Page 39 of More Than a Hero
She hesitated, then shook her head, her fingers brushing against his skin. “I think I’ve been conditioned never to know how someone will react.” Her voice was quiet, but there was strength in her honesty. “I have rheumatoid arthritis, Pete. RAfor short. I was diagnosed in my early twenties, which is a little unusual. Most people either develop it as kids or much later in life. There’s no denying it affects me.”
She searched his face, waiting for a shift, waiting for something to tell her this was too much for him. But his expression remained steady, filled with concern, but there was no pity. No revulsion. Just him, listening.
“There are people who don’t want to be with someone who has pain. Someone who has bad days, limitations.” She scrunched her nose. “I shouldn’t say limitations. There are people with RA who run marathons, hike mountains, and do things I probably never will. But if you wanted me to go for a run with you or suggested climbing some insane trail, I’d probably have to say no.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Angie, I know so little about it.”
She pressed her lips together, then asked, “Do you want to know more?”
“Absolutely.”
With his firm voice giving evidence that he really did want to know more, she nodded. “Essentially, it’s a chronic autoimmune disease where the body’s immune system mistakenly attacks joints, causing inflammation, pain, swelling, and stiffness. There isn’t a cure, but various treatments can help manage symptoms and slow the disease’s progression. It’s systemic and can also affect other organs like the lungs, heart, eyes, skin, and blood vessels. I can’t be out in the sun for very long or I start itching because my skin is affected.” She shrugged. “I guess that’s the gist of the way it affects me. Mostly my joints get stiff and swollen.”
His voice was rough, full of emotion. “I hate like hell that you have RA, and hate that you think it would change how I feel about you. Anyone who wouldn’t want to be with you because ofit is a damn fool. And if you’ve had that happen before, their loss is absolutely my gain.”
A giggle escaped before she pressed her lips together, shaking her head at him.
“The truth is, Pete, it’s not just about knowing I might not be able to do some things. Being with me means doctor appointments. It means trying different medications. It means that some days, I might be fine, and others, I might have to cancel plans because my body just won’t cooperate. Most of the time, I push through. But sometimes… I just can’t.”
He shifted closer, his forehead nearly touching hers. His thumb brushed along her cheek, his touch unbearably tender. “Sweetheart, I hope we’ll get to the point where I can just look at you and know what you need. But until then, never be afraid to tell me. Never be afraid to say it’s not a good day. Never be afraid to tell me how to help. I might not always get it right, but I swear to you, I will always try.”
Her throat tightened, emotion swelling too fast, too thick. “I don’t expect you to magically know, Pete.”
“Then promise me.” His voice was fierce, steady. “Promise me you’ll talk to me.”
A slow, deep breath filled her lungs. She met his gaze, holding on to the intensity of it, onto the promise he was offering. “I promise.”
His fingers sifted through her damp hair, curling around the nape of her neck as he leaned in, his lips brushing against hers in a kiss so soft, so full of unspoken words, it nearly undid her. And then, as he pulled back just enough to hold her gaze, he asked, “What do you think about me? What kind of man do you think I am?”
She hesitated, swallowing around the lump in her throat. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m afraid to hope.”
His hand tightened at her nape. “Angie, we’ve been seeing each other for weeks now. We work together, we spend time together, we share, we talk, and now we’re here—being intimate in every way. So I’ll ask again.” His voice was quiet but firm. “What kind of man do you think I am?”
She searched his face, her pulse fluttering against her ribs. “I think you’re the kind of man who doesn’t care if I can’t run a marathon.”
A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “That’s absolutely right.” He shifted, brushing another kiss against her temple. “I don’t care if you run marathons, baby. As long as you run to me for whatever you need.”
A shuddering breath left her, something breaking loose inside her chest, something she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding on to. She didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. Her hands fisted in his hair, and she pulled him down, crashing her lips to his.
It wasn’t a soft kiss. It wasn’t careful. It was deep and consuming, filled with everything she couldn’t say, everything she wanted, everything she was terrified to believe she could have.
His groan rumbled against her lips as he rolled her beneath him, his weight settling over her, surrounding her.
And as his hands roamed, as his lips claimed her again and again, she knew he wasn’t just saying words. He was showing her how much she meant to him.
17
The bright fluorescent lights of SuperMart gleamed down on the wide aisles, reflecting off polished tile floors that had seen countless shopping carts roll over them. The store was packed with towering shelves stacked with everything from cereal to camping gear, and the distant hum of checkout beeps created a background rhythm to the Saturday afternoon chaos.
“No, no. It’s not in the baking section. It’s going to be where the toothpaste is,” Marty said.
“But if it’s like a toothpick, it’s gonna be with the cake mixes,” Jimmy countered. “I know that because I’ve been with my mom when she got toothpicks.” Jimmy’s voice held the certainty of someone who had navigated these aisles before.
“It’s like a toothpick, but not a toothpick,” Marty said, rubbing his chin as if that might help him remember more details.
Jimmy sighed, shifting his weight. “Okay, Mr. Marty, can you just tell me what it looks like?”
“It’s blue. Well, sometimes it’s green. Or, uh… kind of bluish-green. I think I’ve even seen ’em in white.”
