As they discussed the schedule of who would make me chickensoup, change my dressings, grocery shop and clean my house, somehow, theconversation took a turn for the worse with Morrison Sisters wanting to proveto Rock Chicks that I was one of them and Hot Bunch and Commando Boys jockeyingfor position as the favored brothers-not-of-the-blood in my life.
Though, for me, I would have paid to see any of those menbringing me chicken soup or running my vacuum.
That said, I would be perfectly capable of doing the firston my own, and my vacuum could hold off for long enough I could wield itmyself.
By the by, through this, Mom and Ingrid sat at my diningroom table, drinking coffees Tex had sent over from Fortnum’s Used Books, wherehe was their premier barista, and chatting calmly like it wasn’t happening.
It ended with Mo shouting (shouting!until that moment I’dnever heard him shout), “Noneof you aregettin’anywherenearmy woman’s breasts!AndIcan andwillfeed and take care of Lottie.I got this.Back the fuckoff!”
I learned then that when a big guy like Mo who was usuallyquiet and not easily ruffled bellowed, people listened.
I also learned then that there was family of a lot ofdifferent varieties.
But with that, Mo was claiming him and me (mostly me,obviously) as justours.
I was sure he appreciated the love and support they wereshowing.
But in the end, it was just him and me.
They could bring flowers.
They could not bring me chicken soup.
In the ensuing days after the surgery, he took care of myincisions, changed my dressings, brought me food, ran the vacuum, got the mail,did the grocery shopping, wouldn’t hear of me doing any of this for myself,even if I could, and didn’t let me take that first peek at my breasts.Notuntil the volume had returned and the bruising had faded.
I’d had implants for a while, switching them out to freshenthem up, because I looked great with big tits.
But now…
“Put a shirt on.”
I turned at these words to see my man hulking into thebathroom.
“Mo—”
He walked to me, tagged the lacy pink bralette I’d laid outon the counter and held it my way.
“Put this on,” he ordered.
My stomach plummeted, and I stared up at his gorgeous face.
“Do you like them?”I asked quietly.
He also stared down at my face.
“Of course I like ’em.”
“You’re not even looking at them,” I pointed out.
His eyes dropped to them then came back to my face.
“You look beautiful, Lottie,” he said.“You always lookbeautiful.It’s impossible for younotto look beautiful.”
I knew my strengths.
I knew my weaknesses.
I was pretty.
