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I pull my shirt over my head and immediately look at myself in the mirror.

Bad idea.

My stomach isn't terrible.

I know that.

Objectively, logically, I know my body is fine. Most days I don't even think about it. I exist in it without standing around cataloging everything that changed after pregnancy.

Tonight apparently isn't most days.

There are pale stretch marks low across my stomach and hips. They've faded so much that sometimes I barely notice them, but under the bathroom lights they're all I can see.

The skin on my stomach isn't as tight as it used to be. My breasts definitely aren't where they were when I was twenty-two.

I cup one automatically, lifting it slightly.

Then I drop it.

“For fuck's sake.”

They're boobs.

They're fine.

They're just not my old boobs.

Pregnancy changed them. Breastfeeding changed them more. They're softer now, a little lower, and while no one would look at me walking down the street and think Jesus, somebody help that woman's tits, I notice.

Of course I notice.

And Simon has been with other women since me. Women who haven't had babies and haven't breastfed and don’t have silvery lines across their stomachs from growing his nine-pound child.

I hate that I'm thinking about Veronica.

I especially hate that I'm standing half naked in Simon's bathroom wondering what Veronica's boobs look like.

Probably fantastic.

Perky little lumps of flesh.

“Stop,” I mutter at my reflection.

He wants me. I know that. The man has made it abundantly clear how much he wants me.

But knowing Simon wants me while I'm wearing jeans and a bra specifically engineered to put everything back where God originally had it is different from standing naked in front of him for the first time in years.

What if he notices?

Of course he'll notice, he’s not blind.

What if he notices and doesn't care?

That's probably the rational answer.

What if he notices and compares me to—

Nope.