Page 41 of Beautifully Messy
One of the books we picked for each other, and my heart skips a beat.
I stare at him for half a second before I blurt out, “I’m actually heading to the gym.”
And force my feet to move as my pulse hammers in my throat. Still tasting the heat of him, feeling that reckless second where I thought he might kiss me. Knowing how badly I wanted it.
One more second.
That’s all it would have taken to blow up my life and turn this careful dance of glances and loaded conversations into something that would shatter everything. My marriage. Anna’s world. The thought terrifies me as much as how badly I wanted it to happen.
Running has always been my escape, the way I outrun what I don’t want to feel. But pregnancy changed my body, and now, running has to be paired with weightlifting. So I have to hope that throwing some heavy weights around can absorb this crushing ache.
Each squat, I push against the confines of my life. Each lunge fights against the pull threatening to disrupt everything, pushups to maintain my control.
I catch my reflection in the gym’s mirrored wall and force myself to look. See beyond the things I’ve been conditioned to critique. My body might be rounder, but it carried Anna safely into the world. My stomach is softer, my hips wider, myskin marked by change. But my arms are stronger from holding her close through sleepless nights. My legs are steady from hours of bouncing her to sleep.
Different. Not broken.
Every inch of this new skin is a testament to motherhood. To love. To sacrifice.
From the corner of my eye, I see Mason watching me through the mirror. He steps off the treadmill, sweat gleaming on his skin. He moves with the ease of someone who’s never questioned his own worth.
He steps behind me, aligning our reflections as his hand settles on my stomach. The touch is light, absent-minded. I almost believe it’s reverent.
Leaning close, his breath warm against my ear, he says, “Don’t worry, babe, you’ll lose this pouch in no time.”
I freeze. Muscles coiled. My breath catches. I meet his eyes in the mirror, searching for awareness. But his expression is earnest, as though he handed me a gift.
“What?”
Mason frowns. “I meant…you’ll be back in shape before you know it. Keep putting in the work.”
My hand instinctively tugs at the hem of my tank. With a cold stare, I say, “Thanks for the encouragement, honey. I think I’m done for today.”
“Hey, come on,” he calls out as the door slams in my wake.
I escape to a scalding hot shower.
This isn’t even surprising. His blind spots aren’t new. They’re old bruises. Familiar ones. He’s never had to think twice about his body. Never wondered if he’s too much, or not enough. A man with money, access, endless praise. His confidence came prepackaged. He has no concept of what it means to internalize every unspoken judgment until it shapes you.
The bathroom door opens.
“Syd, look… I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t think you’d take it that sensitively.”
Of course, he didn’t. And I know exactly what he’s saying:I’mthe problem. My reaction is the issue, not his words. For years, I’ve swallowed these casualcruelties, smoothed them over, made everything easier for him. But I’m done making myself small to keep him comfortable.
“I’m not being sensitive, and I’m not worried about getting my body back. Every new curve, every mark—I wear them with fucking honor. They’re not something I want erased.”
Mason stares as if this conversation has veered wildly off-script. “I didn’t mean… I know running matters to you. That’s why we bought the treadmill.”
“Fuck the treadmill.” My heart pounds as if I’ve sprinted up a mountain. “Running has never been about calories or looking a certain way. It’s about freedom. Pushing myself. Feeling strong. How do you not know that?”
Silence stretches as we both take in everything left hanging in that question.
Anna whimpers. Crackling through the baby monitor, breaking our stares. When she latches on, the tug at my nipple is sharp, a reminder that this, here, is where I’m needed—in the role where I can’t afford ambiguity, and the nudge I need to soften and lower my expectations, once again.
Mason stands in the doorway, shifting on his feet.
“Are you not attracted to me anymore?” I ask.
