The coffee that he now feels the need to comment on.
“Do you really need creamandsugar, Ellie?”
His annoying voice pipes up again, and this time, his words set every single nerve ending in my body on edge. My hackles aren’t just rising, they’re going into orbit. Giving someone the benefit of the doubt is one thing—but rolling over and taking this kind of thing is not my style. Goddess give me strength, here we go again…
That wasn’t a flippant comment, and neither was the one about the granola bars. Or the Pilates. Experience tells me they were calculated and premeditated. That he’s undermining me. Seems like the fifth sleepover was the charm, and he’s starting to show his true colors.
Except, that’s not entirely true. To be fair…there were screaming red flags before today, but I ignored them all.
I ignored it every time he rolled his eyes at my choice of food in a restaurant, or put me off when I suggested dessert, claiming he couldn’t wait to get me home for aworkout. I told myself he was just concerned. That his super-fit gym rat lifestyle made him hyper-aware of healthy food choices.
Except, here he is—scarfing down bacon, eggs, and toast dripping with butter. Looks like he’s only a fan of healthy food choices where other people are concerned.
“What’s wrong with sugar and cream? I only have three coffees a day at most,” I ask, curious as to how he’ll play this.
He shrugs. “It all adds up though, and it wouldn’t hurt to?—”
“Stop!” I hold up my hand, feeling like I’m in a sitcom and I’m pausing the action to have a moment with the audience. Because I knew this was coming. It usually does. Not withallguys, but with enough of them, at least lately. “Let me guess, you’re about to tell me that I could lose a little weight. It will make me prettier, right? Hotter?”
He scowls. “It’s not like you don’t already know you carry some extra pounds, El. It was just a fucking suggestion.”
“No, it wasn’tjusta suggestion, Owen, it was more than that.”
“Yeah? What was it then? Enlighten me.”
I stand before him with my hands on my hips. My lush, curvaceous hips that I refuse to be ashamed of. The ones he certainly never seemed to object to during our now-I-come-to-think-of-it pretty mediocre sex. That was another red flag I guess I ignored. The fact that he never seemed to give a damn whether I came or not.
“Okay, Owen, I will. Telling me I need to lose a few pounds is a judgment. It’s a judgment men in particular feel entitled to make about women’s bodies, if their bodies don’t meet society’s impossible, not to mention ever-changing, beauty standards. We’re all supposed to be, what, cartoon figures with huge tits, bubble asses, and tiny waists? With zero body fat apart from curves exactly where you want them? We’re all supposed to try and fit these unrealistic ideals, despite the fact that Mother Nature, in all her blessed wisdom, had different ideas when she put us together?”
He looks confused. All that time exercising his body and none stretching his mind.
“It’s also a judgment that makes you an asshole. I had the crazy idea that you liked me for me. Not me if I lost ten pounds. I thought you were dating me, not my potential.”
“Ten pounds, Ellie?” He arches an eyebrow. “Come on now.”
Really? That’s his only response? I take a deep breath, remind myself he’s not worth the assault charges, and snatch his plate right from under him. “Get out.”
He holds his fork suspended mid-air, loaded with egg and bacon, while he blinks at me like a startled rabbit. But a lot less cute. “Are you fucking serious right now?”
I drop his plate into the sink next to me. Easy enough to do in my tiny kitchen. “Deadly. Get out of my apartment.”
He shoots me a murderous look, letting his silverware clatter to the table while the food bounces to the floor. “You’rethrowingmeout?” he scoffs, probably incredulous that a chubby girl might be dumping him. I’ve encountered this before—men thinking that I’d be grateful to have them in my life.
Wrong. I might be looking for love, but not at the expense of loving myself.
“Yes, I am, Owen.”
He shoves back his chair so hard it topples to the floor. He’s furious now, looming over me with all his gym-obsessed muscles. Am I scared of him? No. I’ve faced far worse in my life than this jumped-up bully. Faced it, and survived it.
“You’re ending this just because I suggested you might want to lose a little fucking weight?”
“No, I’m ending this because you are a misogynistic douche-canoe who thinks that the fact we’ve had sex a few times entitles him to any say over my body.”
I glare up at him, the towel on my head coming loose, my hair spilling down my back in a damp curly mass. “Now, let me makethis clear, in one syllable words so you understand. Get. The. Hell. Out.”
He grabs his coat from the hook on the door. “Gladly, you fat fucking bitch.”
I push down the hurt that bubbles up in me and don’t say anything at all. He doesn’t deserve to see my pain, to know that comment stings. I am usually the kind of person who wears her heart on her sleeve. But when I feel threatened? Then I slip on my facade, like a familiar old coat. One I hate wearing, but I sometimes need to survive.
