Page 8 of Give My Everything
Well, if I want to make jokes, I guess I could say Idohave someone to move on to.
This little parasite that’s growing inside of me.
I wince.
I’ve thought it a few times and always mean it facetiously—kind of—but it still sounds horrible.
Shaking my head, I head into my massive walk-in to hang up the Armani. Then on a whim, I take my favorite black Gucci dress off the hanger and slip it on, posing for myself in the full-length framed mirror that sits at an angle in the corner.
The stretchy fabric fits me like a glove, the hem fitting tightly around my upper thighs. The neck is high and the sleeves are three-quarter length, but the back dips low, low, low, showing off the tattoo that runs down the entire length of my spine.
Probably the most painful thing I’ve ever done, though I’ve heard childbirth will far surpass that.
My favorite part of this dress is the fact that the fabric shimmers. It looks black, but when it catches the light, the underlayer almost glows, undulates. It’s so sexy.
And now, looking at myself in the mirror in my favorite dress, I turn to the side and look at my body’s profile, at the tiny pooch of a stomach that’sjustbeginning to show.
If I focus on sucking in, I can probably hide it for a few more weeks, but I know the inevitable is nearing.
I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to fit into my clothes, don’t know how long until my body will announce the secret I’ve been keeping inside of me.
I’m not ready for all the changes coming my way.
Sure, there’s the clothing and the body aches and pains I’m learning about as I slowly read through the baby book Lucas gave me.
But I’m also not ready for all the information, for the opinions—about the baby, about my body, about the pregnancy. I’m not ready for anything at all, really.
I’m just…not ready.
“I’ve always loved that dress on you,mija.”
I spin at my mother’s voice, finding her at the edge of my closet, watching me as I watch myself.
I flush, worrying she saw me with my hands on my lower belly and wondering if she may have figured it out.
That’s the thing about holding on to a secret—it doesn’t feel like a secret. It feels like a stamp on your forehead that screams the worst part for the world to see.Slut. Trash. Bitch.
“You have the body I always wanted when I was younger,” she continues, and I let out a quiet sigh of relief. “Long and curvy, like Sofia.”
I huff out a laugh and roll my eyes. My mom likes to reference the Colombian celebrity as if they know each other.
She waves a hand at me. “Oh, you know what I mean, Remington. Don’t give me that face. I’m talking about realbodies. People aren’t skin and bone like the majority of models in the magazines,” she says, her voice pitching at the word ‘models’ like she would discuss a dog’s ‘wedding’—like the word itself is a complete joke.
“You know ‘models’ are real people too, right?” I reply, stepping past her to get out of my closet, returning to my bedroom.
“All I’m saying is that you’ve got the length and the curves men love,” she says on a smile. “You know the Colombian genetics give us a split chance at being the hostess or the help. Thankfully, you’re the former.”
I roll my eyes again.
My mother, born and raised in Medellín, has this idea that all Colombian women fall into one of two categories. If you’re lucky, you get the long legs and the big rack and the throaty voice. Those are the women the strong, sexy Colombian men want to marry, the alpha males who keep your genetics robust and your family lineage on the right path.
Everyone else is ‘the help’: shorter stature, rounder features, and apparently significantly less likely to find a strong male to procreate with.
She believes she was born into the latter category, but she was lucky enough to find a man to marry her who saw past it, a young American representing his father’s business in Medellín for two months. She always tells me she ‘snatched him up’ before he realized she was ‘the help’.
It makes me sad, hearing her talk about it—as if she had to manipulate my dad into wanting her.
But I also know part of what she’s saying is true.
