“Your blowjobs could use some work, babe.”
“Maybe if you did some of the work, I’d be more turned on by you.”
I really shouldn’t have been surprised when I found out he was cheating on me. I don’t think he ever called me his girlfriend until I was breaking up with him. That was also the first time he told me he loved me.
Apparently, my services in the bedroom and my body weren’t so bad that he wanted to live without them.
Good thing he had his piece on the side to ease the pain of my absence.
Fuck,he is the last person I want to be thinking about right now.
Another day of repetition. Make coffee. Make breakfast. Feed the animals. The only addition I’m making to my daily routine is to ignore Jason. The silent treatment is petty in my opinion, not my style. But in this case, it seems like the right course of action.
Jason saunters in from the garage like every morning while I have sausage patties and eggs going on the stove. He pours himself a cup of coffee as usual but deviates from his normal routine of waiting for breakfast by setting the table for all three of us.
Odd.
He doesn’t normally help me with breakfast. Is he trying to benice?Jason doesn’t donice.
Dylan joins us just as I scoop the last of the scrambled eggs from the skillet onto his plate. We eat in silence for the first few minutes before Dylan—intrue Dylan fashion—breaks the silence but not the tension.
“Happy New Year, love birds.”
Jason stops mid chew and I drop my fork to the plate. Two sets of eyes pin Dylan to the chair. Clearly, he was trying to make a joke, but he quickly realizes his mistake when the awkwardness draws even more taut.
“Too soon to make jokes?” He tilts his head toward a shrugged shoulder like a kid trying to get out of trouble. Paired with the puppy dog eyes he’s mastered, I’d guess he got out of a lot of trouble with that look when he was a kid.
“Yes,” I answer curtly.
I take my plate and fork to the sink before taking my coffee and bounding up the stairs to get dressed for morning chores.
It’s been a while since I looked at myself in the mirror, I try to avoid looking at how much my body has changed since I was eighteen. I know we live in the world of body positivity and shaming those who shame others for their body. But I still find it hard to love the way I look when I used to look so much better.
This morning, I take a second to look at myself in the mirror before pulling my snow pants on.
I see more muscle definition than I had before I came here. All these farm chores and plowing snow has helped me regain some of my muscle mass that I used to have. And my love handles that I got freshman year have all but disappeared. Most women would kill for the body I had two months ago, even if it wasn’t perfect. Yet my ungrateful self couldn’t be happy with the image in the mirror because it wasn’t love handles I was seeing, it was weakness. It wasn’t cellulite I saw, it was depression.
Even though those traits are less visible than two months ago, I still see a depressed waste of space, unworthy of positive attention.
The animals are great company today.
A few weeks ago, Jason taught me how to clean and shoe Bessie which has to be done more frequently in the snow. He or Dylan take her for rides as much as they can so she can stretch her legs. That’s what I’m doing whenJason approaches. He looks too damn sexy resting one hand on the beam over his head, leaning into the stretch so all his muscles are flexed.
Why does he have to look so good?
He’s temptation incarnate.
I continue to ignore him as I finish the last shoe on Bessie and start to clean up the remnants. I walk past him narrowly avoiding contact by ducking under his arm. It’s when I’m putting the tools away on the shelf that a calloused hand scales my body from my lower back to my abdomen. Still irritated, and not caring if I seem petty, I shake his touch away before storming back toward the barn door to go inside.
That same muscular hand grabs my arm and spins me back so I’m face to face with Jason, inches apart. His body heat envelopes me making me feel trapped even though it’s only his hand holding me hostage.
Why does his presence make me forget how to walk, how to breathe?
“Jason, let me go,” I demand. I’m gearing up to rip my arm out of his grasp, but the pleading look in his eyes deters me. I don’t know how he does it, but Jason’s body language conveys more than words. The way he’s earnestly leaning over me with questioning eyes says it all.
Talk to me.
A request. Not a demand.
