Page 60 of Beautiful Thing

Then I flee down the hall to the bedroom I share with Sky. My baby is sound asleep, sprawled across the bed, his legs no longer covered by the blankets.

Eyes about to burst with unshed tears, I carefully pull the blanket back up over my son and press a kiss to his temple.

I start to quietly change for bed. Moonlight shines into the room, faintly illuminating the full-length mirror in the corner. I drop the stupid dress to the stupid floor, staring at myself in the dimly-lit space.

I see a body that I don’t recognize. A body that’s tired, overworked. One that doesn’t know the meaning of self-care.

I see the extra weight that I carry in my belly. I see hips that used to not be so wide. Oh, who am I kidding? I can hardly even see my hipbones at all anymore.

I see stretch marks that line my stomach. My fingertips graze over the raised, pursed skin. Additional stretch marks that zig and zag across my love handles. Marks that Archer was touching just moments ago.

My mood crashes even lower, embarrassed that his perfect hands could probably feel my imperfections as they coasted over my body.

I’m broken.

I’m used up.

I’m unwanted.

A pretty new dress isn’t ever going to change that.

I slide down to the floor, breaking down into a silent cry because the only thing that could make me feel worse right now is waking up my sweet, innocent son.

When my tears start losing steam, I wipe at my eyes and my runny nose. I stare straight into the mirror, squaring my shoulders and repeating some of the affirmations Ziggy texted to me a few weeks back.

I am beautiful.

I am lovable.

I am enough.

But it’s pointless. It doesn’t help. No matter how many times I say nice things about myself, the words just sound empty. Meaningless.

I throw on an oversized T-shirt and crawl into bed, still feeling like garbage.

This hurts.

24

ARCHER

“Fuck.”

“Damn.”

“Shit.”

“Goddamn-dumbass-motherfucking-crapface-horsebutt-shit.”

I bang my forehead against the shower tile as I mutter every single curse word in the curse word dictionary.

I fucked up. I got a shot with Layla—like I’ve been fantasizing about for years—and I epically fucked it up.

My mind travels back to the way she was pressed against me, the way she was mewling desperately, how her curves felt beneath my palms. Just thinking about it and my erection springs forward. Like it thinks it’s about to get some attention tonight.

“Oh, shut up,” I grumble at my idiot dick and I turn the water colder.

I’m so disgusted with myself, I may never be able to look at myself in the mirror again.

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