Page 35 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

I feel as if the walls are closing in on me. Onus. Especially when he’s looking at me like––I peek over at him again––that.

We’re close. Too close.

And I’m too naked. Too vulnerable right now.

And he’s too familiar.

Like a warm, comfortable blanket I want to wrap myself in. Especially after the morning I’ve had.

Maybe I don’t need a shower. Maybe I need a distraction.

But Milo can’t be it.

Penny’s wails soften to whimpers, and she snuggles closer to him, desperate for his comfort and warmth––like I am––until the only sound encompassing the small room is the water cascading down the drain behind me. Still, neither of us move. I’m not sure if either of uscan.

“You sure you’re okay?” His warm gaze slides down my naked body again, first in concern before transforming into something with more heat. More appreciation.

Slowly, I twist my torso away from him, giving him a better view of my back than my front as I search for an ounce of modesty and self-preservation when my attention catches on my reflection in the mirror. My entire body floods with shame.

Man, I’m pathetic.

And apparently, delusional too.

I’m not the same girl he knew intimately. My body’s changed. It’s softer. Curvier. With stretch marks etched into my lower stomach and heavy breasts far from perky after carrying milk to feed a baby. I’m not like the lithe, twenty-two-year-old he brought home a couple of nights ago.

Nope.

Not even close.

And it makes this so much worse.

Because I know this is normal. When a woman has a baby, it’s a blow to her self-esteem and self-image. But she usually has a significant other to make her feel beautiful. Wanted. Yet here I am, under the microscope that is Milo Anders, feeling less comfortable in my own skin than I’ve ever felt.

“Privacy, Milo,” I spit, snapping him out of his daze. “Ever heard of it?”

He clears his throat and drops his chin to his chest. “I’ll, uh, I’ll watch Penny until you’re done.”

“It’s fine. I was finishing up.” I turn off the water and yank the towel off the hook hanging on the wall with way more force than necessary. He snags the other end and tugs it from my grasp.

“Give me the towel,” I order, my chest heaving.

“You still have white shit in your hair.”

“I’ll rinse it in the sink after she’s eaten.”

“You’re allowed to take a shower. You can feed her once you’ve finished.”

“She’s hungry,” I argue.

He drops his gaze to the quiet, wide-eyed bundle in his arms to prove his point. “She looks fine to me. Take your time.”

“I’ve been in here long enough.”

“Bullshit. You look exhausted. Take a break.” He hangs the towel back on the hook, turns on his heel, and reaches for the bathroom door to close it behind him.

“Milo, I’m fine––”

The door shuts, cutting off my rebuttal as I stand naked in the bathroom, staring at the piece of white wood separating me from the outside world. From my baby. My problems. And my ex, who’s more thoughtful than I give him credit for, even when he’s being a controlling jerk.

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