Page 53 of Finding the Pieces

“Oh my god, Ellie. That dress is perfect.” Carissa beams. “I absolutely love the color and style on you.”

Dee whistles and fans herself before yelling, “Hot momma.”

I blush from the attention but know that my friends wouldn’t lie to me. If they say the dress is flattering, I have to believe them. Especially since I don’t really want to try on any more options with my confidence shaken. Even more so when the seamstress comes to take my measurements for alterations. I know they’re just numbers, but god, sometimes it’s hard to hear. I do my best to shake it off and not let the insecurities bouncing around my brain ruin a perfectly good afternoon with my girls. But like they say, easier said than done.

Chapter twenty-seven

Ellie

With one hand on my chest and one on my stomach, I slow my breathing.In for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four.

The steam from the shower billows around me and I do my best to keep focused on my breaths alone.In, two, three, four…Frustration takes over and I scrub my hands down my face, letting out an annoyed huff.

“Ellie, you okay in here?” Dom calls out.

Fuck, I don’t want him to know I’m upset.

“Uh, yeah. All good. What’s up, babe?” I fight to keep my voice even.

“I just thought I heard something. Hey, can you leave the water on? I want to hop in when you’re done.”

My body reacts immediately at the thought of him joining me. Sure, we’re not having sex right now, but my thoughts go there regardless.

I’m grateful that Dom suggested we take a break, removing the pressure of sex from our relationship entirely. Slowly, I’ve been feeling this growing pull toward him physically. As if by taking the expectation for sex away, I could finally breathe. This desire I’ve been feeling now continues to build naturally instead of forcing it where I thought I needed to.

It really has done more than I thought it would to know that there’s no expectation for any affection to go any further. Not that he’s ever pressured me to. But I think I was pressuring myself, trying to force myself to feel what I thought I should.

Months. It’s been months since we’ve had each other.

Guilt threatens to climb up my throat, but I shove it down. Maybe intimacy has to look different for us right now, and maybe that’s okay. Maybe building up all these other pieces of our relationship has allowed for some of my sex drive to return.

Well, holy shit. Dom was actually onto something with this plan.

“Or you could…come in here? With me?” I offer hesitantly.

Dom doesn’t say anything for a while. Long enough for me to wonder if he left the bathroom before I hear him say, “I don’t want to intrude on your space.”

I squeeze my eyes shut in a wince and drop my head back. Dom has seen every inch of my body, up close andpersonal. But things feel so awkward between us now.

I haven’t asked Dom if he wants to put sex back on the table yet, but maybe we could slowly make our way back to…that.

Lately, every touch, every lingering look makes me feel…maybe a little sexy. And after today, when dress sizes and ugly comparisons I made up in my mindshreddedmy self-esteem, I want to feel sexy again. I want to feel beautiful and desirable.

Fuck, just because I’m a mom doesn’t mean I don’t want to feel good. Feel wanted.

Dom and I used to have great sex. I don’t want that to be another thing my brain and never-ending anxiety steal from me. I miss my husband.

“You’re not intruding, Dom. Please?”

Another pause.

I don’t say anything—the cloud of rejection starting to swirl around my mind—but a moment later, Dom slides the shower curtain to the side, stepping in.

Dom’s tall, but I’m not short either. He leans in close, still inches between our naked bodies, and presses a light kiss to my lips, pulling back quickly. He runs his palms from my elbows to my shoulders before turning me around so my back is to his chest, the spray from the shower head running down the front of my body. He steps into me, allowing our bodies to finally connect, and I close my eyes, resting my head back on his shoulder, turning my nose to tuck under his chin.

He wraps his arms around my middle, just above where the residual numbness from my c-section scar begins, and I do my best to tamp down the insecurities and dark memories that come roaring to the surface.

The skin on my breasts is softer after more than a year of nursing. My skin is painted with stretch marks regardless of how much oil and lotion I used during my pregnancy. My skin dips where they cut me, and my stomach hangs over the scar—the “c-section shelf.” I’m sure there are exercises and things I could do to improve the appearance, but my scar is already difficult to look at without triggering more flashbacks. Touching it is too much for me to deal with right now. Once my body healed from the surgery, I left it alone and now I ignore it as much as possible.

---