Page 46 of Misadventures of a Curvy Girl
I step forward too and put my hand against Ireland’s back.
“Do you want your…friends…in the picture?” the reporter asks, looking at us with avid interest.
“Boyfriends,” I correct automatically and then realize I’ve made a mistake. Ireland stiffens against my hand at the same time as the reporter’s eyes gleam with unmistakable delight. I can practically see her brain whirring with ways to work this juicy tidbit into the story.
Shit.
“Boyfriends?” she repeats and gives us the oh cool, uh-huh, uh-huh, I’m pretending to think this is totally normal nod and smile. “And you met after the storm?”
I can feel the deep breath Ireland takes. “Actually, no,” she answers, and she answers with a lifted chin and the confident, cheerful smile I’ve come to know and love. “We met before the tornado.” And she gives a charming and PG-rated account of how we all came to know each other and how the storm brought us together.
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The reporter can’t hide her excitement. “This is such a cute story,” she gushes. “Can I make it part of the feature? I mean, with a picture of the three of you…”
I’m about to say no on Ireland’s behalf. It’s clear there’s something about being in a picture that makes her uncomfortable, and I won’t have anything making her unhappy, but she beats me to an answer.
“Yes,” she says, and while I can sense her bravery, I can also sense her pride. “You can put it in the article, with a picture of the three of us.”
And when Caleb and I arrange ourselves around her, our arms crossing behind her back to wrap around her waist, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. Not just the holding of her between us, which isn’t new, but doing it publicly.
I give her a kiss on the head between flashes of the camera.
“I love you,” I tell her.
“I’m real proud for the world to know I’m your boyfriend,” Caleb adds quietly.
Ireland flushes a happy flush, and her smile for the camera goes brighter.
“Okay, I think we’ve got it,” the reporter says cheerfully after the photographer gives her a nod. “I’m going to work fast—we’re hoping to get this up by late evening!”
It’s enough to send another nervous look flitting across Ireland’s face, but the reporter and photographer are quick with their goodbyes, and there’s no chance for Ireland to change her mind about anything. When they leave, she turns back to us, chewing on her blue lower lip. “Do you think I did okay? Did I talk enough about the rebuilding and the storm? And the picture—”
“You did great, peach,” Caleb says, wrapping his big hands around her shoulders and dropping a kiss onto her hair. “You did perfect.”
She sighs like she doesn’t believe him but isn’t willing to argue and turns back to the tavern. We follow, stepping onto the sidewalk right as Mrs. Parry’s nephew walks past with a bucket of paint in each hand, headed for the little volunteer library next to the tavern. I give him a nod, although something about the way the older man eyes Ireland has me pressing my hand more firmly against her back, those protective instincts still rearing strong.
Ireland, probably still chewing over the interview in her mind, doesn’t notice Lyle Parry or my reaction to him. I shoot a glance at Caleb, who also takes note of the smirking way Lyle is staring at Ireland, and Caleb understands immediately. He hangs back, ostensibly to talk to Lyle, but really to step between Lyle and Ireland while I shepherd her back inside the tavern.
Caleb and Lyle greet each other and make some small talk as we all move down the sidewalk, and it’s with some relief when I get to the door of the tavern and push it open. Ireland is walking inside as Lyle lowers his voice and mutters to Caleb, “She must be something else in bed, huh?”
“Excuse me?” Caleb asks coldly.
“You know what I’m talking about,” Lyle says in a winky-nudgy kind of tone, which is still loud enough to carry easily through the threshold of the open tavern door. I try to shut it, but I’m not quick enough. Lyle’s stupid voice still reaches us. “The chunky ones are always better in the sack. More grateful, you see? Makes them try harder.”
Next to me, Ireland goes completely still, and I’m torn between the need to comfort her and shield her from every shitty thing in this world and my rage. I want to go out there and beat the teeth out of Lyle Parry’s head. I want to wring him like a towel and hang him up to dry.
But one look at Ireland’s face reminds me what my priorities are.
I gather her into my arms and hold her to my chest. “Fuck him,” I murmur.
Caleb outside growls, “You’ll talk about Ireland with some fucking respect, Lyle, or face the consequences.” And then Caleb storms inside amid Lyle’s shocked sputters, slamming the tavern door shut behind him.
“God, Ireland, I’m so fucking sorry he said that,” Caleb says with misery painted all over his expression. He comes to stand next to us, putting his hand on Ireland’s shoulder, but she shakes her head and takes a step away from us.
“It’s fine,” she says in a falsely bright voice. “I’ve been one of the ‘chunky ones’ for a long time. I’m used to it.”
Everything about her is armored right now—her forced smile and her tense stance—and when I reach for her again, she moves out of range.
