Page 39 of The Wright Man

I'd left it at the salon. The engraved whiskey decanter and glass set I'd had custom-made with "Christopher Reed: The Man. The Myth. The Legend." etched in gold script across the front.

I'd been so excited when it came in. I'd held it up to the light like a trophy and imagined the proud little smile he'd give when he opened it.

The memory gave me a small jolt of energy, enough to get me moving again.

I scrubbed my skin with the orange and clove body wash I kept for special occasions, the scent warm and grounding. Then came the thick vanilla shea butter, sealed in with a layer of almond oil until my skin shone like polished bronze.

My fingers brushed over the stretch marks across my hips, the softness of my ass, the curve of my thighs. The body that had carried hope four times—and loss just as many.

I paused at my belly, tracing the faint stretch marks there. The soft pouch I hadn't been able to smooth out no matter how many detox teas or green juices I forced down.

My fingers trembled for half a second before I inhaled deep and let the thought pass.

Gavin looked at me now like he was mourning someone. Like this version of me was the ghost of the wife he wanted.

This body? She deserved love.

Even if Gavin didn't think so anymore.

"I still got you," I whispered to my reflection. "Always."

Almost on cue, my phone buzzed next to the sink.

Gavin: Hope the party goes okay. Tell your dad I said happy birthday.

Gavin: PS: Wear the black dress.

I stared at the screen.

No apology. No accountability. Just... relative decency.

Which, from Gavin, might as well have been a declaration of love.

I stood there for a full minute, letting the flicker of maybe rise up.

Maybe he meant it.

Maybe yesterday was the bottom, and we were on our way back up.

Maybe this time, he'd try.

Or maybe I was just tired of being the only one who did.

My eyes drifted to the dress he was referring to, one of the two dresses hanging side by side on the closet door. One black, one green.

I looked at the two dresses like they were staring back, daring me to choose who I wanted to be tonight.

The black one was elegant. Safe. High in the neck and long in the sleeves. Clearly meant to erase my shape instead of celebrating it.

The kind Gavin paraded me in when he needed a trophy to take pictures with.

It was the version of me he finally acknowledged—once I stopped being too loud, too different, too much.

Then there was the green one. Olive silk. The color kissed my cinnamon skin like it had been mixed just for me. The cut hugged every curve Gavin had tried to shame me out of. My hips. My full breasts. My midsection, softer than it used to be.

It was a little daring, a little loud—just like I used to be.

Before all the grief and shame and expectations stripped me down. It was me in fabric form.