Page 83 of Set on You

I try to remind myself there are three times as many supportive comments as there are negative ones, but it does little to quell the sickness festering in my stomach.

OMG so happy for you!!

Beautiful couple

SMOKESHOW.

He is so in love with you, you can see it in his eyes.

Even as Tara prattles on about an awkward encounter with the wedding DJ last night while inhaling a Pop-Tart, I’m still glued to my phone at the kitchen table, hunched over like Igor in that ancient black-and-white Frankenstein movie, bracing myself for another abusive comment.

She ditches her plate in the sink and hops onto the counter, legs dangling. “Anyway, so he added me on Snapchat. When we got home last night, he’d sent me a snap of only his face. At an upward angle, which I’ll never understand. Why do you want three chins? And there wasn’t even an accompanying message. Like... if you want sex, you can at least sayHi.OrSup.” She pauses, taking a breath. “Is this what I have to look forward to in the dating world? If so, I think I’ll go purchase the first of my thirteen cats.”

I give her an unenthusiastic shrug. “Nah, DJ Heavy J is definitely lazy.”

She sighs, examining her eccentric flamingo slippers. “Is Scotty coming over today? Do I need to put on a bra?”

“Maybe later tonight. I’m going to the gym with him when he gets off work,” I tell her, dazed as another nasty comment pops onto my screen.

Just the thought of seeing Scott tonight makes my gut clench. The last thing I want is to explain the photo. I don’t want him to see it, for the simple reason that I’m embarrassed. Not just about what people are saying about me, but about the comments directed at him, especially after he’s opened up about his childhood bully.

My stomach is riddled with unrelenting anxiety as I spend what feels like an eternity deep in the bowels of the comments. I’m consumed, with no sense of how much time has passed. Has it beenone hour? Three? Who can say? I have zero desire to leave my apartment to do errands, or attend my session with Mel later today.

I try to banish the negative thoughts to the deep recesses of my mind, like I usually do. But it’s different this time. For some reason, they refuse to budge. There are too many of them, ping-ponging around in my head, sticking like burrs. They’re relentless. It’s like I’m drowning in them.

I’ve thought about deleting the post, but that would signal weakness. It crosses my mind to handle this like I usually do, mic drop a thirst trap and move on with my day. But the very thought of posting another photo of myself feels like pouring rubbing alcohol on an open wound.

Right now, the only strategy that seems semi-appealing is to take a hiatus on my account and ride out the storm.

Despite my decision to go dark until it all blows over, I’m still accountable to my clients. The irony of the entire situation sets in after I spend far too long struggling to draft a message to a client about the importance of loving herself, despite her perceived flaws. Is my self-doubt hypocritical? My brand’s very foundation is rooted in body positivity. So why have I allowed the comments of total strangers to make me doubt myself when I’ve come so far in loving my body?

I play back the worst comments and DMs in my mind, about how Scott is too good for me. About how he’s either cheating or settling. I keep thinking about Holly’s face. The way she looked me up and down, unable to comprehend my association with Scott.

As I head to the gym for Mel’s training session, I’m painfully aware of the self-doubt scratching its way to the surface, like a disease-ridden rodent burrowing through a crack in the wall.

Mel waves from her place stretching on the mats in her color-coordinated Gymshark outfit. She’s chipper and radiating effortless confidence, as per usual. “Hey, girl.” She stops a few feet in front of me and narrows her chestnut eyes, probably mentally eviscerating my latest haphazard ensemble. “You okay?”

I nod curtly. The last thing I want to do is talk about the photo for fear of breaking down in front of the ’roid-pumping frat boys in the Gym Bro Zone. “Just didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”

“Did Captain America keep you up all night again?” She bounces her perfectly shaped brows suggestively.

“Nah. Just tired from the wedding,” I say, unable to crack a smile.

“Tara sent me pictures. It looked like a blast. You guys all looked amazing. Your dress fit you so well.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, pointing to the shoulder press, in desperate need of a distraction.

She’s taken aback by my abrasiveness. I can tell by her expectant face that she wants to poke further, but she doesn’t. I purposely refrain from idle conversation so she gets the hint I’m not in the mood to talk.

I manage to make it through our hour-long session without looking at my phone, even though my anxiety is still bubbling under the surface, ready to boil over.

On our way out of the gym, Mel asks if she can come over to “lay low.” Apparently, her brother is finally moving out of her apartment today and she would sooner flash her boobs to all of Excalibur Fitness than do manual labor.

I tell her “Yes,” because her company is comforting, even if I have no desire to string more than three words together.

The moment we return to my apartment, I swap my going-out Lulus for my pajama bottoms. We sit in silence through nearly an entire episode ofReal Housewives of New Jersey.Mel definitely knows something is up, because I’ve barely acknowledged the episode, which is a juicy one involving the pulling of a busted-ass weave, a nip slip, and a thrown birthday cake.

Usually, I’m right there with her, providing snarky commentary and judging Teresa’s latest atrocity of a dress. Instead, I’m watching my phone like a hawk as the comments and DMs continue to roll in, burying myself deeper and deeper into a spiral of sadness.

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