Page 32 of All of You

His brows popped, and he looked side to side. “Uh… I’m not sure how I’m supposed to answer that.”

His cheeks pinked, and I had to bite my lip not to laugh.

“What I mean is, I can’t look like this and eat barbecue on a regular basis. I can’t look like this and eat much of anything but lean meat and vegetables.” I tightened my grip on his hand, then pulled my hand back.

He stared at his hand a moment, digesting my words. When he looked up, his brow was furrowed. “Does that make you happy?”

“Does eating salad make me happy?”

“No, does looking that way make you happy? I assume the eating is a means to the physical appearance as an end.”

His voice held an edge to it, but I couldn’t tell what it was. A surge of annoyance that he was questioning my food choices, like he had any idea of the pressure I faced, stole my focus.

“Happy? That has nothing to do with it. It gets me publicity, helps me feel confident… plus you have no idea what it’s like to be anything less than super fit in this world.” I sat straight and watched him.

The waiter came and delivered our food—Ben’s looked predictably amazing, and mine looked like a salad with grilled chicken and exactly zero adornments.

We both dug into our meals, him sawing a piece of brisket with the side of his fork, then wolfing down half the meat, homemade mac n’ cheese, coleslaw, and cornbread before he looked back at me.

“I’m not judging you. Or, I’m not trying to. It just seems silly to me. You are obviously extremely fit, but if you have to be so regimented to look that way, I’m not convinced it’s worth it unless you’re one of those eat-to-live people. Are you?”

He was concerned. In an alternate universe where this wasn’t my life, it would be sweet. But his calling into question my food—really, my way of life, and his pressing on this subject I’d made peace with and accepted because I’d had to—was wearing thin.

I chewed a bite of my food and swallowed before responding. “No. I’m definitely a live-to-eat person. So it’s not easy for me, but now that I’ve been doing this a few years, I feel all right about it. I’ve gotten used to it.”

He watched me as I took another bite, not refilling his fork for himself. “You know you’re beautiful, right?”

Where did that come from?

“Yes…”

“And you know that your body looking like it does, while it’s… great… doesn’t make you any more or less beautiful?” His voice was gentle, but his words were harsh.

Of course I knew that, but hearing Ben Holder say it like it was something I needed to hear—like maybe I’d lost sight of the reality that beauty was more than physical—made my pulse throb at my temple. He had no idea what it was like to be me.

I must have physically blanched. “I’m sorry to tell you, but that’s just not true.”

The look he gave me was a confusing mix of pity and determination.

“It’s true. I know you live in a world that suggests that for you to be considered pretty and successful, you’ve got to wear certain clothes and have a certain body fat percentage or whatever, but I can tell you that you will be beautiful no matter what you do. Your songs, your talent, your kindness—though you couch it in self-motivation—those things are your beauty. The outside is magnificent, but it’s all of you that creates the beauty.”

No one spoke to me that way. No one was that earnest and sweet and humiliating. Cheeks flaming, the brutal mix of embarrassment, anger, and pleasure swirled in my belly.

“I’m not trying to sound like I know what I’m talking about—I’ve probably just mansplained this and infuriated you, and rightfully so. I’m messing it up. I guess I just want it noted in the official records that if you started eating barbecue and happened to also pack on a few pounds, I’d still think you were inordinately gorgeous.”

His blue eyes pinned me in place, his left cheek curved with the half-smile on his face.

Oh my.

I took a drink of water, then forced an easy smile. “So noted.”

We turned our attention to our meals. I thought we might go on like that indefinitely until his hand slid into my view next to my plate. His long legs bracketed mine under the small table, but I’d put that out of my head until now, when I felt his knees leaning inward against my legs.

I looked up to find him with an indecipherable expression on his face.

“We’re getting some attention—take my hand.”

I set my hand in his immediately, and his fingers curled around and stroked my wrist.

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