Page 60 of All Her Broken Pieces

Her back is to me, and I scoot in close to her, careful about how I drape my arm over her torso. The room is silent, save for her small, even breaths. A warmth fills my chest when her body heat envelops me as I mold myself around her.

A small moan escapes her, and I kiss her shoulder in response. “It hurts.”

Shit, maybe our activity earlier was a bit too much for her. “What hurts?”

“My lower abdomen. I think I was a little over-eager earlier. Can you check to see if I’m bleeding?” I reach the nightstand and turn on a lamp as she rolls over onto her back, lifting her shirt. Peeling back the gauze that covers her incisions, I smooth my fingers around them, careful not to touch the small gashes in her skin. She makes a small moan at my movements, and I still my fingers, afraid I’ve exacerbated her pain.

“Everything looks good,” I assure her as I carefully reapply the coverings over her incisions.

“Is it almost time for my pain medication?”

“You’ve got another couple of hours before you can take an ibuprofen, but you can take a Percocet. I know you’ve been avoiding using them, but maybe half of one will take the edge off so you can get some rest?”

“That’s fine, I just need it to stop,” she moans as she drags her hands down her face.

I hand her half a Percocet and the water, and she gingerly takes them both. “I’ll check on you in a couple of hours. If that doesn’t help, we can do more ibuprofen then,” I promise as I set the cup on the nightstand and stand.

Her hand reaches out, holding me in place. “Don’t go.” Her plea is barely audible, as if she’s insecure about voicing it. Half-kneeling on the bed, my other foot on the floor, I freeze. I had every intention of sleeping in her bed tonight, but I thought I’d watch TV for a little bit, giving her some space while her meds kick in.

“What do you need, sweetheart?” I ask, peeling back the covers and crawling in next to her.

“This is going to sound weird?—”

“I promise you, it’s not.”

She blows out a breath. “It felt so good the way your fingers were tracing around my incisions. Can you tickle my stomach like that?”

That was a moan of pleasure earlier, not pain. I grin to myself, deciding to tease her a little. “Are you asking me to scratch your tummy, hellcat? Last time I tried that, the cat hissed at me, and I got scratched.”

Even though the room is dark, I can feel her rolling her eyes.

Chuckling, I reach for her shirt. “I’m just teasing. I’ve got you.” My hand lightly grazes the skin around her bandages as she relaxes into the mattress. “Becka stopped by a little bit ago, I’m surprised she didn’t wake you with the way she was pounding on the door.”

“I was afraid that would happen. I’m sorry. How did she take the news?”

“Surprisingly well, but she wants you to call her.”

There’s no response, and when I look over, she’s fast asleep.

CHAPTER19

Bridget

It’s unnervinghow quickly Ethan’s made himself comfortable in my apartment and in my daily life. Twice in the last week, he ended up sleeping in my bed, and each time I took more solace in his presence than I’m comfortable doing.

He’s the only man I’ve ever let spend the night. Most of my one-night stands leave right after. A handful have stayed long enough for round two but still leave after the fun is over. Ethan is the only man I’ve ever fucked that I’ve also slept with, and that realization is terrifying. And he’s spent more nights since then snuggled up next to me. And I like it. Fuck.

It’s getting harder to concentrate on my recovery when I keep getting texts and emails from work colleagues asking for important financial information ahead of the merger. My anxiety is through the roof. I girl-bossed too hard, and now I’m saddled with responsibilities only I can handle. And while I have the job I’ve always wanted, it wasn’t until recently, when life hit me hard, that I realized how much I’ve truly sacrificed of myself to get where I am in my career.

The constant pressure to do everything looms over me like a storm cloud, threatening to unleash its fury at any minute. For Christ’s sake, I’m on medical leave, and somehow, I’m still the only one who can handle certain responsibilities for this merger. God forbid anything happened to me. How could this company function?

I need to recover from surgery, from a procedure I had done because part of my body couldn’t keep up anymore, which makes me feel like less of a woman, in a way.

I have to balance it all at work, but unlike my male counterparts, I worry about how I look doing it. It’s not like I can just throw on a suit and do my job. No, if I wear an outfit that’s too tight, then I’m accused of using my body to get ahead or called any slew of derogatory names. If I wear an outfit that’s too loose, I’m a slob who doesn’t care about her appearance. Not once in my career have I ever heard a man be criticized for his attire in the same manner, but I can’t go a single day without hearing at least one comment being made about a woman’s body from one of the men in my office.

I have to be assertive to get what I want, but not too much. I can’t call out any double standards or bad behavior without being labeled a bitch or difficult. If I speak up, I’m too bossy, but if I don’t speak up then I’m walked all over. Putting up with the good ole boy club is a constant struggle, as is dealing with its stepchild, bro culture. The kind of misogynistic bullshit these men spew daily makes my eye twitch and my gut boil every single fucking time I hear it. But I plaster on a smile and roll with the punches so I can be likable and “one of the guys.” Inside, my inner feminist is screaming that I’m a fraud, that I should speak up and defend the sisterhood. Though, what good would that do? I wouldn’t have the career I want, the life I’ve worked so hard to achieve. And now that I can feel the top of the glass ceiling caress the crown of my head, the small bit of hope left in me prays that it wasn’t in vain and that I’m paving the way for those behind me, so they don’t have to endure what I did to get here.

I’ve tolerated a lot to get where I am, and the worry that it could be stripped away in four to six weeks because one of my female reproductive organs stopped working reminds me that nothing I do as a woman will ever be enough. So I double down, desperate to prove myself. To prove my worth. To show others that I matter. To use my independence as a strength—despite the weakness it seems to have become lately. It’s something I’ve been doing my entire life, but the thought that I’ll have to continue at this pace fills me with dread, as though I’m a hamster on a never-ending wheel making no progress at all toward my own happiness and freedom.

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