We woke up the next morning to a thin blanket of pristine snow covering the ground. If we had any intentions of leaving the house it would have to be after the snow melted, but neither of us cared. We both preferred to continue pursuing the intimacy we’d missed out on over the years.

I lay in Christian’s arms and lightly traced the tattoo on his bicep. I turned to face him and leaned up. With my head propped on one elbow I prompted, “I guess you work out a lot. I’m a sucker for big muscles.”

“Didn’t have much else to keep me occupied in prison,” he said gruffly, the memory obviously not one he liked to indulge.

“It worked out for me because I love how big your arms have gotten since I saw you last.”

He gave me a sly smile and said, “And I love how big your boobs have gotten since I saw you last.”

I rolled my eyes and playfully slapped at him. He caught my hand and studied my wrist. The bruises were bolder, and I watched his mood go from spirited to dark. In an effort to not let him go down that road, I got up and peered down at him. Tilting my head to one side, I asked, “Shower with me?”

Without waiting for him to answer I headed for the bathroom and was inwardly delighted when he immediately joined me.

After an exploratory dousing that took way longer than a regular shower, we eventually succumbed to the cold water and turned it off. Besides, the drain was starting to back up and I was concerned that it might overflow into the bathroom.

Later, I was making us breakfast when he came in and rummaged around in one of the kitchen drawers. He looked over at me and asked, “Do you remember me waking you up last night?”

I quickly glanced his way, and returned my attention to the pancake I was getting ready to flip. “You didn’t wake me up last night.”

I heard him chuckle and say, “Yes I did. I thought I heard someone on the porch, and I woke you up—which wasn’t easy—and told you I was going to check it out. You really don’t remember?”

I peeked over at him and shook my head.

“You told me it was probably a bear or some kind of animal and I shouldn’t be worried. You also said your grandfather doesn’t even lock his doors at night because there’s no place safer than the mountains.”

“That’s all true, but I don’t remember having this conversation, Christian,” I confessed.

“Do you remember yelling at me when I took my gun out of the nightstand?” he prompted.

I turned to him and placed one hand on my hip and waved the spatula I was holding at him. “Are you kidding me? You brought a gun with you? You shouldn’t even have a gun, Christian. You’re a convicted felon. If you get caught it’s an automatic trip back to prison!”

“That’s what you told me last night,” he laughed, giving me a wicked smile. “Found it!” he quickly added and held up a screwdriver.

“You are exasperating,” I huffed. “And what do you need that for?” I asked, turning back to the griddle.

“Something needs fixing,” he called back to me as he walked away.

I flipped the last pancake onto a plate, and contemplated the irony of our relationship. A Bible in one nightstand and a gun in the other. Sounds like my parents, I mused, as I set the table for breakfast. But instead of being intimidated at the prospect of being with someone so completely opposite, I warmed to it. My parents weren’t perfect, but they were in love, and their marriage—as odd as it might seem to an outsider—worked. I was starting to feel hopeful, but wouldn’t let myself get too excited. I still had many secrets that needed to be shared with Christian. And I could only hope that those secrets wouldn’t cause him to reevaluate our newly established relationship. At least with Christian, what you saw was what you got. He didn’t hide things. If anything, he was a little too bold.

After calling out to him twice that the pancakes were getting cold, I went in search of him.

“You must really be engrossed in whatever you’re fix…” My words died off as I entered the bathroom, and found him hunched over the shower drain. He had a disgusting heap of hair piled next to the opening, but it wasn’t the hair that sent a wave of shame over me. It was what clung to it that stopped me cold.

Our eyes clashed, and I could see the questions in his.

“I didn’t do this, and I know it’s not left over from whoever stayed at this house last.” His eyes weren’t accusing, but warm and concerned.

“I was sick that first night…” I stammered.

“Don’t,” he interrupted. He stood up and said, “I knew something was up with you, but couldn’t place it. You do this a lot, don’t you?”

“I don’t want to talk about this now,” I stated as I headed back to the kitchen. He was right on my heels, and grabbed my elbow, whirling me around to face him.

“Tell me about it, Mimi. I know there’s a name for it, but I’m not sure what it is. All that food I’ve watched you shovel down over the last few days. It’s not staying down, is it?”

I shook my head, but couldn’t meet his eyes. “No. Not all of it.”

“Why not?” His eyes were challenging, but not accusatory. He really cared.

My shoulders slumped as I tried to appear smaller, and a wave of tears followed. He pulled me to him and guided me toward the leather couch, taking the seat next to me. He sat on the edge and rested his elbow on his knee and with his other hand, grabbed mine tightly. The concrete walls that’d been holding in my family secret finally started to crumble, and I told him how my shame began, and why I continued to nurture it.

I explained how it all started with an innocent comment from a girlfriend when I was a senior in high school. We’d been looking at pictures from an outing at the lake. There were about six of us, and a stranger offered to take a group photo. There I stood in my bathing suit next to the tallest, thinnest guy in the class. His name was Rodney, and he was the school’s star basketball player. Rodney was over six feet tall, and was extremely slender, to the point of looking gangly. My girlfriend said something to the effect that even though I wasn’t, I looked huge when standing next to him. She didn’t mean anything by it. She wasn’t a mean girl at all, but the comment stuck. I’d never been overly concerned about my weight. I’d always thought I looked okay, but that remark burrowed its way into my subconscious, and revealed itself again after I’d suffered a nasty stomach bug and lost six pounds in one week. My jeans felt a little loose, and I wondered how I would look in a smaller size. I knew what I had to do to achieve that. I knew it worked, so I gave it a shot.

I told Christian how I felt that I was in control, and I could stop binging and purging anytime I wanted. What I hadn’t realized was how my eating disorder manifested itself in a different way.

“Binging and purging?” he asked, obviously not familiar with the terminology.

“Eating whatever I want, as much as I want, and making myself throw it all up,” I explained, as I focused on the dark, callused hand that was holding mine tightly.

When he didn’t say anything, I cut my eyes back to his and I could tell by his crinkled forehead that he was trying to understand. Instead of attempting to explain the psychology behind why I would do this, which I wasn’t sure I even understood myself, I blurted out the excuse I used for continuing to do it.

I told Christian that my biological father, Grizz, was very much alive and living just over the border in North Carolina. Christian stared at me, the shock evident in his expression as the air between us crackled with unspoken tension.

“Grizz?” he asked, his chiseled jaw tightening. “The man you’ve been calling James and referring to as your stepfather? The one your mother left Florida to be with?”

I nodded.

Dropping my hand he stood up and looked down at me. “He didn’t die on death row?”

Tilting my head up to meet his eyes, I shook it.

“How?” He scratched at his chin, and let his eyes wander around the room. Was he concerned that Grizz might show up? I didn’t see fear in his eyes so I dismissed the thought.

Taking a deep breath, I told him, “When I asked Grizz the same thing, he said that anybody could be bought for the right price. I don’t need to tell you the kind of wealth he accumulated during his tenure as the leader of a powerful motorcycle club. When you consider that he lived in a run-down motel until he built a house for my mother, he had nowhere to spend his money. I can only assume he’s responsible for giving several people in the prison system an early, extremely comfortable retirement.”

I watched as he took it all in, his head slightly bobbing as the mental cartwheels found a place to land. Then his brow creased and he countered, “What does that have to do with you throwing up? Purging, right?"

Nodding, I blew out a long breath and looked at the floor. “I guess keeping Grizz's secret has had more of a negative effect than I let myself believe. When I had my accident, my father couldn’t visit me in the big city hospital that was an hour and a half away from our home. He wanted to, but my mom begged him not to. He won’t be coming to my college graduation. I would never be able to bring anyone home to meet my parents for fear he be recognized.” I looked up, and my voice rose an octave. “Look at the guy we met in Chicky's who knew him!” I slapped my hand on my knee.

I craned my head to look at the ceiling. “And what could I possibly have been thinking by dating a criminal justice major? That was just a disaster in the making.” I paused. “But Grizz isn’t responsible for my binging and purging. I found that when those things bothered me or I would dwell on my situation, I would stress eat. A lot of food. And weight gain wasn’t a concern because I knew how to expertly conceal what I was doing. I throw up in the shower when I don’t want to be heard. If something solid comes up, I ground it down into the drain.” Taking a deep breath, I quietly added, “It obviously didn’t make it down this drain thanks to the hair clog.”

“When we stopped on our way home from Chicky’s…”

“I went in the bathroom to throw up my dinner. Seeing someone who knew my father unnerved me.”

“So you don’t do it all the time?” he asked, sounding somewhat relieved. He leaned his back against the beam where he’d left me shackled just days before and crossed his arms.

“No.” I shook my head. “But I’m always prepared just in case.”

“How?” He cocked his head to the right, and his long hair covered Abby's name tattooed on his bicep.

“The orange Cheetos. The red licorice. I usually eat them, and other brightly colored foods, as a marker.”

He shook his head, not understanding. “A marker?”

“I ate the red licorice on the way to the restaurant, before I ate the wings. That way, if I chose to vomit later—and by later I mean within thirty minutes of the meal—I have a way to know when I’ve completely emptied my stomach. I kept puking until I saw red.”

I waited for his reaction, not sure if I could bear to see disdain in his eyes. He hacked a guy’s arm off. Cut yourself some slack, Mimi. I sat up a little straighter.

Christian noticed the change in my posture, and a hint of a smile formed at the corner of his mouth. “Is that it, Mimi?” Pushing off the beam he walked toward me, extending his hand. “A father who’s not really dead and an eating disorder?” He softly yanked me up from the couch.

Releasing a long breath, I shook my head. “There’s one more thing you should know.”

Christian handled my last and final confession with words of comfort and reassurance, and then asked me again, “Is that all of it?”

“Isn’t that enough?” I cried, trying to avoid his eyes. I thought he was going to pull me into his arms, but he didn’t. Instead, he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, and lightly held my face between his hands.

Kissing the tip of my nose, he said, “I’m not going to pretend to understand the eating disorder thing, but it doesn’t change how I feel about you. And I’m assuming you can get some help with it?”

I blinked and gave him a slight nod. “Yes, there are therapists who specialize in it, but I’ve never seen one.”

“We’ll make sure you do.” He gave me a wide smile. “Your undead father and the last thing you mentioned don’t change my feelings either. As a matter of fact, I can’t think of anything you could tell me that would cause me to not love you or think less of you.”

The relief must’ve shown on my face because he added, “If anything, I’m sorta glad.”

I stepped back, my eyes wide. “Glad?”

“Not glad like you think. I’m just glad you aren’t flawless, Mimi. I need you to not be perfect. Thinking that you didn’t have any faults kind of nagged at me.”

“I think I get that,” I admitted. “Do me a favor?”

“Anything,” he replied.

“Don’t keep an eye on me or what I eat. I won’t be able to handle you thinking you can do something to fix it. I already feel stronger after telling you about Grizz. That was a heavy load to carry. Thank you for not freaking out.”

“I got you, Mimi,” he said, pulling me into the warmth of his rock-hard chest. “I’ll always have you.”