Page 50 of Loved Out Loud

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“Until when?” I have a pretty good idea, but I want to hear it confirmed by her lips.

“The past couple months.”

“So, since your book came out?”

She nods slowly, as if afraid to admit it out loud because she knows. She fucking knows. He’s just a jealous fuck who can’t sell one of his own books to save his soul, so he’s trashing her to make himself feel better.

“You deserve so much better than this. These words aren’t the words of a mentor. They’re those of a bully. Someone who doesn’t want you to succeed.”

More tears run down her cheeks.

“You know that, right? He’s jealous.”

Even though she shakes her head, her eyes tell me everything I need to know. I close her laptop and set it aside as she fights back more tears.

“It’s okay to cry. Scoot over.”

“What are you doing?” Her reddened eyes watch me curiously as I lay down beside her on the chaise. “We’re not both going to fit on here.”

I shush her. “Yes, we will.”

She stiffens when I slide my arm under her back and pull her over my side. For a moment she holds her breath, her body tense until I begin running my palm up and down her spine.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m comforting you.”

“Why?” She draws the word out as if she really doesn’t understand why I’m doing this.

“Because I care and I think your mentor is a dickhead.” My thoughts are actually much worse, but I’m trying to comfort her, not trigger her. “Plus I like touching you.”

She snorts in disbelief.

“What? I do. An entire style of art was created just to celebrate women with bodies like yours.”

Her muscles loosen a tiny bit as she begins to relax against me. “Thank you. That’s not the reason I don’t like taking off my shirt, though. Just in case you were wondering. I know I’m not conventionally attractive from a body size perspective, but I’m not insecure about it.”

“May I ask what it is you are insecure about then?”

“I have scars I don’t like people to see.”

I’ve seen her wearing long sleeves made of lace and mesh, but I never noticed anything. I pull her closer and wrap my arms tighter around her. She returns the embrace, holding onto my waist as her head rests over my heart.

“From?” I ask gently. “If you feel comfortable answering.”

She takes a shuddering breath and pulls her left arm from under me. My heart clinches as she pulls up the sleeve revealing a scar running from her wrist a couple inches up to her elbow. My chest seizes at the sight, a profound sadness washing over me.

“The first attempt was about six months after my dad left us. Turns out he had a whole other family in Chicago, including twoyoung kids. I found out and told my mom. She immediately filed for divorce.”

“As she fucking should.”

“Yeah, I see that now. But the last thing he ever said to me was that it was my fault for telling Mom. That I was the reason I would no longer have a father.” She takes a deep breath. “Which I know now, as an adult with a fully formed frontal lobe, that is complete bullshit. But as a kid I had no idea. I saw my mother in pain. I watched as she struggled to pay the bills, and eventually we ended up moving in with my grandparents.”

“I’m so sorry.” I nudge her head, so she’ll look me in the eye for what I say next. “I’m so glad you’re here.” I bring her wrist to my lips, pressing a soft kiss on her scar. “You don’t have to hide yourself from me.”

She nods and ducks her head, settling back on my chest. Her breaths are still unsteady, but she’s fully relaxed into my hold.

“How did Blue Sunday form? I know you and Xander were friends first, right? How did you progress from friendship to bandmates?”