“What was I supposed to think?” He doesn’t understand; of course he doesn’t. It’s a fear that will always stalk you, just a little bit, when you’re fat. The ugliness from other people who think fat people aren’t worthy of love because they’re fat. Their awfulness is not my problem. I know that, and I won’t let it stop me. But sometimes it snipes at me, follows me. Tells me it’s outrageous to think I’m beautiful. It’s outrageous to not care what other people think. It still gets me when I’m not looking, and sometimes I don’t even notice it’s gotten me: How long did it take me to believe Jack actually liked me? (No, god, I’m not thinking about him.)

I’m sure Gavin has his own insecurities. But I don’t know how to make someone understand, if they’ve never been told by strangers, by people who are supposed to be on their side, that they don’t deserve what they have because of their size.

Gavin sighs and nudges us back into our slow dance. “I was afraid you liked me too much,” he admits.

“That’s even more ridiculous,” I say.

“I was afraid I liked you too much too.”

“Ridiculous,” I say again.

“And Ellory was going to be in my French class.”

“You ass.”

He laughs at that.

“I didn’t like you that much anyway,” I say, lifting my chin, and his smile is smug.

“Well, I always thought you were gorgeous,” he says. Part of my heart lifts at that. And when his palm finds the naked skin at the small of my back, I shiver.

Why did I come here? For this. Sometimes I feel so solid, and sometimes like a delicate shell, so easy to crack. Sometimes I let it get to me.

I don’t need someone to tell me I’m beautiful, I decide, right as he leans forward to kiss me, slow and sweet.

It’s nice. Nothing like kissing Jack—no urgency, no wanting to get closer, to touch him, pull him close, keep kissing him.

It feels good, being kissed. But I don’t want to find validation in a boy. Or look for validation because I’ve been rejected and it hurts. It really hurts. But I can still find a better way to remember that I am hot, that I am a catch. Or I’ll try, the way I always do. I stumble, and it hurts, but I always find my way back to who I really am. But I don’t need to be caught to do it.

I let myself enjoy his kiss, just for another moment, and then pull back, put a finger on his lips.

And tell him, “I have to go.”