“It’s no big deal,” he said. “But thanks.” He was quiet for a moment and then said, “Hey, I never got your name.”
“It’s Hannah,” I told him, extending a hand. He leaned forward and accepted mine. It sounds cheesy, but when his skin touched mine, I swear I could feel the electricity pulsing between us. “Nice to meet you.”
“Very nice to meet you,” he agreed. “Look, I get off here in just a few minutes. I know you said you have an early flight and—” My phone’s buzzing interrupted his words, and he glanced down. “I can see that you’re busy, but…I’d love to hang out with you for a while. Would that be possible?”
“Oh, um—” I bit my lip nervously as my phone buzzed again. “I don’t know. I, um—”
He nodded, tossing a towel over his shoulder and stepping even further back. “Okay, no worries. You don’t have to come up with an excuse.”
My phone buzzed again, but I placed it face down on the bar, focusing all of my attention on him. “It’s not an excuse, it’s just…well, I would love to go, but I don’t come to Atlanta often. Ever, actually.”
“But you’re here tonight.” His crystal blue eyes locked with mine in the dim bar light, and I sucked in a breath. No one had ever taken my breath away the way he did.
“But I may not ever be again. What happens after tonight?”
He chuckled under his breath. “I didn’t just propose marriage. I just wanted a burger and thought it might be nice to not be alone.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not a one-night stand kind of girl,” I said firmly, setting the empty glass down and running a finger across the rim.
He furrowed his brow, placing a hand in front of his mouth. “Am I—am I not speaking clearly? I thought I said I wanted to take you to get something to eat, but apparently you heard drunken sexcapade and maybe even marriage proposal in there somewhere.” He laughed, waving his hands in front of him casually. “Seriously, there’s no pressure. If you don’t want to go, just say so.”
I twisted my mouth in thought. “I never said I don’t want to go.”
He grinned, patting the bar with his palm. “All right, then. It’s settled. Give me fifteen minutes.”
An hour later, Mark had cleaned up from his shift and we were in a small, quiet diner across town. The black-and-white tile floor reminded me of a restaurant from several decades before, but Mark assured me they had the best burgers in Atlanta, and who was I to argue?
By the time the waiter brought us our food, my stomach was growling for sustenance. It had been years since I’d allowed myself anything as tempting as a greasy fry, but as I picked it up, I began to wonder why.
I let out an embarrassing moan as soon as the fry touched my tongue, and Mark snorted. I felt my cheeks turning pink, from the warmth of the food, his attention, and the self-consciousness I felt for eating like a pig in front of him.
“I told you it was good,” he said.
“It’s not that. I mean, it is good, it’s just…I don’t really eat this stuff. I forgot how good it was.”
“This stuff?” he asked, one brow raised as he glanced to his plate. “Food?”
“Food that’s bad for me. I’m kind of a food addict.” To my surprise, he didn’t take one look at my thin figure and argue with me like most people did when they learned my secret. “I used to be much bigger. It took me a long time to lose the weight, and I haven’t let myself go back to the old way of eating for fear of losing control and gaining it all back.”
His expression turned instantly serious. “I’m so sorry, Hannah,” he said, pushing his plate away from him. “I should’ve asked. Do you want to go somewhere else?”
“No,” I assured him. “Honestly, it’s fine. This is…good for me. A healthy relationship with food and all, right?”
He didn’t look so sure. “You aren’t going to offend me if you don’t want to eat this. I don’t want to be the thing that causes you to falter with your progress. They probably have salads here…what do you eat?”
“Salads, mostly,” I said, squeezing the fry between my fingers until its insides exploded before placing it down on my plate.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked. His tone wasn’t accusatory as much as curious.
“You were so excited about Atlanta’s best burger and fries, I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
He looked down and sucked in a breath, then stood from the booth, grabbed our plates, and walked toward the counter. When he returned a few minutes later, he had two salads in his hand. “Here, Atlanta’s best salad.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said, worried he was angry.
“I’m an alcoholic, Hannah,” he said matter-of-factly. “An alcoholic who works in a bar. If anyone understands temptation, it’s me. So, you’re going to have to be gentle with my addiction,” he paused, “and I’ll be gentle with yours.”
With that, he dug into his salad without another word. It was the simplest gesture, and yet bigger than a dozen roses. In that small moment, I’m pretty sure the first piece of my heart began to fall for him.
Chapter Four
Her
Our relationship moved quickly. After that first date, we kept in contact despite my demanding work schedule and his equally demanding school schedule. Phone calls were exchanged, and any chance I had to make a pit stop in Atlanta, I took it.
After six months of this exhausting exchange, Mark asked me to move in with him. The thought was terrifying. I had a good job, though it was admittedly getting more frustrating to be away from him for weeks at a time, and I’d never been a fan of warm weather or the stereotypes that came with living in the South, but I loved Mark. Despite everything I was unsure of, I was so sure of that. I could do my job based out of anywhere, but he was nearly finished with school and wasn’t in a place where he could transfer. We could’ve waited a few months and reevaluated after he’d graduated, but we were crazy kids in love, and nothing could keep us apart any longer. Without allowing myself to think of all the reasons it could’ve been a bad idea, I said yes, agreed to take that step, and the decision was made.
A month after that, everything I owned was being unloaded by movers into Mark’s cozy two bedroom townhome. Things in the South were more affordable, at least.
I remember Mark asking me if I was happy I’d moved home with him. Home. It was already my home before I’d unpacked the first box. Though I’d been unsure about it up until that point, hearing those words from him was all that I needed to seal the deal. I was home. He was my home. For a girl who lived on the road, having a home was a really good feeling.
In the beginning, things were great. I flew home to Atlanta a few times a month, a few times a week if we were really lucky, and despite the strain, we made the best of the moments we had together. Mark would always request off the nights we knew I’d be home and we’d go out together, exploring the city I was beginning to fall in love with.