Page 22 of Fairground (Whitewood Creek Farm #3)

He doesn’t say anything—just waits. Quiet and steady, like he knows I need the space to find my words.

I don’t look at him, though I can feel the weight of his gaze, warm and patient.

My eyes stay fixed on the slow-moving creek, not ready to see whatever’s written on his face. Pity, maybe. Or worse—judgment.

That’s what I’ve come to expect when I talk about how my mom shaped my relationship with food.

How early it started. How small, offhand comments chipped away at the way I saw myself until it was easier to just step back from her than try to explain.

Most people don’t get it. They either downplay it or look at me too closely afterward, like they’re trying to measure the damage for themselves.

I don’t bring this up with men, not ever.

Talking about it feels like shining a spotlight on my perceived flaws, like admitting to my insecurities will only give someone else the power to use them against me now that I'm pointing them out. It’s this endless echo chamber of self-doubt and negativity that’s been with me for as long as I can remember.

And the truth is, sometimes I wonder if I’m pretending that I'm not critical towards my body at times.

Like if I can just fake confidence long enough, no one else will notice the cracks—or worse, point them out.

I’ve come a long way. I don't hate myself. I've spent years working on my relationship with my body, but that doesn't mean I've mastered all the insecurities that have plagued me for most of my life.

“She was always very controlling about portions. Or closed the kitchen at night, even if I was still hungry and asked for a snack.”

“Hm…” he murmurs softly, allowing me to continue.

“Yeah. It started when I was really young. Like probably a toddler, and I guess it just trickled into my teenage years and then early adulthood. I carried that mentality around with me for years unknowingly. Like, I started questioning everything I put in my mouth and if I got home from work too late, I wouldn’t allow myself to eat past a certain point even if I was hungry.

Some days still I’ll forget to eat entirely.

I’ll get up with my nephews, make their breakfast, and just…

get busy. My stomach could be growling but I’ll hold off because I don’t want to eat junk.

That’s how she described basically anything that wasn't a salad or water.”

I shake my head, frustration rising with the memory.

“That’s why I keep the bag of gummy worms on me,” I continue, “sometimes just a single one to suck on will calm the hunger pains for a few extra hours. And it’s not like I don’t eat.

I do. It’s just… you know, usually one filling meal a day and then the rest of the day I don't. I distract myself with work, cleaning, other things so that I don’t snack.

” I sigh, shaking my head again. “Fuck, this is so embarrassing to talk about.”

Cash doesn’t say anything right away. He just shifts, turning to fully face me, his big legs stretching out on either side of my body, caging me in gently.

It’s protective, not intimidating, like he wants to pull me closer but is respecting my boundaries and the emotions that I'm wrestling with right now. But I still can’t bring myself to look at him.

I keep my gaze fixed straight ahead, on the darkened creek and the faint glimmer of moonlight that’s reflecting off the water’s surface.

"You don't ever have to be embarrassed with me, Rae,” he says finally, his voice low but firm. “It’s fucked up that your mom withheld food from you as a kid and made you feel badly about eating. I hate that you went through that and get why you’d distance yourself from her as an adult.”

I nod, swallowing hard. “I’ve done a lot of work on it, was in therapy for years which lead me to that decision, but…

as you can see, some days, like today, the habits still creep in, and I avoid eating or deem a food bad.

Honestly, I’m not even sure if I hate pie.

I just can’t stomach the thought of eating ten whole bites because of my mom's voice. And I hadn’t eaten anything all day so all I could think about was how hard I’d have to work out tomorrow morning to burn that all off. ”

“I wish you would’ve told me that’s what you were thinking about,” he says softly. "I would have pawned them off on my dad sooner.”

“Told you what?” I turn toward him now, raising a brow in challenge.

His face is so serious in the soft glow of the moonlight, the night air wrapping around us like a secret. This conversation feels too intimate, too raw. Normally I'd retreat at this point in but not this time. If I’m going to be open and vulnerable, I’m going all in.

“Told you that I’m insecure about my stomach and afraid of what a few bites of pie will do to me?

Pointed out the cellulite that I have on my thighs that I didn’t have in my early twenties and how I’m terrified it’s because of something that I ate in the past?

Tell you about my arms, how the skin feels looser than it used to?

Mention that though I'm thrilled to be hitting thirty next year, I'm terrified of what it'll mean for fine lines and wrinkles around my eyes and forehead?”

I laugh bitterly, shaking my head. “Pointing out those things just gives men something to weaponize against me.”

He shakes his head, brows bunching together. “Rae, what are you even talking about?”

“I don’t know.” I shake my head, even though I do. I just don’t want to talk about it anymore. I can feel myself starting to retreat, the way that I always do when things get too raw.

“Did you know we weren’t supposed to see our own reflections?

That mirrors came about through the evolution of technology, and it wasn’t something we were supposed to have We were only ever meant to witness the beauty in others.

Not pick ourselves apart. Not fixate on every flaw that’s reflected back at us. ”

I huff a quiet laugh, but it’s hollow. “I can’t even tell you how many hours I’ve lost just staring at my own face, sizing up every part of me that the world has labeled ‘too much.’ Too wide. Too soft. Too big.”

“Rae.” His voice cuts through the space between us firmer now, steady. “You’re missing something.”

I turn to him, drawn by something in his tone.

His hazel eyes are locked on mine, full of quiet intensity.

His hands slide to my hips, grounding me, pulling me gently toward him until I’m practically flush against his chest. Then his fingers trace up my arms, slow and reverent, before he cups my cheek and looks in my eyes like I’m something sacred.

My breath catches. My spiraling thoughts quiet.

“What’s that?” I whisper.

He brushes his thumb along my jaw, eyes still holding mine like he’s taking his time with me.

“It’s that I’ve never once looked at you and thought any of those things. Not one. I look at you, and all I see is perfect.”