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Of all the things she could have said, this one hits the lowest below the belt.
From Vale’s very first touch, I worried my proximity made me attractive to him. The fact that I was close and…accessible. I shake my head, trying to fight off the doubts that are slowly climbing from the graves where I buried them. Coming for my newfound confidence with sharp, gleaming teeth. “No,” I breathe, hating the moisture that pools in my eyes. “That’s not true. We love each other. I don’t need you to believe me. Our opinions are the only ones that matter.”
“Oh yeah? You should see the snide comments on this photo,” she drawls, holding up her phone. “Do you have any idea what people are saying? What they think when they see you two together? Such…” She eyes my body pointedly. “Opposites.”
“I don’t care.”
That’s what I say out loud, but my confidence is skating on thin ice.
“Well you can imagine,” my mother snaps. “How long is he going to put up with that? He’s in the public eye, Lula. You’re forcing him to deal with laughter and criticism and taunts. You’re forcing him to do that by being with him!”
“No, I’m not,” I whisper, backing away from her until my back hits the dresser.
But is what she says true? If Vale was pictured with one of the society girls my mother wanted to introduce him to, wouldn’t people be more satisfied with his choice? Wouldn’t it make more sense and invite less negativity? And with one of those girls, he wouldn’t face any potential discipline from the Navy, either. Is being with me bad for Vale? I don’t want to hurt him in any way—I love him too much.
“You’re obviously beginning to see reason,” sneers my mother. “Good.”
There’s a knock on the door of the adjoining bathroom.
Quickly, my mother crosses my room toward the entrance. “Sometimes the hard thing is the right thing,” she whispers—and then she’s gone.
Sometimes the hard thing is the right thing.
Those words play over and over in my head as I unlock the bathroom door with partially numb fingers, my throat clogging up at the sight of Vale’s grin. In sweatpants and bare feet, he’s shirtless, his abundance of muscles highlighting our differences. He’s carrying a plate of sandwiches that he must have put together in the kitchen while I spoke to my mother.
One look at my face and his smile crumbles.
“What the hell happened?”
I can’t look him in the eye. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit, Lula.” He pushes into my room and sets down the plate on my dresser, turning in a quick circle to survey the room, his sharp movements reminding me he’s a SEAL to the bone. When he spots the discarded wine glass on my bed, he holds it up, dread and irritation beginning to creep into his expression. “Your mother was here. What did she say to you?”
All I can do is shake my head.
There’s a hole in my stomach and I can’t stop myself from speculating on those comments. What are people saying? I’m no longer in doubt that Vale loves my body. And I love my body. It jiggles in a lot of places. It also camps and meditates and goes to school and makes friends and lives life. I’m not defined by how I look. Nobody is.
But other people can be so cruel and thoughtless and vocal about things that strike them as different. Not typically done. Vale and I are one of those things. Do I really want to subject him to people who are constantly going to point out the difference in the ways we look? Or that I’m his stepsister? Fourteen years younger? The list goes on. He might be able to salvage his American hero image without me. Am I being selfish if I don’t let him go?
I take a deep breath and look him in the eye. “Vale, maybe…maybe it is for the best if you take some time to think. In Coronado. Alone?”
His jaw looks like it’s about to shatter, his muscles rigid.
Blue sparks snap in his eyes.
“I’ve had enough of this,” he growls, storming toward me—
And right past me.
Out the door of my bedroom and down the stairs.
I run after him down the hallway and watch as he leaves the house, slamming the door behind him hard enough to rattle the hinges.
That’s it then. I’ve finally pushed him away.
He’s gone.
In a trancelike state, I pace back to the bedroom and crawl into my bed, pulling the covers tight around me. I lie very still for long moments before the crying starts. A huge, hiccupping sob wracks my body and I release the sound into the pillow, curling in on myself. I know I should try and slow down my breathing and center myself before this crying jag gets out of control, but I don’t want to find peace or be calm. I want to rage at the unfairness of what’s just happened.
