ChapterSeven
Morgan
I'm so fucking mixed up right now, like holy hell.
I'm so turned on it hurts.Dumbass me butt-FaceTimed Noah Austin at five-thirty in the damn morning, and then when he called me back almost immediately like the gentleman he is, I answered…naked.I mean, yeah, sure, I didn't realize it was a FaceTime—I was in the middle of a catastrophe.My leg was scalded, my cream-colored suede couch was stained to shit by coffee, which I hadn’t even gotten to drink yet.So yeah, it didn't register that the ring was different.I wasn't looking at the screen when I answered—or, well, I guess I did.It just didn't fucking register that it was a video call, okay?So yes, it's my own dumbass fault Noah Austin saw my itty bitty titties.
He seems to like what he saw, though.Especially considering the, uhhh, prominence of the evidence.It was clearly outlined behind his underwear, leaving almost nothing to the imagination.It is also now very clearly outlined in my mind.
Imprinted, you might say.Seared.
I can't remember what it feels like to touch one.
To be caressed.
Held.
Loved.
But then, if I picture actually standing in my bedroom with Noah as he undresses me, I feel a shivering recoil of nauseated embarrassment, mainly because when I consider being nude with a man, all I hear is Kevin's voice the last time we had sex.
You're so beautiful, Morgan,and here, my heart had risen, hopeful and briefly validated.You'd be so much hotter if you got implants.
Yes, that's verbatim.
But he wasn't done.
Implants and a tummy tuck.
For reference, he was referring to the part of my body where my FUCKING ORGANS are: meaning my lower belly, which, like a lot of women, protrudes a little bit.It always has, even when I was an elite athlete; even with body fat low enough to have visible abs, that part of me has always just stuck out a little bit.Because again—that’s where my fuckingbody partsgo…y’know, my uterus?That was seventeen years ago, when I was only thirty-one and not that far removed from being in Olympic athlete shape.
Nowadays?
I have an actual pooch or whatever you want to call it.Wrinkly skin from carrying Mallory—I clearly didn't apply enough shea butter.Cellulite and stretch marks on my hips and thighs because I gained a good bit of weight during and after the pregnancy, and I didn't have time to do anything about it until she started kindergarten.My boobs have stayed roughly the same, fortunately—Mal had a sensitive stomach and could only tolerate formula, so I never had the enlargement and shrinkage that comes with breastfeeding.Which means my boobs are still pretty high and tight, which is nice.I'd have preferred to breastfeed, if I'm honest.I always felt a little cheated out of what seemed like an important part of motherhood.
Silver linings, though, right?
I don't always hear Kevin's actual words anymore.Mostly, I just hear his voice, but the words are all my own inner critic, fueled by Kevin's obvious distaste for me.That wasn't a one-off criticism, though.It was a million endless things like that.
Pointing out chin hairs, wrinkles, and blemishes.
Repeatedly offering to buy me new boobs.
Blatantly ogling any woman in his vicinity with big tits, despite my presence at his side.
Telling me I should work on my squat game to grow my butt.
Buying me a box of hair dye because he spotted a silver hair.At 31, yes.
I wonder why, huh,KEVIN?
Constant comments like that add up.He didn't outright tell me I was too skinny or that my tits were small in so many words…usually.
It was mostly just implied.
Repeatedly.
In a variety of ways.
