Lily
I know he’s going to propose, and I might throw up.
Watching them together hurts, to the point where I feel like I can’t catch my breath. I cannot bear the absolute sickeningly romantic perfection of Thomas Abernathy proposing to his girlfriend Darcy Albrecht at this photo shoot. They're so perfect for each other and it shows every single time they even look at each other.
But it actually aches somewhere deep inside me too, like a punch to the stomach. Or like brain freeze from eating ice cream too fast. Or those phantom pains that people have where their missing limbs once were.
Pretty much everyone at the photoshoot knows he's going to propose today. Well, everyone except Darcy, obviously. But the way they light up for one another, the way that each of them makes the other blossom and bloom, it’s making me sick with jealousy. I love seeing a couple so clearly in love with one another. But whenever I look at them, I ache right behind my ribs. Because especially in this room full of extra sexy male firefighters, I have never felt more invisible than I do right now.
Who am I compared with freaking Darcy Albrecht? She's a muscular, badass lieutenant firefighter who bosses around the majority of the men in the room for a living. Plus, she's apparently low key a hero too, because I found out her kitty Honey Boo Boo was a rescue from an actual fire she worked at when she was brand new on the job. She's everything I'm not: gorgeous, confident, the kind of woman who lights up the entire room as soon as she walks in. And maybe I hate her, just a little.
Then she and Abernathy proceed to sit down next to me and treat me like I’m some long-lost friend, even telling me the ridiculous story about how they met. You know, the epic prank featuring her fine ass man in the shockingly tiny red banana hammock at last year's shoot. I stop laughing long enough to make a joke about why they didn't have the guys wear the tiny thongs this year too and they both give me a courtesy laugh at my awkward sense of humor.
But as much as I kind of want to hate them, every single time I am certain that I’m about to sink under the heavy weight of jealousy, they tell me another funny story and make me wish I were exactly like them all over again. They're like those people in a magazine. The pretty, well put together ones that you wish you were friends with but you also deeply, viciously envy. Welcome to the story of my life, I guess.
I’m invisible, ignored, and being eaten alive by my own inferiority.
Even their friends are hot. I mean, obviously. We're at a hot firefighter and darling shelter puppy photoshoot. Everyone here except me is a clear ten plus. Well, other than Opal Marie Hopf, our town's resident dirty old lady, but even she was probably a ten when she was younger. And I love that she invited herself to today’s photoshoot specifically to videotape the hot guys here.
She's videotaping one of the hot guys who's pouring a bottle of water down his ripped torso and thrusting his crotch toward Aunt Opal's camcorder. Holy crap, but it's definitely burning hot in here, even if the whole pelvic thrusting part is a bit ridiculous.
Abernathy and Albrecht catch me eyeing the thrusting, bearded beefcake and proceed to tell me more funny stories about their friend Daniels, not knowing that I know exactly who the man they’re talking about is.
I’ve known him for years. He’s not exactly the kind of man I would forget.
And when Mister Hot Beard hears his name, he ever-so casually slides over to where I'm located and gives me a look like he's already imagining me naked. But then I shiver at the very thought of anyone seeing me naked because no. Just no. He definitely doesn't mean it. I can tell by looking at him what kind of woman he likes, and it's not me.
But our little round of eye-fucking has not gone unnoticed.
Aunt Opal skewers me with one of her shrewd looks. “Ah, Lily. Surely you’ve seen a handsome firefighter or two here that might work for you.”
“Oh no, Aunt Opal, I’m really not in the market for that kind of thing.” I feel heat flooding my face and get so nervous about her question that I end up pushing a bunch of random buttons on my gear and setting off a lightning storm of flashes.
Aunt Opal continues chatting away, almost as if I didn't just clumsy my way directly into yet another mess, taking everyone nearby along with me this time. “Don’t you worry, sweetie. I’m the best matchmaker in the entire town of Valentine, and I’ll help you find the man of your dreams. Why I was the first one to match up Darcy and our Abernathy here by calling them up to come over to my place.”
I'm still trying to figure out how to politely turn down her matchmaking overtures, when Aunt Opal clears her throat primly. “But Lily, has anyone ever told you what large hands you have?”
Oh my God. What is she even talking about right now? Okay, I get it. I'm heavy. Chubby. Thick. Chunky. Pudgy. Curvy. Fat. But she has to call me out on even my freaking hands being big right now? I can feel an uncontrollable rush of embarrassment rising up to strangle me, even as I struggle to find my voice and answer her. “What? No.”
And for a split second, I’m grateful for the temporary blindness caused by my fumbling because I’ve always been prone to turning a hot red color at even the slightest inconvenience or embarrassment.
There’s a medical name for it, the extreme type of blushing that I suffer from, but the last time I tried to talk to a doctor about the issue—which WebMD told me is called idiopathic craniofacial erythema—the doctor gave me the speech she probably gives all overweight women. You know the one, where she encouraged me to lose weight for health reasons. The speech that never addresses whatever I actually went to the doctor for in the first place.
So yeah, having someone basically tell me that she thinks even my hands are fat is more than enough to cause my face to flame up in big, itchy red splotches. Thanks ever so much, Aunt Opal.
“Aunt Opal,” a male voice answers. “That’s my hand you’re patting.”
Aunt Opal giggles a little, then practically purrs out her response. “In that case, I better offer up my congratulations to Darcy. Lucky girl.”
Darcy makes a choking cough-laugh next to me. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. Don’t act all shy now.”
Next to me, Darcy huffs out a sigh. “Well, hand size doesn’t matter you know.”
Somebody coughs out the word “bullshit” and that's definitely Abernathy. See? Toothache sweet, these two.
I finally manage to reset the flash boxes and look up to find Thomas Abernathy looking directly at me.
“Are you ready for my pictures now?” he asks, flashing me a smile that lights up the entire studio.
Oh, this is it. He's going to propose. It makes me feel giddy and nervous and my hands are actually shaking even though all I'm doing is taking the pictures like he'd asked. It’s not like I’m getting proposed to or anything. But I manage to force out a smile, then tap the side of my nose with one finger to let him know I'm following his cues.
He turns to Darcy and gets down on one knee, facing her, and my heart cracks wide open.
“Abernathy, you’re supposed to look at the camera, aren’t you?” She doesn't have a clue. She's busy trying to rearrange him for the photo shoot and she's not even paying attention to the position he's now in.