Page 111 of Combust (Everyday Heroes 2)
My computer pings again, and I hold my breath when I see the sender is Marcy Holden. I can pretend all I want that I forgot about the photo session Grady set up for me, but I didn’t. I just chose not to think about it.
But now I can’t. Now the photos are on the end of this little link.
I click it.
Hold my breath.
When the screen populates with pictures, a nervous laugh escapes from my lips. And then tears spring to my eyes.
These can’t be me. They can’t. I scroll through the pictures. One after another. I see the smile on my face. The sass in my expression. The guarded caution in my eyes.
But I don’t see the dimples in my thighs. I don?
??t see the fullness to my cheeks I try to contour out. I don’t see how big my arms look when they’re pressed against my sides.
I don’t see any of that. I see a woman trying to accept her sensuality. I see a woman in the chiffon robe with lace camisole underneath, a little uncomfortable in her skin but who is trying to own it. I don’t see how big her feet are in the high heels but rather the definition in her calves and the strength in her legs.
I see fit where I usually see flabby.
I see curves and sexy where I usually turn my head and cringe.
I see the beauty where I’ve always seen ugliness.
When I finish the first scan of the photos, of the four outfit changes, of the gamut of expressions she captured—flirty to feisty to shy to demure—I start all over again, trying to comprehend that these are really me. That I am her.
She must have airbrushed them.
That’s my conclusion when I go through them with a more scrutinized eye and try to pick them apart. Sure, there are little things I hate, but the big things I have hang-ups about are not there.
She must have airbrushed them.
I repeat the thought as I flip back to the text of Marcy’s email, the words and instructions I overlooked because I was too anxious to see what the pictures looked like.
Her words strike me to the core.
I hope you like them. I think they turned out beautifully. And before you refute how gorgeous you are with some smoke-and-mirrors nonsense, know that I didn’t airbrush a single one of them.
The tears that were threatening moments before escape in a single tear that slides down my cheek. I flip back to the pictures.
This is the woman Grady saw. The one he was determined to get to believe her worth. Her beauty.
This is the woman he let walk away without telling her to stay.
It’s a bittersweet feeling, and one I can’t seem to shake.
I pick up my phone, needing to say something—anything to him. My fingers shake as I dial. A soft sob escapes my lips as his voice comes over the connection.
“You’ve reached Grady. I’m probably at the station and that’s why I’m not picking up. Leave me a message and I’ll return the call when I get off shift.”
Beep.
“Hi. It’s Dylan. I just wanted to say I understand now. How you felt when you looked at your picture in the calendar. Thank you for that. I hope you’re doing well.” I love you. I miss you. Do you miss me? Stay safe. “Bye.”
I end the call and allow the tears to fall. Hearing his voice was almost worse than not hearing it at all.
Almost.
Because hearing it reminds me what we shared was real.
