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We were getting our Easter holidays from school on Friday. We would have two weeks off, and a huge part of me was worried that I would somehow blow up in that space of time and end up returning to school looking like a beached whale.
It was a terrifying concept.
Turning from side to side, I studied my appearance, gently poking and prodding at the foreign entity that had hitched a ride inside of my womb.
Ugh.
Womb was definitely another word I hated, right along with placenta, milk ducts, labor, membrane sweeps, and, worst of all, crowning.
Struggling with the concept of a baby growing inside of my body, let alone burrowing its big, bald head and Joey-Lynch-sized shoulders out of my vagina, I shuddered violently, doing a little heebie-jeebies dance on the spot, while I battled down a surge of nausea.
Empty your mind.
Deep breaths.
Blank it out.
You’re still beautiful.
Nothing has stretched your vagina.
Your body is still free from stretch marks.
It’s all good.
Wrestling my anxiety into a manageable portion, I set to work applying a full face of makeup and running the curling tongs through my hair, deciding on loose beach-wave curls for school today.
I was rummaging around in my crappy back-up makeup bag, the one that housed all of the reject items from unwanted beauty sets from birthdays and Christmas, looking for a bronzing palette and mentally cursing myself for not buying two of every product that I used, when a pair of familiar tattooed forearms came around my waist, dragging me back against an even more familiar chest.
“On a scale of one to ten, how pissed are you with me?”
“Holy shit, Joe,” I choked out, coming close to calling bullshit on the whole not being able to jump out of one’s skin, because I had come pretty damn close. “You couldn’t use the front door?”
“Why break the habit of a lifetime?” His lips brushed against my ear as he spoke, eyes locked on mine in the mirror in front of us. “And I would say ‘nice legs,’ but that would be doing the rest of you a serious disservice.”
Smooth as sin, he let his hands wander from my waist to my hips, fingers dipping under the lace fabric of my knickers for the briefest of moments before letting the elastic waistband snap back into place, and returning his hands to my hips. “Nice everything, Molloy.”
The move caused every muscle south of my navel to coil tight in lustful anticipation. “Thanks.”
“So? On a scale of one to ten?”
My eyelids fluttered shut of their own accord, an inevitable reaction to this boy’s touch, and I let out a shaky breath. “Eleven.”
“Yeah.” His lips brushed my neck and he inhaled deeply before releasing a heavy sigh. “I figured.”
Like a lamb to the slaughter, I leaned heavily against him as my body reveled in the feel of his hands on my skin. “That’s all you have to say for yourself?”
“I’m an asshole,” he offered, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “I’m undeserving.” He switched sides and kissed my other cheek. “I’m sorry.” Another kiss to the curve of my jaw. “I love you.”
“You don’t remember any of it, do you?” I asked, turning around just in time to receive the soft kiss he pressed to the corner of my mouth. “What we talked about yesterday?”
“I remember that I fucked up.”
I rolled my eyes. “You always fuck up.”
“Hey.” Taking my face between his hands, he leaned in close, clear green eyes locked on mine. “I mean it.” Nuzzling my nose with his, he pressed a kiss to the tip and sighed. “I’m sorry for yesterday.”
“Which part?”
