Page 87

When we stop, Henry gets up and gently pulls me up with him. Most of the sand falls off my body when I stand, though some of it sticks to my skin. But I don’t care. The kisses were worth it.

Henry texts Portia, and we’re walking back to the parking lot when I remember the pictures I posted right before we rode the Ferris wheel.

“Wait, let me check Instagram.”

Henry groans. “You’re becoming one of us.”

But he lets me check it anyway. My post already has five hundred likes and counting, with strangers leaving commentslike they did on Henry’s. I recently took my Instagram off private mode, and my account has been exploding with new followers ever since.

I scroll through the comments, which are mostly nice. But there are still some pig emojis and other disgusting comments.

But unlike before, the comments don’t really make me sad. Sure, they still hurt—I’d be lying if I said they didn’t. But the pain is nothing compared to the bone-crushing shame I felt the first time I saw similar comments on Henry’s Instagram.

“Sorry, Skye,” Henry says. “I shouldn’t have suggested taking photos—”

“No,” I cut in. “I’m fat. People think it means I should hate myself, and when I don’t, it makes them uncomfortable. But this is just another part of who I am, and I’mhappywith who I am.”

Henry smiles, like he finally understands what I’m getting at.

“You’re living your best life,” he says. “They’re not.”

“Exactly.”

And then, in front of the fairy-tale lights of the Santa Monica pier, I pull Henry in for another kiss.