I know I need to stop doing it, but I just can’t.
It's become a safety measure of sorts. If I don’t inspect myself and know how I look at all times, I get paranoid. I feel like every whisper is about me, that every time I walk by a group of guys and they laugh, they’re laughing at me or about me.
When I know the flaws of my body, then they can’t catch me off guard, they can’t hurt me as much when they’re pointed out.
That’s why the pool party was such a big deal for me. It was my first time wearing a bathing suit in public in over a year. SincebeforeCarter and I broke up and he posted those pictures of me. I actually had to borrow a swim suit from Miranda because in a fit of self conscious rage, I threw all of mine away months ago. I was convinced that I was never going to go swimming again, period. I was under the impression that I would somehow live the rest of my life avoiding the pool and the beach at all costs despite the fact my parents own a pool and we live close to some of the best lake beaches in the country.
But I did it. And I had a good time. And I crossed it off my list.
I did refuse to wear a bikini, though. It just felt like too much at one time to do both. To be so exposed in a bathing suit and to have my body showing. Maybe next time I’ll be able to wear something that exposes my stomach.Or not.
I close my eyes and remember there were several moments yesterday where I not only was having fun, but I wasn’t worried about my body at all. No one said anything to me about how I looked except Miranda. And that was only when I walked out of her bathroom wearing her swimsuit when she said I looked extremely hot and she could never wear that swim suit again knowing how good it looked on me.
But Miranda is like that, so her comments don’t really count. She’s the type of friend that hypes me up in everything I do, even the bad decisions. If I want someone to push me in the direction of doing something insane, I call Miranda. If I'm self conscious about a bold outfit, I call Miranda. Basically, Miranda will call me stunning and mean it every time, then tell me to get my ass on the dance floor and kiss that hot guy, convincing me I’m hot enough to do anything and anyone I want. It works surprisingly well.
At the pool though, I think I would have left and gone home if anyone other than Miranda made comments about how I looked.
I’m proud of myself for not leaving the pool party in tears.
I did actually enjoy myself. There was even a moment where I felt confident in myself, like I was hot.
I’m nearly positive, scratch that, I’m one hundred percent positive that Will got hard when I gave him a hickey.
When I think about it enough, I can still feel where he palmed my waist as I was straddling him and the way his not-so-small dick felt between my legs. For a moment, one small minute, I didn’t feel paranoid that someone was recording me or worried about Carter jumping out from behind a bush, or the fact that everyone there knew what I look like naked, I felt desirable in a way I haven’t in a long time.
She’s not nearly as hot as she thinks she is,a voice reminds me of the most liked comments on my naked pictures. And just like that, the warm feeling in my chest is doused with ice cold water.
The reality is this: William Taylor doesn’t, will never, and has never liked me in any capacity. And his boner was almost certainly a by-product of a circumstance. I’m fairly positive he would’ve had the same reaction if Clarie was the one in his lap, licking up his neck. She’s definitely better looking than I am.
Carter told me multiple times that all my friends are hotter than me. It's true, too. Miranda and Claire are both shorter and skinnier than me. They have skin that tans golden and the kind of figure I would kill for–confirmation that Will’s boner is nothing more than a response to a biological stimulus. All girls learn from an early age that boys will do anything if it means they get their dick touched. “You know,” Carter said to me once after we’d just had sex, “I wasn’t really attracted to you when we first met.”
The knot in my chest is too tight and my cheeks are burning hot from shame. I am such a fucking idiot. Why I would think, even for one second, that Will might be attracted to me is laughable. I need to get a hold of myself. I’m smart. I’m funny. I used to think I was good looking and beautiful and desirable, but I know better now. I’m not ugly, but I’m not stunning like Miranda or beautiful in the way Claire is. The plain truth is that the commenter is right, I’m not nearly as hot as I think I am.
My phone dings, letting me know I have to leave my apartment in thirty minutes. I’m not dressed, my hair and makeup isn't done. I need to get ready for my internship at Fray and Wilkman. I don’t have any more time to stand in front of my mirror feeling stupid and sorry for myself.
I head into the bathroom to straighten my hair and do my make up before donning a navy and white top and red trousers.
I only have to look at myself for about one second before realizing I look like a sorority sailor. I throw my clothes onto the floor and rush to find something else before I’m late. When all else fails, I go monochromatic. I pull on navy wide leg trousers and pair it with a baby blue silk top and blue ballet flats. I grab my eggshell blue mini clementine bag (thanks mom) and head out.
It takes me maybe thirty minutes to pull into the parking lot in front of the law firm. My shoes don't have the click that I love since I’m not wearing heels, but I still feel pretty powerful in my outfit today. There is something about a killer outfit that makes me feel invincible.
Some might think I’m pretentious and irritating with my expensive bags and designer clothes, but having a killer outfit has the ability to completely change how I feel about myself. I might not be able to change the way my body looks, but I can throw together a stunning outfit. It's like armor in a way, a rouseeven. I might not be beautiful, but it's much harder to tell when I have on a red lip and blazer.
There’s a low hum of people milling about and the smell of coffee in the air. I head to the back where they keep a coffee maker, syrups, and creamer and make myself a latte. When I first started working here, I expected there to be a lot more coffee runs than there actually is. Yes, I’ve been asked to get coffee or pick up lunch, but honestly it's not very often. Instead I complete administrative tasks that the attorneys are too busy to bother with.
I call plaintiffs and defendants to make sure they know when and where to be. I review written statements and make sure there are no errors in the record or formatting. I proofread, and research for cases. There are three attorneys here that let me schedule things for them without having to get prior approval. Everyone else I perform a little back and forth and make sure their schedule can accommodate whatever it is I’m putting on their calendar.
All in all, it's not nearly as glamorous as I thought it would be. It's also not nearly as abusive as I thought it would be. There are no screaming lawyers or tables being flipped, there is no corporate espionage, at least not that I’m aware of. In fact, there are quite a few errors made that I thought would cause huge reactions that are really just human error and cause nothing more than a few eye rolls.
I take my coffee and head to my little cubicle. I’m close to the entrance of the office, near the receptionist and the copy machine. Today I need to follow up with a few clients and make sure they are aware of mediation dates and times. I’m running through the checklist in my head when I turn the corner to my cubicle and find none other than Sandra Fray standing at the entrance to my cubicle.
I start upon seeing her and nearly spill my coffee. “Hi, um–” I slightly panic as I realize I’ve never actually interacted with Sandra Fray directly before and I have no idea what to call her. “Mrs. Fray. How can I help you?”
“Call me Sandra, no need for all the formality,” she says, motioning for me to take a step inside the cubicle and take a seat. Because this cubicle is used for multiple interns, there are also multiple chairs. Sandra pulls one out and takes a seat, raising her brows, waiting for me to follow suit.
I set my coffee down and run my palms over my pants before sitting, stomach churning. Thank God I wore a killer outfit today.
“I’m aware that right now your primary contact is Jessica,” she says, referring to the other partner in the firm, Jessica Wilkman, “but I’ve recently taken on a case I think you’d be a good fit for. You’d basically split half your time with me researching and learning, and then the other half, keep doing the administrative tasks you’re already doing.”
