Hidden Hearts

by Olivia Dade

  She supposed she should start at the beginning. “I have PCOS. Polycystic Ovary Syndrome. Which means my hormones are out of balance, I have cysts on my ovaries, and I may have a hard time getting pregnant. But it also means I gain weight really easily. That was okay here in Nice County, where no one really cares that much about how you look, and I was surrounded by people who knew and loved me. But then I moved to Los Angeles for college.”

  Sarah’s eyes widened. “It would be hard to find a place more different from Nice County than LA.”

  Mary nodded. “Which was the point of going there. But it didn’t turn out like I thought it would. When I moved, I didn’t know a soul, and I had a hard time making friends at college. Even graduating and getting a teaching position didn’t help. Students came and went, and so did the other teachers, and I never felt like I found my own place.”

  “Oh, babe.” Sarah squeezed her hand. “I’m so sorry.”

  “People in LA care about their appearance. A lot. So that was one reason for what happened. But more than that, I was lonely and disappointed and questioning all of my decisions. I needed a distraction, and I needed a new goal. Something concrete and visible.”

  “Losing weight.”

  “Changing my body. Exercising. Dieting.” She swallowed over an aching throat. “When the weight didn’t come off like I wanted, I exercised more and ate less. It became a problem.”

  By the end of her time in California, she’d typically worked out at least two or three hours in the gym each day, pushing as hard as she possibly could. Exercising until physical exhaustion replaced all her worried thoughts, and she briefly experienced the grim satisfaction of having controlled and conquered something. Even if that something was her own body, her own muscles and joints screaming in distress, her own empty stomach.

  “I was always hungry. Within minutes after each meal.” The memory of that hunger—the desperate, painful craving for sustenance that had consumed her waking hours—still hadn’t entirely left her, even years later. “So I was constantly thinking about food, and sometimes I couldn’t stand it anymore. I’d eat until I felt sick, and then I’d barely eat anything the next day to make up for it.”

  Sarah’s face sagged in sympathy and dismay. “That sounds so terrible.”

  All Mary could do was nod. “It was. And I got really rigid about how much I exercised. If I didn’t reach at least twenty thousand steps a day, I felt like I’d failed.”

  Magazine articles and health-focused websites had recommended ten thousand steps. But the doctor had said Mary needed to exercise much harder than most people to lose weight, due to her PCOS. So she’d decided to double the number, just to be on the safe side.

  Even on a treadmill, twenty thousand steps had taken a long, long time. And when she hadn’t been able make it to the gym, she’d walked in circles around her coffee table instead. Walked and walked as she’d watched movies on her television, for hours at a time, until she’d reached her quota of steps. And then she’d staggered to a stop, her back aching and her feet on fire, and tried hard not to consider what all those circles said about her mental health.

  She tugged at a strand of her ponytail. “Eventually, my hair started falling out.”

  No matter how carefully she’d handled her hair, she hadn’t been able to stop the loss. After each shower, she’d found soggy strands clumped near the drain, and more had fallen out each time she used a comb or her flat iron. By the time she’d returned to Maryland, her scalp had started peeking through the locks of hair she had left.

  And back home, when she’d begun eating normally again, the hair loss had abruptly stopped. Not a single hair—not one—had fallen out for months afterward.

  Sarah’s eyebrows drew together. “What did your doctor say about all this?”

  “I didn’t tell her everything, just that I was eating less and exercising more.” Of course, the doctor also hadn’t asked for further detail, which Mary now knew was problematic. Instead, Dr. DeClune had simply offered congratulations for the weight loss and a prescription for the hair loss. “So she wasn’t worried. Until I got back to Maryland, I didn’t realize how bad things had gotten, or that there were names for what was happening to me. Disordered eating and obsessive over-exercising.”

  Sarah spoke quietly. Gently. “Are those still issues for you?”

  “Yes and no.” She blinked hard. “Once I left LA, my family and my doctor here helped me get better. But I have to be careful.”

  Over time, she’d learned to listen to her body. Because if she didn’t pay attention, she could easily end up binging and restricting or over-exercising again.

  If she began feeling hungry, she ate a balanced meal as soon as she could. During that meal, she tried to gauge her level of fullness at regular intervals. And once she was satisfied but not stuffed, she stopped eating. Or she usually did, at least. One thing she’d figured out over the past couple of years: Perfection wasn’t the goal. Progress—and kindness to herself—was.

  Returning to exercise had taken her long months. But now she worked out in moderation, without counting steps or calories. Not to punish herself for her weight, but to honor her body. To maintain her health, not her pants size. And she never, ever exercised through pain anymore.

  “What do you mean by careful?” Sarah asked

  They’d finally reached the heart of the matter, the reason she’d brought up her painful history in the first place. The reason a public date with a television star made her very, very nervous. “I try to stay away from anything that might trigger my old feelings about my body.”

  It didn’t take long for her friend to draw the obvious conclusion. “So the last thing you need is a bunch of people snapping photos of you and criticizing how you look online.”

  “I’m afraid of what would happen. That I might—”

  Sarah finished her thought. “That you might relapse.”

  “You said I’m strong, Sarah, but I’m really not.” She couldn’t put it any more plainly. “I may have put my eating and exercise issues behind me for now, but that doesn’t guarantee the future.”

  Sarah dashed away her tears with her knuckles. “What kills me, more than anything else, is that you’re sitting there and telling me you’re not strong. When you clawed your way back from the pain you experienced out in California. When you’re the compass that guides me and the rest of our friends toward doing the right thing. When you’re the most genuinely kind person I know, no matter how the people around you behave.”

  Another compliment might very well kill her. She needed to change the subject before she drowned in her own suppressed tears or spontaneously combusted because of sheer embarrassment.

  “What do you know about compasses?” Her watery laugh became a hiccup. “I thought you said you never went anywhere without a GPS and an interstate within your direct line of sight.”

  “That’s true. Unless Chris is with me. Because if we get lost together, I can simply ride his enormous, muscled back like a chatty koala while he tears apart trees with his bare hands and leads us to safety.”

  Just then, Chris came in through the garage, sweaty and breathless from his lengthy bike ride. He grinned at the women, and then strode over to kiss the top of Sarah’s head. “I heard that. We giant man-beasts have our uses, huh?”

  He whispered into her ear, and she nodded. “We’re okay. Thanks, babe.”

  He left the room and came back moments later with a tissue box, which he placed between his girlfriend and her best friend. “Take care of yourself, Mary. I need a shower.”

  Sarah gave him a quick smack on his spandex-clad butt as he turned to go, and he aimed a scowl over his shoulder.

  Mary’s friend didn’t seem concerned. “He may pretend not to enjoy a tap on his ass, Mary. But deep in his mutant heart, he’s delighted Dr. Frankenstein finally found a mate for him.”

  He grunted in feigned displeasure. But both women could hear his smothered c
huckle when he went upstairs.

  Sarah’s grin faded as she dabbed away the tracks of her tears. “So what are you going to do if someone recognizes Miles?”

  “I don’t know. But he plans to keep a low profile. I hope he manages to dodge anyone who might realize who he is.” Mary blew her nose. “And no matter how worried I am, I can’t run away now, Sarah. Not right before our first public date. We’re walking into that restaurant together next weekend, come heck or high water.”

  “Are you sure?” Sarah’s blond brows had drawn together again.

  Mary smiled at her best friend. “Well, of course not. But I’m doing it anyway.”

  “Because you’re strong.”

  “That’s one explanation.” Mary tilted her head in thought. “But strength and stupidity are often very hard to distinguish from one another. So I could just be making a really dumb choice.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Sarah said, and the two women high-fived.

  10

  Mary’s friend Constance was staring at him. Again.

  Not at his arm, luckily. But everywhere else, including places Miles hadn’t anticipated such a close inspection. Casually, he propped his right foot on his left knee—that should block the view—and caught her eye.

  “Is something the matter?” His damn jacket would have fully covered his crotch, but it wouldn’t zip without a lot of clumsy fumbling. Which was a shame, since it was freaking cold in the Niceville ice rink.

  She seemed to shake herself out of a fugue state. “Oh. No, I’m good. I’ve just always wondered whether HATV employed Photoshop in key areas when they made your poster. I have it in the Bookmobile, you know. So I can look at it all the time.”

  Mary tugged her cold fingers away from his and buried her face in her hands. “Goodness gracious.”

  With a final approving nod, Constance turned back to the game in progress. “No Photoshop needed. Nice.”

  “Thank you.” What else could he say, really?

  “She’s not normally like this,” Mary whispered through her fingers. “But she’s had a bit of a crush on you for several years. I warned her ahead of time that we might be coming, but apparently that didn’t help. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine.” In fact, he almost welcomed Constance’s intimate examination. He’d received that sort of attention countless times over his five years on TV, and he knew how to handle it. Gawking fans didn’t faze him.

  What did make him nervous: the prospect of someone other than Mary and her friends noticing him. Recognizing him. Worse, recognizing him and reacting to his missing arm.

  But at the restaurant tonight, no one had seemed either alarmed or particularly curious about him and his amputation. Maybe the hostess and server had glanced at his left side more than strictly necessary, but they hadn’t said anything or stared. He’d managed to order food that didn’t require either a knife or the knork he’d left out in his car. And he’d had the distinct pleasure of watching Mary shine brightly in a setting other than his dingy living room.

  So when she’d proposed going to the rink and watching her friend’s husband play amateur hockey, he’d agreed. After all, he enjoyed ice hockey and figured he’d like Mary’s friends too.

  Turned out, he did. At least when they weren’t perusing his junk. Con’s bluntness amused him, and the few seconds he’d spent with Sam before the teams took the ice had been pleasant. No surprise there. He knew Mary wouldn’t surround herself with disagreeable people.

  But because his jacket still fit a little too snugly, keeping his snaps closed had turned into an ongoing hobby. Good thing the game was ending soon, or he’d become the rink’s new, unofficial mascot, known only as Random Dude Who Froze in the Stands.

  Once Mary lowered her hands, he intertwined their fingers again, more content than he could remember feeling for a long, long time.

  “Go to the dirty areas, Wolcott!” Constance bellowed. “Get it deep!”

  Sam’s laughter carried, even from the other side of the rink.

  Mary squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh, my.”

  Suddenly, a small figure in blue shot across the ice and maneuvered the puck away from Sam’s stick. As Sam chased him to the other side of the rink, the rival skater raced to the net and shot the puck past the green team’s stunned goalie.

  A whoop echoed through the rink as blue team members and supporters celebrated the goal.

  “Con, who’s number thirty in blue?” Mary leaned forward and studied the player. “I can’t believe how fast he skates.”

  Con grinned. “She. That’s Natasha, the Tiny Terror of the Iceville Amateur Hockey League. She’ll probably come by to chat after the game, mostly to taunt Sam about losing. I think she considers mockery part of the spoils of war.”

  “Ah.” Mary winced. “Does Sam mind that?”

  “Nope. Verbally sparring with her is basically his overtime.”

  After the final buzzer sounded—with the blue team easily taking the win, five to two, because of Natasha’s hat trick—all the players headed into the locker rooms. All except Sam, who glided toward the patch of ice closest to his wife.

  Constance, her expression as soft as Miles had seen it all evening, clambered down the concrete risers to meet Sam. Her right palm pressed against the glass, she waited.

  When he arrived, he flattened his hand on the exact same spot.

  Connected through the glass, they stood for a moment and gazed at each other. Then, without a word, he skated toward the showers while she packed up her seat cushion and snacks.

  “Let’s go sit in the lobby area. It’s fucking cold in here. Mary, why didn’t you wear a hat?” She tugged at a strand of her friend’s hair. “You must have been freezing your ass off.”

  “I appreciate your concern for my backside, Mama Chen, but I’m pretty sure it’s still there.” Smiling, Mary rose to her feet and tugged Miles along with her. “I didn’t bring a hat because I didn’t think we’d be coming here tonight. But I’m glad we did.”

  No wonder she hadn’t expected to watch the game. He’d given her every reason to believe he’d refuse the invitation, even though they’d been dating for over a month.

  As they walked to the lobby, he leaned down to whisper in her ear. “We can come to the next game too, if you’d like.”

  The look of startled pleasure on her face almost stopped his poor, feeble heart.

  I think I’m falling in love with you, he thought. I must be. Because I’d do anything to earn that expression. Go out in public. Become the ice rink’s mascot, AKA Random Dude Who Froze in the Stands. Start thinking about the future again.

  He forgot their public setting. He forgot his qualms about getting naked in front of her. He forgot his continuing nightmares about failing her in bed. He forgot everything but the sheer glory of Mary. And even though he suspected she wasn’t much into PDA, he couldn’t resist. He had to kiss her.

  Her mouth parted in surprise beneath his, but she kissed him back. Her arms wrapped around his waist as their lips clung and wooed, and he couldn’t remember ever feeling happier in his life.

  Con cleared her throat. “Do what you want, guys, but you should know that people are starting to stare.”

  He ended the embrace after one last peck on Mary’s cute nose. “Sorry to make a scene, beautiful.”

  “No problem.” She pressed her free hand to her cheek, and he figured she was probably blushing. But she was smiling too, which was all that mattered.

  God, she was adorable. Sweet and smart and funny. Everything he’d ever wanted in a woman. He’d suspected it from the beginning, and now he knew for sure.

  Another thing he knew for sure: It was time to stop spending all day immersed in other people’s stories, either online, in books, or on TV. And God knew he couldn’t afford many more months without additional income. Rerun royalties only stretched so far.

  Maybe he could do what his fans had always urged and write a book abo
ut his own past adventures. All while making a life with Mary here in Nice County, where no one knew him from before the accident. And if they were careful and he grew a beard—a better beard than before, he hastily amended—maybe no one would ever recognize him at all.

  Lost in thought, he slung his arm around Mary and considered his options as the two women discussed the game and the library. The next thing he knew, players from both teams were emerging from the locker rooms, including Constance’s husband.

  Sam planted a kiss on Con’s mouth before turning to Miles. “During my wife’s extensive research on you, she found out you’re a hockey fan. Did you play as a kid?”

  “Yeah. Through high school.” As discreetly as possible, Miles looked around himself. No one was standing too close, to his relief. He didn’t want anyone to question why Constance would research a random guy so thoroughly. “I usually played center.”

  “Were you any good at face-offs?”

  He racked his brain, trying to remember his stats. “A bit above fifty percent, I think. Maybe fifty-five? Sixty? God, I can’t even remember at this point.” Shrugging, he laughed. “I guess I must have been good enough. They never kicked me off the team.”

  “Because the green team could use an extra forward. One of our centers hurt his knee last week, and our bench is a bit too short now.” Sam raised his brows. “Interested?”

  Miles’s cheeks heated in mingled embarrassment and anger. Why was Sam putting him on the spot like that? Especially when he knew—he had to know—that Miles’s playing days were over?

  These are Mary’s friends, he reminded himself. Stay polite.

  With an effort, he kept a smile pasted to his face as he jerked his chin toward his left shoulder. “Under other circumstances, sure. But not given my current condition.”

  An unfamiliar female voice came from behind him. “Yeah, you’re definitely out of shape. Come to a few practice sessions, though, and I’ll whip that fine ass into peak condition. And then you can join my team, instead of Wolcott’s group of losers.”