Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 99039 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99039 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
“Why is that?”
It takes a moment to formulate a response. “Our values don’t necessarily align, and she’s always been critical.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I bet it was tough to deal with growing up. Do you mind me asking what she’s so judgy about? You seem pretty damn perfect to me.”
The compliment has my belly doing a little flip.
It feels a little surreal to talk about this with someone I don’t actually know in real life. But that’s the strange thing…because it does feel like I know him. Maybe I couldn’t pick him out of a lineup, but I feel like we have a connection. Sadly, it’s more than I’ve found with the other guys I’ve dated.
When I don’t immediately respond, his voice softens. “Hey, you know what? Forget I asked. We don’t know each other that well, and the question was probably way too personal.”
I release a pent-up breath and realize that I want to be honest and share private experiences with him that I normally wouldn’t with people I have nothing more than a superficial relationship with. Sasha is aware of the issues with my mom, but she’s one of the few. In the beginning with Andrew, I tried to open up, but he didn’t have any interest in jackhammering below the surface. When we were together, he wanted to have sex. The few times I mentioned my mom, he told me that she was great, and I didn’t have anything to bitch about. So, I didn’t bring it up again.
“No, it’s all right. I want to tell you. My mother’s name is Elaine. She’s more into materialistic things and enjoys all the perks that go along with being married to a wealthy man with social standing. It’s the life she always wanted for herself, and it’s something my dad couldn’t give her, which is why they divorced when I was a kid. Honestly, I think they’re both much happier with the partners they’re now married to.”
“Okay,” he says softly, “but that doesn’t explain why your relationship with her is difficult.”
No, it doesn’t.
His comment makes me realize just how intently he’s paying attention to the conversation, and warmth blooms in my chest.
“She’s always been super critical of my appearance.” I pause before forcing myself to admit the truth and bare wounds that run deep. “And my weight.” Heat suffuses my cheeks as shame tries to take hold. It’s always been a sensitive topic for me, and it’s doubtful that will ever change. No matter how much counseling I have.
“Your weight?” Confusion weaves its way through his voice.
“Yeah.” I suck in a deep breath before releasing it. “While I was growing up, she was hyper focused on my weight. She always made a point of commenting on the kind of foods I was eating or if I was having too much or not fitting into my clothes properly. I became obsessed with how many calories I was consuming and working out to burn it off. It was really unhealthy, and I try not to get sucked back into those old thought patterns.”
A long silence stretches between us as my heartbeat picks up tempo. My teeth scrape against my lower lip, and I wonder if I’ve inadvertently revealed too much of myself. This isn’t an issue I ever considered sharing with Andrew. In fact, when he saw photographs of me in high school, he commented on how amazing I looked and then squeezed my side as if to silently show me that he could see the difference. I can only wince at the memory.
“Fuck. That’s really messed up. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”
I force out a laugh to cover my embarrassment for the overshare. “Why would you? We barely know each other.”
He clears his throat. “Right. For what it’s worth, I think you’re perfect. No one should ever make you feel like you’re not enough. No matter what size you are.”
The pit at the bottom of my gut gradually dissolves. “I spent most of high school on a low-calorie diet and then tried to burn off everything I’d consumed. There were times when I would stuff myself with food. All the sugary sweets my mother frowned upon and banned from the kitchen. I’d feel so guilty afterward that I’d force myself to throw it up. For a long time, that cycle seemed unbreakable. Like I would be trapped in it for the rest of my life. Each time I gave in, I’d feel such shame for losing control and being weak. I’d tell myself that it wouldn’t happen again. But it did. For a while, I’d be able to control the urges and I’d feel invincible. Strong. Even though my body was weak. And then I’d break down, binge, and feel like shit. Worthless. I spent so much energy trying to live up to her unrealistic expectations. I wanted to be the perfect daughter, but it was never enough.”