“It was almost a relief, actually. Knowing it wasn’t me that was failing at salvaging it, that we were just wrong for one another. Even outside of the bedroom,” she tacks on thoughtfully. That blush creeps back up her cheeks, but it’s not as strong as it was before. She’s getting more comfortable sharing personal things with me now.
“Fuck,” I let out. “I’m sorry for being part of what led to the breakup.”
“No,” she shakes her head. “Don’t be. There were many reasons it wasn’t working out. But please don’t be sorry for getting me to see that I was worth more. That my happiness was worth going out on a limb for.”
The smile she gives me is so warm, so genuine, I wish I could frame it.
“My turn!” She mimics me from not long ago, and I smile back at her.
“What do you wanna know, Ell?” I ask her softly. “I’ll tell you anything.”
Her shoulders quiver, a little shiver breaking out, I think, and she looks down briefly then back up at me.
“Please don’t take this as fishing for compliments. But I really do want to know… Why me?”
“Oh, you’re going to get compliments,” I tell her with a small smirk. “Get used to those, gorgeous.”
The hours fly by. We learn more about each other. She’s an only child, she heard about my little brothers.
I find out she started working at the company at thirteen, was full-time at seventeen, and by her mid-twenties was in a C-level position. I might not have had the level of vision and dedication she did, but I did start selling my design services at fourteen, and I think there’s a bond of sorts there because of it. Not many teens who’d choose work over a good time. To be fair, I chose workanda good time, but still.
I learned she never partied, never rebelled, never so much as told a lie to her parents.
Turns out our youths wereveryfucking different, but so far it seems like it was in a way that’s taught us both a lot, and given us a lot of stories to tell. Especially me.
We shared a lot about our childhoods, our parents—well, her parents, my mom. Movies, TV, our favorite things across all sorts of categories. Anything that came to mind, really. Some questions were rapid-fired with one-word answers, and some launched fifteen minute stories.
When I asked what perfume she used, my hunch was confirmed when she told me it was called Mediterranean Honeysuckle. She showed me the bottle, let me get a whiff, but it only had about half the smell in it I’ve come to crave. The rest of that recipe must be all Ellie; that fragrance is hollow without her wearing it.
“Okay, how doyousmell so good?” she asks next.
My brow raises. “Is that one of your questions?”
“Yes. No. Maybe.” Her head shakes, tilts, and wobbles differently on each answer, making her look like the cutest bobblehead I’ve ever seen. “Seriously, though.”
She moves a little closer to me, grabs my arm that’s around the back of the couch, close to her, and inhales, eyes falling back and closing as she does. Then they spring back open and she looks over at me, like she can’t believe she just did that.
“Is that weird? Oh God, that was weird, right?” She starts to panic-ramble again, something I got very familiar with that night we were at the bar at TopGolf together, but seems like she does it even when alcohol isn’t involved.
My arm darts out, closes around her, and yanks her into me, which stops her little tailspin on the spot. She crashes into my chest, and I stabilize her with my other hand as well, but hold her close, her entire body now basically in my lap.
“I don’t care if it’s weird or not,” I tell her. “But if you’re here, we can both get our fill, yeah?”
She re-situates herself, getting comfortable, then looks up at me, eyes swimming with things I want to understand. I leave my arms around her, one behind her back, one on the side of her hip, where my fingers trail up and down, tracing little designs overtop her thin sweats that feel like butter.
“I think my next question needs to be where you shop, because everything you own looks so good, and feels insanely high quality.” My fingers keep rubbing at the material of her clothing, the skin underneath it.
She smiles a little self-deprecatingly. “Well, when you’re built like me, and shaped like this,” her arms gesture to herself, her hourglass figure, “I’ve found skimping on quality is not the way to go. I mostly shop at Nordstrom, but there are some other places, too. It’s one of the things I splurge on, the higher end brands, because whatever they do that’s different, it shows. It sits on my body differently than the cheaper stuff does, it does a good job at hiding the imperfections, giving me a uniform shape, that kind of stuff. There’s a lot of cheap alternatives to most things we need in our daily lives these days, but in my experience as a plus-size woman, you get what you pay for when it comes to clothing.” Her fingers come to trail over my tee. “You probably look great in anything, from anywhere.” The words are wistful, and my heart clenches for her, how she views herself, her body.
My eyes darken throughout her answer, hands closing in on either side of her waist, her hips, bracketing her on top of me, against me. “Can you stop talking about yourself like you’re flawed? You have the perfect shape, you’re a goddamn stunner.”
Her head falls and she doesn’t meet my eyes. “That’s from all the shapewear.” She lifts her shirt and my eyes widen at the nude skin I see beneath, until she pulls that layer away from her body and shows me what she’s talking about. Even now, on the couch, in sweats, she’s wearing some crazy contraption I think some of the girls have pointed out before on a TV show about celebrities. “See?” she asks, stretching the thing away from her a few more times then letting it snap back, which sounds painful. “It’s all because of this. Without it, I’m all over the place. Wobbly bits, jiggly bits, lumpy ones, too. See, not too late to run yet, Ash.” She tosses me a self-deprecating smile, which is usuallymymove.
I smile at her, shaking my head. I don’t believe for one second she’s not just as stunning without it. “I’m not running anywhere, babe.” I pause, looking over her midsection. “Is that thingcomfortable?” I ask her.
She shrugs. “Not really, but I’m so used to it now.”
“Can you do me a favor?” It takes a couple fingers under her chin to get her to look at me again. “Next time we hang out, can you just be comfortable? Whatever that looks like for you?”
