Chapter 23
23
LAYLA
A rcher’s sudden words are like a bucket of ice-cold water to the face.
My arms fling back quickly, removing themselves from where they’ve been wrapped around his shoulders like a love-starved puppy.
I can’t.
I’m so stunned by his rejection that my face is burning. In the worst of ways. In ways that even a bucket of ice water cannot subdue.
“O-o-o…okay,” I whisper, my eyes stinging. I’m already squirming out of his arms. Putting distance between me and Archer’s warm embrace, one slow step at a time. Any trace of arousal I was feeling earlier is gone now.
“That’s not…I…” he stammers. And I realize he’s probably just afraid to hurt my feelings. As usual. “I mean, I didn’t…I just…I’m sorry, Layla.”
I shake my head, not interested in hearing all his made-up niceties. All the excuses. All the ways that this man will try to let me down gently.
“It’s okay, Archer. Really.”
I don’t want to listen to him trying to shield me from the harsh reality.
Because on the inside, I already know the truth. Razor’s words rear their stupid heads. I hear my ex’s voice, yelling at me, reminding me that I’m ruined. That I’m used up. That I peaked a long, long time ago. That nobody will ever truly want me.
He was right.
Y’see? This is exactly why I didn’t want to put myself out there. This is why I hesitated even when it felt like Archer was giving signs that he might be interested in me. I should have never let my walls down.
“I’m sorry,” he says again.
I open my mouth to speak, pushing past the mountain-sized rock in my throat. “Good night, Archer.”
Then I flee down the hall to the bedroom I share with Sky. My baby is sound asleep, sprawled across the bed, his legs no longer covered by the blankets.
Eyes about to burst with unshed tears, I carefully pull the blanket back up over my son and press a kiss to his temple.
I start to quietly change for bed. Moonlight shines into the room, faintly illuminating the full-length mirror in the corner. I drop the stupid dress to the stupid floor, staring at myself in the dimly-lit space.
I see a body that I don’t recognize. A body that’s tired, overworked. One that doesn’t know the meaning of self-care.
I see the extra weight that I carry in my belly. I see hips that used to not be so wide. Oh, who am I kidding? I can hardly even see my hipbones at all anymore.
I see stretch marks that line my stomach. My fingertips graze over the raised, pursed skin. Additional stretch marks that zig and zag across my love handles. Marks that Archer was touching just moments ago.
My mood crashes even lower, embarrassed that his perfect hands could probably feel my imperfections as they coasted over my body.
I’m broken.
I’m used up.
I’m unwanted.
A pretty new dress isn’t ever going to change that.
I slide down to the floor, breaking down into a silent cry because the only thing that could make me feel worse right now is waking up my sweet, innocent son.
When my tears start losing steam, I wipe at my eyes and my runny nose. I stare straight into the mirror, squaring my shoulders and repeating some of the affirmations Ziggy texted to me a few weeks back.
I am beautiful.
I am lovable.
I am enough.
But it’s pointless. It doesn’t help. No matter how many times I say nice things about myself, the words just sound empty. Meaningless.
I throw on an oversized T-shirt and crawl into bed, still feeling like garbage.
This hurts.