee-lining for the hook where I hung my coat and left my bags.

  “Go? You can’t just leave, Leni. I don’t even understand half of what you said. Sit down. You’re not letting me talk. There’s so much I want to tell you!” Lane has unshed tears in his eyes. I know how he feels. Rejected. I’ve been in his boat over and over again and sank to the depths of despair each and every time. But this time . . . I have to swim to safety.

  “I can’t believe you’re reacting this way. This makes no sense. Why won’t you let me explain?” It’s a choked plea for me to hear him out. But I can’t. Not today. I can’t see past being lied to, duped, and possibly used. Not when I’ve been here before.

  I zip my coat and tug my bag over my shoulder. I turn to Lane, tears streaming down my face without avail; crying for me, for him, for what could have been. I was so close to ultimate happiness. I thought I’d finally found it all. I guess Lane was right—looks can be deceiving. And so is the fucking heart.

  Rather than allowing him to feel less than perfect because of an imperfect past he can’t erase, I leave him with one final thought before I go. “I’m sorry, Lane. This isn’t about the person you used to be. I could never fault you for that. I just can’t talk about this right now. I can’t dredge up all these old feelings that make me feel like shit.”

  “What old feelings?” Lane manages to smile through his anguish. “Silly girl, how can I help you if you won’t let me talk?”

  “Not now. Please, Lane, just let me go.”

  Lane’s mouth drops open with unspoken words. I’m sure there’s a mountain of information he wants to share, so much I’ll be able to relate to once I can hear it with my heart and not be clouded by the pain of my own past.

  I’ve never been on th
e giving end of a broken heart, but after five days of sending Lane’s calls to voicemail and an entire box of donuts, I succumb to the daunting fact that being responsible for this kind of hurt sucks. Hairy donkey balls.

  “Why don’t you just hear him out?” Tatum lowers the speed on the elliptical so we can chat. I haven’t been to the park for fear of running into him, and I’m pretty sure my best friend dragged me to the gym with her today because she’s worried I might eat myself into oblivion. Either way, I’m winning. Right?

  “I don’t want to. I know that makes me sound like a terrible person, but I’m not ready.”

  “Ready for what? To be an adult?”

  If I could knock her off the moving machine without bringing negative attention our way, I totally would. “Yeah, Tatum. That’s it. I’m the one acting like a child because I decided to get out of yet another situation that made me feel like shit.”

  “Remind me how not listening to what he has to say isn’t childish? Come on, Leni. That’s bullshit! I’ve known you long enough to be able to tell you the truth. The biggest problem in all relationships is miscommunication. How can you just walk away from him without letting him tell his side of the story? You jumped to conclusions. You don’t even know if your accusations are valid. He’s not Alex. This is apples and oranges, babe.”

  She’s right, my actions are based on assumptions. Call it pride, or instinct, or plain old stubbornness—but I can’t face him right now. I won’t face him right now. I’m focused on my brother’s wedding and shedding a few extra pounds in the next week.

  “I don’t want to talk about it right now.” I up the pace on my own machine to drown out Tatum’s lecture and sweat away my worries.

  By the time we’ve worked the circuit of fancy contraptions and free weights, I’m a little less down on myself and the pain of missing Lane, and everything looming around us is just a dull ache. I’m ready to brave the day as best as I can, until . . . I spot Hudson at the far end of the gym, purchasing a smoothie.

  “Fuck a duck! Let’s get out of here!” I tug Tatum by the arm to hurry her along, but my efforts aren’t fast enough because Hudson spots me and makes eye contact.

  “And that right there proves my point!” Tatum throws her hand to her hip and shakes her head.

  I wave, painting on the fakest smile I can muster, and Hudson pays the cashier and starts our way. “What are you talking about?” I ask, through gritted teeth.

  “Hudson fucking Blackman lights up every time he sees you, and you’re concerned that Lane picked you as some pity prize? You’re freaking mental, Leni. All these years of feeling sorry for yourself burned some valuable brain cells.”

  “Why, I’ve never!” I’m way more pissed at Tatum than I’m letting on but I have to be on my best behavior because the most eligible bachelor in all of Manhattan is approaching and I’ll be damned if he thinks he has any kind of effect over me.

  “Hey, Leni. I didn’t know you go to this gym.”

  “She doesn’t,” Tatum speaks for me. “She used my visitor’s pass today because she usually runs at the park with her boyfriend but she’s currently—”

  I elbow her in the ribs and she doesn’t get a chance to finish her sentence. “It was cold this morning. I hate bundling up to work out. Decided to check out Tatum’s place since my membership at the sports club is coming to an end.” Lies. All lies. But he doesn’t need to know that I’m avoiding any place where Lane might track me down.

  “Ah. Well, it’s nice to see you again. I hope you join so I get to see . . . more of you.” Hudson smiles, his eyes following the bead of sweat that’s trickling down my cleavage.

  When I realize what he’s doing, I quickly dab myself with the towel around my shoulders. “You too, Hudson. Have a nice day.” I start to walk past him, Tatum following next to me, but he calls out my name.

  “Yeah?” I huff, frustrated with the entire situation. Why? I don’t know. Just add Hudson and his advances to the list of things that agitate me lately.

  “Any relation to Reynold Moore?”

  I tilt my head and scrunch my face. “Yes. He’s my brother. Why?”

  Hudson laughs through his nose, nodding his head. “I’ll be at his wedding next weekend.”

  “Um . . . why?” It falls out of my mouth, unapologetically.

  His brow arches when he sees he’s hit a nerve. “Business. I like to attend at least one event before I legally acquire the property. The Moore wedding just so happens to be next on the calendar.”

  “Huh?” Tatum asks, clearly baffled.

  “You’re buying the winery?” I’m just as perplexed.

  “Why do you seem so shocked? I own many different businesses, Leni, including restaurants and wineries all over the tri-state area.”

  I scratch my head, totally cliché, wondering how in the world the stars pulled off this alignment. “Well, if this isn’t a coincidence, I don’t know what the hell is.”

  “Some call it coincidence, I prefer to label it kismet.” The word slides off his tongue in a condescending nature.

  Oh, label my ass, would ya? This has nothing to do with fate, or luck, or fucking kismet! The world truly has something against me at the moment and I’m about to show it I’m all outta fucks to give. “Then I guess I’ll see you there.” I whip around, my ponytail lashing in the wind, and storm toward the locker room without looking back.

  “Save me a dance!” Hudson calls out. I don’t have to see him to know he’s smirking as if he’s already won me over.

  Truth is, I’m not his to win.

  I’m not sure if anything in my life is a victory these days. I should be flattered by Hudson’s unwavering interest. I should be proud of myself for jumping back on the workout wagon when all I want is to inhale another box of donuts. What I really should do is return Lane’s phone calls and give my pride a swift kick in the ass.

  “Well, this should be interesting,” Tatum puts a stop to my pitiful pondering with a devilish dance around the locker room.

  I click my tongue and shoo her away. “It’ll be no such thing.” Even I don’t believe that. I’m just fooling myself into thinking that everything’s hunky dory. Being in the same room with a flirtatious Hudson while missing Lane isn’t a recipe for unexpected drama. Right?

  ADMITTING I’M WRONG IS NOT my strong suit. Then again, neither is facing the music.

  Growing up, I had an unhealthy fear of thunderstorms. At the onset of even the tiniest rumble from the heavens, I dodged for my bed and tucked myself underneath the biggest blanket I could find. Sometimes I rocked and cried until my mother had to pry me out of bed and hold me in her arms. As I got older the fear remained, but Mom explained that burying myself under the covers wouldn’t make the storm go away any faster. When it was ready to pass, it would pass on its own. Eventually, I learned that hiding from my fear got me nowhere, and in time I was okay with joining the rest of civilization outside the comfort of my cocoon whenever lightening cracked through the sky.

  Right now, my scary storm is this mess with Lane. I use the term mess lightly because, let’s face it, this is so much more than a little snafu. I’m hurt. He’s hurt. There’s a whole shit load of hurt mulling around, I’m not even sure who’s to blame anymore, and I kinda want my mommy to make it all better.

  I fucked up. I know I did. I overreacted, I didn’t allow him to explain himself, and now I feel even worse than I did when I thought Lane was using me as some fat boy fetish.

  Problem now is that I’m too proud to go crawling back. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still mad he lied, but the crux of our issue is my failure to hear him out. If I were Lane, I would count my blessings and move on to the next chubby chick. She would deserve him. She wouldn’t doubt him for a few scars that he kept secret. She would understand that she isn’t the only person in the world who got the shitty end of the stick when it comes to metabolic genes. She would have a date to her brother’s wedding tomorrow night.

  I have to text him. I want t
o text him. This has gone on long enough, and if I don’t do something about it now, I might never get the chance to make up for what I’ve done.

  Who knows? It might be too late. Lane’s already gone a few days without trying to reach me so I suspect he’s given up, and if he has—well, so be it. I made the bed and now I have to lie in it.

  With a deep breath and a nagging suspicion that I haven’t a shot in hell to redeem myself, I steady the phone in my trembling hands and type a message to Lane.

  At first, my mind is blank, void of the proper way to gracefully beg for Lane’s forgiveness. But once I’ve chewed the skin off my bottom lip and can taste the blood on my tongue, I decide to man up.

  “Ah, fuck it. What’ve I got to lose?” I’m talking to myself again, but crazy is as crazy does and this entire situation is nothing short of cray cray.

  Me: Hey. I’m sorry I haven’t answered any of your calls or responded to your texts. I guess I’m just sorry for everything in general. Can we meet up Sunday, after the wedding is over and done with? I’d like to talk. That is, of course, if you don’t hate me.

  I press send and wait in agony for the three little dots to appear, indicating that Lane’s responding. But I get nothing. There’s no way to tell if he’s even read the damn thing. I shake the phone, turn it off and then back on, and stare it at a some more, while subliminally channeling the wavelength gods.

  Twenty minutes later and zilch, nada, no dice. I guess I got what I deserve in the end. The cold shoulder. Serves me right for getting all holier-than-thou on him. Unfortunately, there’s nothing left to do but get some beauty sleep so I can put on my best face for the big day tomorrow.

  It’s not Ashley and Reynold’s fault that I’m a train wreck. There’s no reason to spoil their special day, even if I am so miserable that the thought of giving my maid-of-honor speech—it’s totally kick ass, by the way—makes me want to gag.