Page 40 of An Inevitable Marriage
Hell, books had been my comfort even when he’d been there.
Until they weren’t.
“Why don’t you try reading a real book instead of the trash you’re holding?”
“Those books set unrealistic standards for women like you, Evie. You’re better off reading something else.”
“Fiction isn’t real, so don’t bother with it.”
“Don’t you have other things to do?”
“I don’t understand why you keep all these books.”
“It’s just a book; get over it.”
His stupid jabs had finally got to me, and I’d stopped reading in front of him. I should have listened to the little voice inside my head then. The one warning me if he couldn’t even have been bothered to show the slightest interest in something that meant so much to me, it was time to reevaluate where we stood.
Of course, I ignored it because I was all too happy to finally be with someone.
I caught sight of my reflection in the standing mirror. Without my permission, my feet carried me to the corner of the room, where I came face-to-face with myself.
I scrutinized every curve, every soft line, every inch of me that didn’t match what the magazines and advertisements portrayed as beautiful. The tears welled in my eyes as I thought about the times I’d been ridiculed, the cruel jokes, and the sidelong glances that made me feel like an outsider.
I craved acceptance and yearned for the strength to rise above it all. I wanted to love the body I’d been given, but it felt like an impossible task. The vulnerability was suffocating, like a never-ending battle to fit in, to be seen as more than just the shape of my body.
A tear finally fell, then another and another.
Why couldn’t I love the girl in the mirror?
I stared and stared and freaking stared at my reflection while my thoughts voiced the things I was too afraid to say out loud.
My thighs were too thick, my skin not smooth enough. My fingers instinctively went to the hem of the sleepshirt I’d changed into when I’d got here. I tugged and tugged, but it was futile.
There was no hiding.
More emotion clogged the back of my throat, and I forced it down. But my brain wasn’t done. Slowly lifting my gaze, I settled on my midsection. I didn’t have to lift my shirt to know I was soft, round, and not flat and defined.
Sure, my waist cinched at the sides, giving me the hourglass look, but all I saw was excess.
So much excess.
More tears fell while my attention moved higher.
I stared at my DD breasts.
It didn’t take long for Anthony’s voice to ring in my ears.
“More than a handful is a waste.”
I still remembered the first time I’d heard him say it, and how I’d told him later that night it hurt my feelings because, clearly, I was way more than a handful. He’d just laughed and assured me he loved my breasts.
I finally saw it for the filthy lie it was.
Because Anthony had never given them any attention. Hell, foreplay wasn’t his thing at all. He just liked to climb on top of me, do the deed, then roll out of bed.
I welcomed my tears. If I cried enough, I could purge these memories and finally give myself permission to see something different in the mirror.
Until then, I’d just avoid the damn thing completely.
