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He’s blatantly staring at my ass, which is completely covered, thankfully, but the way he’s devouring my body makes me feel naked.
And surprisingly, not uncomfortable.
Why is that? I should be exposed, awkward, and incredibly embarrassed.
Instead, I feel…excited.
When the silence stretching between us continues, his eyes finally meet mine. That look that I saw only moments ago is quickly replaced by a sheepish, nervous look. He knows he was busted checking me out, and now neither of us knows what to do or say.
I know what I need to do.
Put on clothes.
I wave him toward the living room and make a beeline to my bedroom. When I’m finally safely behind the closed door, I finally take a deep breath. My reflection catches in the mirror above the dresser and I’m surprised at what I see. Even though my boobs are showing and my nipples clearly begging for attention, I look…cute. Pretty. Completely normal.
Alive.
Running my fingers along my lips, for the first time in a very long time, I wonder what it would be like to kiss someone again. Maybe even Nick. To feel wanted and desired…and alive. Yep, there’s that word again.
But it might be the truest adjective to describe this crazy feeling that has pushed to the surface, past the armor of hurt and make believe I keep firmly in place to protect myself. I haven’t felt this way in so very long that I thought this bitter sadness may have been all that was left. Like every ounce of happiness and life was buried in that six-foot grave, along with the man I loved.
As I rip off the shirt, grab a bra, and throw on a new (and slightly more form fitting) shirt, I can’t help but wonder if there really is life after loss.
And more importantly, am I too terrified to find out?
