I think about it and realize she’s right. I had some plain oatmeal for breakfast around five, but I haven’t had anything since. No wonder I’m famished.

Mom lifts a brown paper bag and beams. “That’s why I brought you a healthy lunch.”

I have to bite back a groan. My old self hated the crap she used to feed me. Leafy greens without dressing, carrots, and way more chicken breast than any reasonable human would want to consume. Hell, the boob-loving men of the world should probably thank her. It was probably all those hormone-filled chicken br**sts that gave me boobs by age thirteen.

“What did you bring?” Liz asks. “Some weeds and sticks for her to nibble on?”

“Elizabeth,” Mom scolds. “We can’t all have your metabolism. And that’s going to catch up with you someday.”

Lizzy glares defiantly and takes another big bite of her scone.

“Stop trying to make me out to be the bad guy here,” Mom objects. “I’m just helping Hanna with something she decided was important to her months ago.”

My size has always been important to me. Because she taught me to believe it was. But three months ago it must have become so important that I took measures I’d never stooped to before. Last night I found diet pills in the back of my cabinet. Add those to the starvation and unhealthy amounts of exercise. And so much of it cloaked in secrecy that it sickens me to think about it.

But Mom doesn’t know about Dr. Perkins. She doesn’t know I was making myself sick.

There’s no reason to make her worry, though, so I paste on a smile and say, “What’s for lunch?”

Mom smiles approvingly. “Chopped grilled chicken, greens, and a tiny sliver of avocado in a low-carb, whole-grain wrap.” She hands the bag over, and I dig out her homemade lunch. “Eat, and then we have an appointment at Cleanstein’s.”

I pause with the wrap halfway to my mouth. “At the wedding dress shop?”

“Of course. You’re getting married in five weeks. We’re going to have to buy off the rack as is. We need to start shopping last week.”

I try to swallow around the tightness in my throat. Is no one going to ask if I want to be planning my wedding? If I want to rush my engagement?

Mom sniffs, and I realize there are tears in her eyes. “After Maggie’s canceled wedding and Krystal’s disaster of a ceremony, you can imagine how excited I am about yours.” She squeezes my hand. “There’s just something so special about Max.”

“Speak of the devil,” Liz mutters as Max pushes through the door into the kitchen.

My heart stumbles in my chest at the sight of him. He’s got a light stubble going on today, and he’s still disheveled from his run.

“Oh, hello, Max!” my mom croons. God, she loves him so much.

“How are New Hope’s three most beautiful women?” he asks with a wink.

“We’re peachy,” Liz says. “How’s New Hope’s biggest suck-up?”

Max draws me into a hug and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Does your sister hate me?” he asks loud enough for her to hear.

“No. She’s just cranky that Mom didn’t bring her lunch.”

Lizzy snorts at the same moment my mom says, “Oh, I’m so sorry, Liz! I won’t forget you next time!”

“How are you?” I ask Max. We’ve barely seen each other the last few days. He almost always trains late at the club, and I get horrible headaches if I don’t get enough rest, so I’ve been going to bed early. I haven’t found the courage to ask him to sleep with me—in the literal or figurative sense of the phrase.

“I’m good,” he says. “What are you up to this afternoon? Can I steal you away for a while? I miss my girl.” He ducks his head and steals a bite of my wrap, and because there’s something very twisted and wrong with me, I actually find the movement of his jaw as he chews sexy as all hell. Then again, it’s Max, and everything he does is sexy.

“No horning in on our plans this afternoon,” Mom says. “We are going wedding dress shopping.”

Max’s eyes light up and he looks at me like I’ve just given him some amazing gift. “Yeah?”

I’m gonna burn in hell for hurting this sweet, sweet man. “Yeah,” I say, though I hadn’t even decided until that moment that I was going to let my mom talk me into it.

Max grins. “Well, I guess I can sacrifice an afternoon with you if that’s the reason behind it.”

“There are plenty of plans you can join us for,” Mom assures him. “I have appointments with three caterers lined up for next week.”

“Wow, Mom,” Liz says. “Whose wedding is this anyway?”

“This is really happening, isn’t it?” Max asks, and there’s so much joy in his eyes that I’m reminded of the day at the gallery when he told me about my initial lack of response to his proposal. “I was beginning to think you didn’t want a future with me.”

He’s had enough limbo, hasn’t he? Can I really ask for him to endure more? And if Max is the man I want and he wants me, what’s the harm in getting married quickly?

“Oh, Max, you sweet thing,” Mom says, “of course this is happening.”

“That is the one,” Mom declares an hour into dress shopping.

I would have hated every minute of this at my old size. Putting on these dresses and modeling them for my critical mother—it would have pretty much been my own personal hell.

But at this size, it’s not so bad. The attendant brings in dress after dress, seemingly unconcerned about my own personal taste and style, and my mom dotes on me in every one. Even in the dresses she doesn’t like, she squeaks when I walk out of the dressing room.

And the way she’s looking at me in this one makes the little girl in me—the one desperate for her approval—so gleefully happy. I know this will be the dress we buy, regardless of how I feel about the style.

“Take your hair down,” Mom says. She comes up behind me and releases my barrette to let my heavy, dark hair fall past my shoulders. “Get her a veil,” she calls to the attendant.

The attendant rushes over with a veil in the same super-soft fabric featured on the dress and slides it into my hair.

“It’s perfect, isn’t it, sweetheart?”

When she turns me to face the big three-panel mirror, I can’t reply. I look like…a bride.

“It’s perfect,” Mom says for me. “We’re getting this one. No question.”

It’s not something I would have picked. It’s fitted all the way down through the h*ps and is covered with twinkling rhinestones. It’s one of those dresses I would love for someone else, but it’s not really for me. I always pictured myself getting married in something softer. Simpler.

“We’re in a tight timeline,” Mom says. “What kind of discount can you give me if we buy off the rack?”

The attendant and Mom haggle over price as I stare at my reflection. It’s just a dress. It doesn’t really matter if it’s my dream dress. All that matters is the guy. All that matters is Max.

February—Six Months Before Accident

“Would you get out from in front of that mirror?” Lizzy calls from the front room of our rental. “You look freaking gorgeous, and Max is going to think so too.”

I blink at my reflection, as if moistening my eyes could make me see what Lizzy sees, but it’s still me standing here. Me. Chubby. Plain. Trying too hard.

I chose black pants and a black scoop-neck sweater for tonight. No frills to distract from the two features of my outfit I do feel confident about: my cl**vage and my sexy red heels.

I grab the curling iron and add a couple of fresh ringlets to hair. Max likes my hair. I said something about cutting it off last week, and he looked horrified. “You have great hair. Why would you cut something so beautiful?”

The ringing of the doorbell pulls me away from the mirror, and by the time I reach the front room, Max is already here, a bunch of red roses in his hands.

Lizzy shakes her head. “I f**king hate this holiday.”

“I told you Sam wanted to take you out tonight,” Max tells her.

Liz snorts. “Sam wanted to f**k me tonight. Pardon me for holding out for something more romantic than a low-budget porno on Valentine’s Day.”

Max laughs. “He would have given you all the romance you could handle.”

“He asked if I was open to a threesome,” Lizzy growls.

I bite back a smile. The relationship between Liz and Sam is a bit of a love-hate situation, and he likes to razz her by asking her for sexual favors.

“You know he really likes you,” Max says. “He’s just doesn’t think you’d take him seriously.”

Liz shakes her head and turns to me with a mischievous smile. “I’m out of here. You two have a nice night.”

Then she leaves, and Max and I are left alone for the Valentine’s Day dinner I cooked for him. I liked the idea of being here and drinking too much wine. Maybe then I could get over myself enough to let him touch me. The high-school-caliber groping we have going on is nice, but I know Max is ready for more.

I take the flowers into the kitchen, where I’ve already set the small table for our dinner.

“It smells amazing in here,” he says. “What are we having?”

“Filet mignon with green beans and a fresh French baguette and then chocolate lava cake for dessert.” I fill a vase with water and arrange the roses in it before setting it on the table. When I turn around, Max is right there, his face inches from mine.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he whispers. He lowers his mouth to mine in a kiss so sweet my nerves fizzle away. And maybe it’s how good he smells or the fact that I already had a big glass of wine before he got here. Or maybe it’s because I’m standing and don’t feel as self-conscious about my body like this. But when his hands find the hem of my sweater and slide under, I don’t stop him.

He breaks the kiss and leans his forehead against mine, his eyes closed and lips parted a fraction of an inch as he cups my breast in his hand and grazes his thumb over my nipple. The contact makes my knees weak and I have to curl my hands into the thick muscle of his shoulders to keep myself upright.

“So we have the place to ourselves tonight?” he whispers.

Something thick lodges in my throat at his question and nerves flare back to life in my belly. “Yeah.”

“Do you want to have dinner first or can I give you your present?”

“I thought the flowers were my present.”

He grins and points to a gift bag sitting by the door. “I got you something else too.”

“You really didn’t have to.”

He retrieves the bag and watches me carefully as I open it.

“Oh.” It’s pretty much the last thing I’d want him to buy me.

“Do you like it?”

“I…” I force a smile but it hurts when I want to die of mortification. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.” And it is. The silky gold material of the lingerie slip is rose-petal soft in my hands and beautiful against my skin.

“I know you’re not ready yet. I don’t want you to think I’m pushing you. But I saw it and I thought of you. You’d look gorgeous in it.”

“Thank you,” I repeat, dropping it back into the bag. I have to turn away from him. I can’t let him know how horrified I am by the idea of him seeing me in that slip. I don’t want him to see the parts of me that would be on display in it or to know how un-sexy a girl like me looks in lingerie.

I go back to the kitchen and busy myself with the steaks.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks behind me. “Was that too much too soon or…?”

“No,” I assure him. “You’re wonderful. This is perfect.” But the awkward silence as I get our meals on the table speaks volumes to how not-perfect this night is shaping up to be.

“Want me to pour some wine?” he asks as I take our plates to the table.

My shoulders drop in relief. Wine is just the Band-Aid we need here. “That would be wonderful.”

He pours us each a full glass and we sit and stare awkwardly at our food. “I’m sorry about the lingerie. It’s probably too soon for that.”

Shit. I’ve ruined this. I keep reminding myself that I can’t have it both ways. I can’t be with Max in every way I want to and keep hiding my body from him. “I’m kind of…insecure,” I blurt.

Looking up from his plate, he softens. “I noticed.” He isn’t cruel about it. It isn’t an accusation—more of a sympathetic understanding.

“I saw the slip and instantly thought about how much I didn’t want you to see me in it.” God, that’s terrible to admit.

“Hanna…” He exhales heavily. “I don’t know what to say. I wouldn’t have bought it for you if I didn’t want to see you wear it.”

“I’m not like the girls you usually date.”

“Thank God.” He grins. “You’re you. And I happen to like that.” His phone buzzes and he pulls it from his pocket. “Sorry,” he says as he slides his finger over the screen and reads. “Crap.”

“What is it?”

“Meredith thinks she’s going into pre-term labor. She wants me to take her to the hospital.”

“Meredith? The one who bought sperm to get pregnant and let everyone think it was William Bailey’s baby?”

He taps something on his phone before sliding it back into his pocket. I wait for him to respond, but his mind is somewhere else already. “I’m sorry. She doesn’t have anyone else to take her.” He stands, and I’m so shocked I can only gape at him. “I’ll make it up to you, okay?”