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It’s a photo of her when she was a ballerina, before she was married. In the picture, she’s on pointe. Strong, graceful limbs extended with a peaceful and proud smile across her face. Bold stage makeup and a tight, slicked-back bun.
She wanted to throw this picture out because it reminds her of how much her body has changed, but I stole it because she’s beautiful here. She isn’t beautiful because she’s thinner; it’s because she’s happier and confident.
The photo is a reminder to me, too. Whenever a thought sneaks in about my body or my face, when I worry I’m starting to get wrinkles, or wonder if my boobs are the right size, or if my butt is too big, I think about this photo. She’s not beautiful because of her physical appearance; she’s beautiful because of who she is. I’d think that no matter what she looked like.
The photo reminds me to love myself as I am. Even if my body and face aren’t perfect. I won’t allow myself to hate my body like my mom hates hers.
“She looks like you.”
I hum, smiling to myself. Everyone says that, and I’m proud that I’m her spitting image. Pippa got our dad’s lighter coloring, but I love that I look like my mom.
Rory watches me like he’s trying to figure me out, and alarm bells start ringing in my head. Rory’s here in my apartment, seeing all my things, seeing who I am.
“Yes, please, snoop away.” My tone is dry as I walk over and set the photo face-down. I pull the second drawer open to grab my favorite sleeping shirt.
There’s a creak behind me.
“Rory.”
He’s lying on my bed, hands tucked behind his head. His face screws up in horror. “Jesus, Hartley,your bed. It feels like there are rocks in here.” He shifts, trying to get comfortable. “But it’s also, like, way too soft? Where’d you get this thing, the dumpster?”
My head falls back but I’m laughing. Yes, it’s an old mattress, and yes, this is fucking embarrassing.
“The floor would be more comfortable.” He moves his hips up and down, and the bed creaks violently. “How do you have sex on this thing?”
“I don’t have guys over—”
“Good.” He cuts me a hard look.
“—because once they come over,” I set a hand on my hip, “they don’tleave.”
He smiles and exhales all the tension out of his body. His legs are crossed at the ankles, and his socks are covered in Bigfoots riding bicycles. Weird.
And now his eyes are closed.
“Rory.”
“Mmm.” Eyes are still closed.
“I want to go to bed.” I’m still standing here in my gown.
“So go to bed,” he murmurs.
He looks perfectly at ease, like he’s over all the time. Like this is his second home.
Something tightens in my stomach. My fake boyfriend is falling asleep on my bed, and I have no fucking clue what to do with that.
“Good night, baby,” he murmurs, eyes still closed.
“You’re not staying.” I stop in the doorway to the bathroom. “And don’t call me that.”
“Fire-breather.”
I laugh despite myself. “When I come out, you better be putting your shoes on.” I say this, and yet, I know he won’t be.
“You got it.”
My sleep shirt barely covers my ass, and there’s a warning feeling whispering in the back of my mind, telling me to put shorts on, but I hate wearing anything other than underwear and a t-shirt to bed. I hate feeling all restricted, and I get way too hot.
