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I probably would fall over, I was so full. But it felt good to be full, to not have that raw, burning hunger gnawing at my insides for once. I hadn’t realized until now how hungry I’d been. Not just today, but for the past few months—make that years.
     
    The price I paid to keep the weight off.
     
    When I started my freshman year in high school, I’d been five feet tall and two hundred pounds. I was the invisible girl. Nobody spoke to me. Nobody noticed me. Not even my teachers. I crept down the halls alone, in silent, solitary torment. At night I gorged on anything I could get my hands on. Food was both my savior and my demon. I loved food. And I hated it for what it did to me once I swallowed it.
     
    And I probably would have continued that love-hate relationship for the rest of my life if it hadn’t been for my mother dragging me to a clinic for obsese teens. They used a combination of drugs and public shaming to make me lose weight.
     
    It worked. And by that summer I’d lost fifty pounds. I looked like a different girl.
     
    And I’d met Clay.
     
    He saw me. I wasn’t invisible to him.
     
    He flattered me.
     
    He made me feel special.
     
    He touched me.
     
    He kissed me.
     
    Eventually, the summer after my senior year, he took my virginity.
     
    And then he broke my heart.
     
    I spent the following four years in college, starving myself, denying myself any food I deemed dangerous, terrified that if I ate just one mouthful, only one, I would go right back to binging. And the weight would pile back on.
     
    And I spent those four years trying to forget Clay Walker.
     
    The weight hadn’t crept back on. But when it came to forgetting Clay...I’d failed. Miserably.
     
    Memories of those long summer days, our bodies gliding against each other as we swam, and griding against each other as we kissed, were impossible to erase, even after four years. In fact, they were still as vivid as ever. I was beginning to think they’d never go away. Not in a lifetime.
     
    He stood and extended an arm. “Come here.”
     
    I placed my hand in his and he pulled me to my feet. We stood inches from each other. His broad chest was within reach. I tipped my head back and our gazes tangled. Electricity arced between us, the air crackling.
     
    It was as if time had rewound. We were in high school. And that strange and magical force was tugging at us, pulling us closer.
     
    “Come here. I want to show you something.” He climbed into the bed of his truck then helped me up. He’d put down a couple of sleeping bags, to cushion the metal a little. He’d even thought to bring along a couple of pillows. He put them at the end, side-by-side. “Lay down.” He lay first, on his back. I settled next to him and looked up.
     
    The sky was dazzling. Deep indigo blue at one end, violet and salmon at the other.
     
    “I love coming out here and looking at the stars,” he said, rocking his head to the side to smile at me. Our gazes locked. “You know, before I met you, I wanted to be an astronaut. I wanted to fly to the moon, to walk on the planets, to travel to Pluto and beyond.”
     
    “You never told me that.” Feeling a little funny inside, I broke that invisible connection linking us and stared up again, letting myself be lost in the vastness of it all. It was so much safer doing that, looking up, watching the stars twinkle, the lights of distant planes cut a path across the heavens.
     
    “That’s because we met when I was in high school. By then I knew I wouldn’t be able to do all those things, though I wasn’t done fighting for it. My pop made it clear; my place was here. Working his ranch. And to hell with my dreams. There was no money for college. And no way they could afford to replace me if I left.”
     
    At the sound of regret in his voice, my defenses crumbled. Was this guy laying beside me, being open and honest, the same one that had tossed those awful pick up lines at me? “I remember you used to