Page 135 of Tangled Like Us
I take a measured breath. “So you may have noticed that I have stretch marks,” I say briskly, trying to spit this out. “And I’ve never felt the need to explain them to any of my past friends-with-benefits. They didn’t need to know why I have a freckle on my butt cheek any more than why I have stretch marks on my belly.” I keep going, barely a pause. “But you’re different. I actually care what you think of me.”Because I really, really like him.More than I’ve ever liked anyone before.
I continue quickly, “And before you say anything, I just need to get this out.” I take a deeper breath and straighten my shoulders. “When I was nineteen…” I stop there because suddenly my eyes begin to water. Pressure wells on my chest. The opening to this story is like digging up a painful insecurity I’d long ago buried.
Shitshitshit.
“Jane,” he whispers. “You don’t have to say a fucking word, if you don’t want to. I likeallof you. Every part.” He frowns. “Goddammit.” He curses under his breath and then shakes his head. “I’m really fucking sorry, if I ever gave you the impression that I didn’t.”
“No.” I balk. “You haven’t. Not once. This is just a sudden, old insecurity come to wreak havoc on me. I thought I’d put it to bed. Honest. It’s me.”
He looks deeper into me and thenpastme and his eyes narrow into blazed pinpoints. “If it wasn’t me—” He looks murderous.
I grab at the waistband to his pants. He nears again, his palms on my thighs. “You can’t fight them,” I say into a soft smile. His willingness to slay my enemies and any foe that has ever hurt me is so very attractive.
“I can. Physically, I can.” His muscles are pulled into taut bands. I have no doubt, he could destroy most men.
“I wish you could,” I rephrase. “But they’re long gone, and others are just nameless, faceless humans sitting behind a computer.” I take a breath and continue on, ready to explain. “When I was nineteen, I gained twenty pounds really quickly. Practically overnight it felt like. And out of the blue, these showed up. I lost some of the weight, but the marks are here to stay.”
I touch my belly where the white stretch marks have been for years. Though, they started out puffy and red. My weight has always fluctuated between ten and twenty pounds, and anything I gain goes directly to my hips and belly. I’m not plus-sized or curvy in all the right places. I’m not skinny. I’m not fat. I’m an odd in-between, a size that the media hardly ever shows. In the end, I consider myself chubby.
“When I noticed them forming, I was at Princeton,” I explain to Thatcher. “Alone. My best friend was miles away, and I had barely anyone to talk to. So I went to the internet. Which—was amassiveoversight. Because all I could find were women talking about how they take pride in their mommy stretch marks. They’re badges of honor. And theyare. But the more and more I searched for people to make me feel better aboutmine,all I could find were horrible, demeaning blog posts and comments in forums. They called thempermanent, everlasting reminders of a mistake. Then they continued on explaining how it should be a wake-up call to a lifestyle change.” I shake my head. “Those were the last words I should have read at the time.” All I wanted was for someone to reach out of the computer and give me a hug.
To tell me that I’m beautiful. And that I never made a mistake. That my body is mine. And it’s unique. And it happened to sayyou’re going to get stretch marksthis month. But that’s okay. Because it loves you. You love it.
And really that’s all that matters.
And I did eventually hear all of those things.
When I went home and my mom hugged me and told them to me.
In the bathroom, Thatcher still looks like he could gointoa computer and commit murder. “Please tell me you didn’t take those shitbags’ advice.”
“I almost did,” I say. “I started a diet and forced myself into a gym every day for two weeks. But I was so unhappy. I don’t like working out to lose weight. Now I only exercise when I know it’ll make me happy.”
It’s not every day. Sometimes I go for months without it. I do what feels right. It’s how I’ve learned to love myself despite what other people think.
“I admire that about you,” he says outright. I almost think I hear him wrong, or it was a slip up. That he was just thinking it in his head. But he keeps going. “You do things that make you happy. That’s hard for some people.”
“Is it hard for you?” I wonder.
He stares into me like he’s thinking about something in particular. “Sometimes.”
I’m about to ask for more details, but his hands rise back to my soft hips. “Jane.” He looks at me with a level of seriousness that steals my breath. “I love your stretch marks.”
He says as plainly and definitively as he saidI love your breastsearlier.
I smile.
“I love your lips,” I tell him. “They are quite soft and kissable.”
Light reaches his eyes. “I love your freckles.”
“I love your ears.” They’re prominent when he tucks his hair behind them. They frame his faceverywell.
He leans in closer, our mouths a breath apart. “I love your thighs.” His hands dip down between them. His lips on mine. Our tongues caress in a frenzied, hot kiss.
I only part to breath out, “I love your throat.”
He’s a heartbeat away from a laugh.
