by Nikki Steele
Finally, one night after we’d gone for a burger and a movie, he kissed me goodnight after walking me to my front door. It was the sweetest, most heart-melting moment of my life. Like seven years of waiting and wanting, finally culminating in an exclamation point.
Erica was a junior at the time. Brian had always seen her as my kid sister. I never considered her a threat— after all, she was my sister, and she’d known I had a crush on him.
But he took her to the Senior Prom, and I stayed home. I was never sure what happened between them, exactly. All I knew was that she had never shown so much as a passing interest in him; in fact, she had called him a nerd more times than I could remember. But within two weeks of the first and only kiss Brian and I shared, the two of them were dating. I had to watch as he picked her up at the house to take her out. I wasn’t even allowed to hide in my bedroom while the two of them had their pictures taken in our living room before they left for the Prom. I still remembered how he had deliberately avoided my eyes.
Mom had said it was because Erica was jealous of me. I found that hard to believe, though Mom usually had a good handle on things like that. Erica always had the best of everything and I got the seconds. At least that was how it felt.
But that was years ago. And I knew she sure hadn’t loved him; they broke up a month after Prom and she never talked about him again.
I looked around the large, luxurious bathroom while putting away our makeup and toiletries. I’d heard this Stephen Petersen guy was some hot-shot billionaire who’d had the cabins custom-built for the athletics trials. I looked out the window; gazing again at the hot tub. I didn’t care what sort of hotshot he was. As far as I was concerned, he was a genius.
My eyes refocused on my reflection in the glass as I wandered to a mirror to touch up my makeup. I might not have been thin and toned like my sister, but I did make it a point to keep up my appearance. I applied tinted mascara that made my hazel eyes pop, sheer gloss to give my lips shine, then ran a brush through my dark brown, shoulder-length hair.
The rest of me I couldn’t do much about. It wasn’t easy sometimes around my sister to remember that wearing a plus size wasn’t a crime.
After I got everything put away, I looked over the thick packet of materials that had been left for us on the kitchen table. There was a detailed schedule of everything that was to take place over the next several days, including the qualifying time trials and competitions. There were also a few social events, where the athletes could theoretically let loose and relax after hours of intense training and competition.
If I knew my sister, she wouldn’t be interested in the social events. That was one thing I had to give her credit for—her single-mindedness. When she wasn’t training or competing, she was making sure to get plenty of sleep and meditating on the win. She would sometimes spend hours just envisioning the perfect run until she could go through it in her head as if she was actually skiing it.
I bit my lip—it looked as though I would have some free time, if all went according to schedule. That hot tub was already calling to me.
Then I sighed. Work came first. The kitchen needed to be stocked, just as Erica had asked. And if there was one thing I was good at, I reminded myself as I got in the car, it was doing what I was told.
Chapter 2
I had my grocery list all prepared; Erica was, if nothing else, a creature of habit. She knew what worked for her in terms of her best performance and highest energy levels, and she went with it.
Sometimes we’d try something new, like the latest ‘superfood’ making the rounds online. I remembered when kale and quinoa first became a thing—it had become my mission in life to create new recipes with one or both of those foods. It wasn’t easy finding ways to make them exciting, day after day. But that was the sort of thing I excelled at, after all.
Mom and Dad had thought it made all the sense in the world for me to combine my talent for cooking and my sister’s need for a personal chef. At first I couldn’t understand why she was physically incapable of prepping her own meals; frankly, sometimes I still wondered what the big deal was. But then she’d never been expected to do much of anything besides ski, from as soon as it was discovered that she loved it and showed an aptitude.
I wandered through the store, marveling at the array of healthy, organic, gluten-free and non-GMO items on the shelves. Compared to the amount of work I had to do to find these same foods back home, this store was amazing! We were finally catching up to the rest of the world back in our hometown, but it was taking time—the opening of a new salad place last year had been front page news.
I didn’t notice the other cart until I smashed into it. I looked up, but the sharp retort died on my lips—the man I had run into was absolutely gorgeous.
“I’m sorry,” he said, then flashed me a dazzling smile.
I stood there, unable to make a sound, gawking like an idiot.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
I blinked rapidly to clear my head. Then I smiled at him and averted my eyes; it was a reflex, from years of being too shy to look a cute boy in the face. “Oh, yes, I’m fine. Thanks. And sorry about that.” I stepped back to move the cart to the side and allow him past. I was sure I must have mumbled my words; I probably sounded like Chewbacca, or something—everything smushed together.
“It’s no problem,” he said, and I glanced up to see that smile again. I had never seen a million-dollar smile in real life. But I knew instinctively that he had one.
I fought to keep from sighing. He had eyes the color of shamrocks and just the smallest amount of brown stubble across his chiseled jaw. With his knit hat and scarf, he looked like a model from an ad for outdoor gear. I wondered vaguely if he might have actually been a model—he was that handsome.
I smiled a little and ducked my head again. Leave it to me to slam my cart into the Bold and the Beautiful. I felt like a clumsy oaf, but at least he’d been kind about it.
I went back to examining the different shelves. Erica would be happy to find that the store was stocked with her favorite coconut water, whey powder, and raw honey. I started checking items off of my list: Tons of produce for juicing and smoothies, steel-cut oats, eggs, quinoa, soba noodles, soy milk, chia seeds, and organic chicken breasts.
I saw that they had a bakery, and I couldn’t help but wander over to see what they were selling there, too. I tried to eat as healthily as possible, but unlike my sister I did sometimes indulge. They had chocolate croissants; I couldn’t resist—I reached in and took one, then dropped it in a little paper bag.
“You have good taste,” I heard from over my shoulder. “When that pastry flakes in your mouth—I’m telling you, it’s erotic.”
I jumped like I’d been electrocuted, hiding the croissant behind my back. Shame and guilt flooded through me—a knee-jerk reaction, the byproduct of a childhood spent binge-eating and sneaking food.
It was my friend from a few aisles over. Had he been making fun of me, trying to make me feel bad? No. Not everybody thought the same way as those old bullies in the schoolyard. In fact, it looked like he’d just been trying to make conversation.
Sheepishly, I pulled the bag from behind my back and placed it in the trolley. “Um, hi,” I said sheepishly. “Do you come here often?” I immediately blushed. Nice work on the cheesy line, Libby. This was why I rarely spoke to men. Stupid things always poured out of my mouth.
If he thought I sounded cheesy, he didn’t let on. “I’m staying nearby,” he said. “I usually buy at least one or two and keep them in my freezer, in case I feel the urge.” He reached past me to grab two croissants for himself, and put them in his own little bag.
I felt a little better once I saw that.
“Do you live here?” he asked. “I don’t remember seeing you around town before.”
I felt myself blushing. As if he would remember, even if he had seen me. “No, I’m just here for a couple of days. My sister is a skier,” I told him. “I’m doing the grocery s
hopping for her.”
He glanced over the items in the cart, and smiled. “You’re a good sister,” he said. His eyes met mine, and I blushed again as he nodded then continued on his way. My knees were weak. I felt sort of ridiculous.
The cashier asked if I had my own bags when I paid for my groceries. She lifted an eyebrow in that funny way only people who worked at upscale supermarkets could do when I said no—implying without words the terrible things I was doing to the environment.
In my embarrassment I purchased three then overstuffed them, my shame issues spiraling out of control. When I walked out of the store and stepped off the curb, of course the one in my left hand ripped open.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I said out loud, watching the contents bounce across the asphalt. After the travel, and Erica’s nonsense, and then the memories brought up in the store, this was the last thing I felt like going through. I just wanted to sit on the ground, right there in a puddle of melted snow, and cry.
“Do you need some help?”
I looked in the direction from which the voice had come; despair written all over my face. And there he was, once again. My friend from the store.
His face softened. “You’re not having the best day, are you?”
I shook my head and began to gather the groceries before me. Before I knew it, he was at my side, pulling one of his own empty reusable bags from his cart to help me.
“Where’s your car?” he asked, picking up all of my bags. I almost burst into tears on the spot. I had so needed some kindness in that moment, and here was a perfect stranger handing it to me.
“I’ll show you,” I said. We walked together to my rental. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“It’s really no problem,” he assured me, loading my bags into the trunk when we arrived. “In fact, it was my pleasure.”
I had to laugh. “I guess I’m jaded. You’d think that growing up in a small town would make me used to the kindness of others. But that’s not the case.”
“You come from a small town where people are mean?” he asked. I laughed again; he had a funny way of putting things.
“Sort of, yes,” I said. “Sometimes people in small towns are very insulated. Don’t let TV and movies tell you different.” I looked at him sideways. “Sorry for spoiling the illusion, if you thought otherwise.”
He threw his head back and laughed; I loved the sound of it. “Yes, that’s right up there with finding out there’s no Santa Claus. Thanks a lot; maybe I’ll mind my own business from now on.” His easy, warm smile nearly blinded me.
“Well... thanks again for your help.” I had no idea what else to say.
“You’re welcome,” he replied. “I’m glad I was here.” Then he turned and walked away.
I watched him go, my heart all fluttery. I had been rescued by a kind, intelligent and gorgeous man—a real Prince Charming. And my knees were strangely weak again. Was this what it was like to swoon?
If only I was someone different. If only I was the sort of person that could have looked him in the eye a little more, or found some way to flirt with him—at least make intelligent conversation. ‘Do you come here often?’ Urgh. How awkward.
As I put the key into the ignition, I realized I hadn’t even bothered to get his name. That was another thing other girls would have done—get his name. The brave ones might have even asked if he was single, then fluttered their eyelashes at him.
That hadn’t even occurred to me. I’d been too busy feeling like a clumsy ox.
Probably just as well. Men were never interested in me. Not once they saw my sister, anyway.
Chapter 3
When I got back to the cabin, Erica was nowhere to be found. I guessed she was still at the Lodge, or somewhere else in the village. Not that she would have helped me unload the groceries anyway.
I had a plan for Erica’s meals throughout the week, and rarely strayed from it—as soon as the perishables were put away, I started pulling tools out of the cabinets to get food prepped. After preheating the oven, I placed half a dozen chicken breasts in a pan with a little olive oil, salt and pepper. Next, I rinsed a pound of quinoa and set that to cook on the stove. I pulled out the rice cooker and steamer which I’d requested be included with the other kitchen appliances and began cooking brown rice; later I’d steam broccoli and other vegetables, which I now washed and chopped.
I peeled and diced a dozen apples and cooked them over low heat with raw honey and cinnamon. When they were soft, I would mash them with a potato masher for a natural applesauce Erica usually ate along with homemade trail mix and hard-boiled eggs before her afternoon training. Chicken breasts would be sliced up and packed with quinoa and vegetables for lunch. Brown rice was for dinner, which would be eaten with poached or grilled fish and more veggies.
Each task was done methodically, and I felt the stress of the day melt away as I worked. Cooking had always been my meditation. Some sat in the lotus position for hours. Some burned incense and chanted. I baked and sautéed.
While I did, I tried not to think too much about the man from the grocery store. Flirting and romance... that wasn’t in the cards for me. It never had been—if it was going to happen, it would have by now.
I’d never had a boyfriend, and had only ever hooked up with one guy before. I found out later that his friends had dared him to pick me up at a bar.
I’d fallen right for it. I remembered how thrilled I’d felt at the bar when he approached me, and how excited I’d been when he suggested we go back to my place. Finally, I had thought, I’m just like the other girls. The ones I saw on TV and in movies, who had full lives that included sex.
My need to believe had been so strong that I hadn’t noticed his friends laughing on the other side of the room. Afterward, back at my apartment, I had even asked him if he’d like to get together for coffee some time. That’s when he’d snickered and said he was only in it to get his Fat Card. I could still remember that pain in my chest as he’d jumped into his friend’s truck, parked outside, and they’d all driven away laughing. The binge eating had started in earnest, then. It had taken me a long time to bring it back under control.
To stop thinking about it, I decided to try my hand at making protein balls. I’d come across a few recipes online over time and, like always, I was inspired to create my own version. It was why I’d studied culinary arts, and why I dreamed of owning my own bakery one day—I loved cooking and baking and experimenting.
My reflection looked back at me from the glass of the wall mounted oven. I loved eating, too. And it showed.
No, I told myself. Don’t go down that path. That negative voice in my head was popping up again, always so ready to jump on the slightest chance to tear me down further. Meeting that cute guy must have triggered it. I’d learned over the years to spot that voice and fight it. It was hard, though. And I didn’t always win.
I guess it was like any addiction, I thought as I mashed up the cooked apples, their fragrant aroma making my mouth water. Some people were addicted to alcohol, others to drugs. My therapist had told me I was addicted to making myself feel bad, and I used food as a device to hurt.
For years I was a binge eater. I used to sneak food, cramming it into my mouth while standing in front of the open refrigerator. I would hide candy bars and donuts under my bed and spend all day looking forward to the moment when I could lock the bedroom door and be alone with my treasure. After the worst binges, the ones that involved whole bags of cookies and loaves of bread slathered in butter, I would purge. Those were dark times.
The therapist helped me to understand that I’d been acting this way in an attempt to give myself the love and attention I’d been missing out on. It wasn’t easy, always being outshone by my sister.
The saddest part was that this sort of vicious cycle was self-perpetuating. I’d eat to feel better, which would make me feel worse about myself. So I’d eat to soothe my negative feelings. Which made me hate myself even more. And so on, and so fo
rth.
The face of my grocery store hero flashed through my mind. Would things have gone differently if I’d had the courage to talk to him like a normal person? I might have his phone number, or he might have mine. Maybe we would have made plans to get together. I’d get dressed up and we’d go to a restaurant, or to some bar in the village. We would talk about ourselves and ask questions about each other. And we’d laugh a lot—he was that sort of person.
And then what? Maybe we’d come back here. We’d sit together in front of the fire and talk quietly, both of us with a glass of wine. We’d sit so close our knees would touch, and eventually he would lean in and kiss me. I would revel in his kiss, and it would linger forever. He’d be an excellent kisser, of course; he’d have lots of practice, being as hot as he was.
Then I would feel his hands on either side of my face. They would travel slowly down my neck, onto my shoulders and then down my arms. One of his arms would wind around my waist to hold me closer, while the other hand would travel down my leg. As we kissed, I would feel his fingers gripping my thigh; I would know that he was just barely holding himself back, and I’d wish he wouldn’t try so hard...
But I didn’t even know his name, did I? I was standing in the kitchen, making food, not making out. I felt that old familiar anxiety bubble up inside of me. The feeling that I would never be good enough, never measure up to women like my sister or the million other ski bunnies here at the resort. They were all tall, and lean, and most of them blonde. They’d be able to wear the skin-tight Lycra I never could. They’d be able to meet someone at a grocery store and make something out of it.
I looked at the protein balls—enough for a week. Maybe I should eat them all now. It wasn’t like I could ever compete with the ski bunnies anyway.
