Chapter 1
Ellie
Ifinish up my shower and wrap my hair in a towel. I have big unruly hair, the kind with a mind of its own, and it needs a firm hand. I glance at the mirror and give myself a cheeky wink and a thumbs-up. A bit of positive affirmation to start the day never hurts, does it?
Besides, I’m feeling good. I was up early, managed a workout, and now I’m showered and ready to go.
I have a packed schedule at work to look forward to, doing the job I love with people I like.
And, as an extra bonus, my boyfriend Owen is in my kitchen.
Even better, my boyfriend Owen seems to have cooked us breakfast—at least that’s what the delicious aroma of bacon, eggs, and freshly toasted bread tells me.
The scent alone is enough to have my stomach growling, and I walk into the kitchen full of anticipation.
“Mhmm, that smells delicious.” I lick my lips, scanning the kitchen for my plate.
He looks sheepish, then covers it up with a shrug. “I didn’t make you any. I didn’t think you’d have time.”
Wouldn’t have time to eat? I always have time to eat, it’s a basic human function.
One that I enjoy very much. Plus, I don’t have to leave for work for twenty minutes, which I’m pretty sure he knows.
Is he just used to only having to take care of himself in the morning?
Or does he think it’s acceptable to spend the night in my apartment, and eat my food in my kitchen, without even having the courtesy to ask if I wanted any?
It would have been nice if he cooked me breakfast too, but I swallow down the disappointment and remind myself this is the fifth time he’s stayed over. We’ve only been dating for two months. This is all still very new, and we’re both still adjusting.
He just doesn’t know you yet, Ellie. Give it time. Don’t expect too much too soon. He’s a real-life human being, not a guy out of a book.
I plaster on a smile and tell him, “That’s okay. I’ll grab a granola bar and some fruit.”
He swallows down a mouthful of bacon. My bacon, which looks deliciously salty and cooked to perfection. “Those bars are full of sugar, you know? Why not just have some fruit?”
Because fruit alone is not a meal. Because I wanted bacon and eggs too.
“Yeah, I know they’re not the healthiest, but I just did a workout.
I need some fuel.” I laugh awkwardly, for some reason feeling the need to defend my sugary breakfast choice.
Why? I’m a grown-ass woman, and I can make my own decisions.
I’m not lecturing him on the way that bacon is going to clog up his arteries, am I?
Calm down, I tell myself. I’m sure Owen’s just looking out for me. It’s good that he cares about my health.
Unfortunately, he then lets out a sarcastic snort that has my hackles rising.
“What?” I ask.
He rolls his eyes. “Pilates isn’t exactly a workout, Ellie.”
Tell that to my aching butt cheeks and my Jell-O legs, you patronizing asshole. Hmmm. Maybe he is a character from a book—one of the bad guys. And the only kind of guy I seem to be attracting lately.
“It’s reformer Pilates, Owen. It’s tough.
Have you ever actually even tried it?” I ask, knowing he won’t have.
If it doesn’t involve lifting the kind of weights that make your eyes almost bulge out of your head, Owen isn’t interested.
He has the physique to show for it, yes, but does that give him the right to dismiss everything and everyone else? Talk about entitled.
He gives me a look that says he isn’t convinced, and I don’t have the energy to try and persuade him. I still have to tame my hair before leaving for the office. He goes back to his food while I pour myself a coffee—the same coffee I have every single morning.
The coffee that he now feels the need to comment on.
“Do you really need cream and sugar, Ellie?”
His annoying voice pipes up again, and this time, his words set every single nerve ending in my body on edge.
My hackles aren’t just rising, they’re going into orbit.
Giving someone the benefit of the doubt is one thing—but rolling over and taking this kind of thing is not my style.
Goddess give me strength, here we go again…
That wasn’t a flippant comment, and neither was the one about the granola bars. Or the Pilates. Experience tells me they were calculated and premeditated. That he’s undermining me. Seems like the fifth sleepover was the charm, and he’s starting to show his true colors.
Except, that’s not entirely true. To be fair…there were screaming red flags before today, but I ignored them all.
I ignored it every time he rolled his eyes at my choice of food in a restaurant, or put me off when I suggested dessert, claiming he couldn’t wait to get me home for a workout. I told myself he was just concerned. That his super-fit gym rat lifestyle made him hyper-aware of healthy food choices.
Except, here he is—scarfing down bacon, eggs, and toast dripping with butter. Looks like he’s only a fan of healthy food choices where other people are concerned.
“What’s wrong with sugar and cream? I only have three coffees a day at most,” I ask, curious as to how he’ll play this.
He shrugs. “It all adds up though, and it wouldn’t hurt to—”
“Stop!” I hold up my hand, feeling like I’m in a sitcom and I’m pausing the action to have a moment with the audience.
Because I knew this was coming. It usually does.
Not with all guys, but with enough of them, at least lately.
“Let me guess, you’re about to tell me that I could lose a little weight.
It will make me prettier, right? Hotter? ”
He scowls. “It’s not like you don’t already know you carry some extra pounds, El. It was just a fucking suggestion.”
“No, it wasn’t just a suggestion, Owen, it was more than that.”
“Yeah? What was it then? Enlighten me.”
I stand before him with my hands on my hips.
My lush, curvaceous hips that I refuse to be ashamed of.
The ones he certainly never seemed to object to during our now-I-come-to-think-of-it pretty mediocre sex.
That was another red flag I guess I ignored.
The fact that he never seemed to give a damn whether I came or not.
“Okay, Owen, I will. Telling me I need to lose a few pounds is a judgment. It’s a judgment men in particular feel entitled to make about women’s bodies, if their bodies don’t meet society’s impossible, not to mention ever-changing, beauty standards.
We’re all supposed to be, what, cartoon figures with huge tits, bubble asses, and tiny waists?
With zero body fat apart from curves exactly where you want them?
We’re all supposed to try and fit these unrealistic ideals, despite the fact that Mother Nature, in all her blessed wisdom, had different ideas when she put us together? ”
He looks confused. All that time exercising his body and none stretching his mind.
“It’s also a judgment that makes you an asshole. I had the crazy idea that you liked me for me. Not me if I lost ten pounds. I thought you were dating me, not my potential.”
“Ten pounds, Ellie?” He arches an eyebrow. “Come on now.”
Really? That’s his only response? I take a deep breath, remind myself he’s not worth the assault charges, and snatch his plate right from under him. “Get out.”
He holds his fork suspended mid-air, loaded with egg and bacon, while he blinks at me like a startled rabbit. But a lot less cute. “Are you fucking serious right now?”
I drop his plate into the sink next to me. Easy enough to do in my tiny kitchen. “Deadly. Get out of my apartment.”
He shoots me a murderous look, letting his silverware clatter to the table while the food bounces to the floor. “You’re throwing me out?” he scoffs, probably incredulous that a chubby girl might be dumping him. I’ve encountered this before—men thinking that I’d be grateful to have them in my life.
Wrong. I might be looking for love, but not at the expense of loving myself.
“Yes, I am, Owen.”
He shoves back his chair so hard it topples to the floor. He’s furious now, looming over me with all his gym-obsessed muscles. Am I scared of him? No. I’ve faced far worse in my life than this jumped-up bully. Faced it, and survived it.
“You’re ending this just because I suggested you might want to lose a little fucking weight?”
“No, I’m ending this because you are a misogynistic douche-canoe who thinks that the fact we’ve had sex a few times entitles him to any say over my body.”
I glare up at him, the towel on my head coming loose, my hair spilling down my back in a damp curly mass. “Now, let me make this clear, in one syllable words so you understand. Get. The. Hell. Out.”
He grabs his coat from the hook on the door. “Gladly, you fat fucking bitch.”
I push down the hurt that bubbles up in me and don’t say anything at all.
He doesn’t deserve to see my pain, to know that comment stings.
I am usually the kind of person who wears her heart on her sleeve.
But when I feel threatened? Then I slip on my facade, like a familiar old coat.
One I hate wearing, but I sometimes need to survive.
Inside, my heart is breaking. Not because of Owen per se, but because of what he represents.
He’s the latest in what’s becoming a long line of tools I’ve dated since I’ve been in New York.
The latest in the jerk parade that is my so-called love life.
Aren’t there any nice, normal guys out there who just like a girl for who she is, not who they think she could be?
I’ve worked hard on loving myself, and I’m not going to let some asshole undo that.
Owen storms out of my apartment, grumbling to himself and cursing me under his breath. I close the door after him, leaning back against it and letting the adrenaline run through me. I don’t shy away from conflict, but neither do I enjoy it.
As soon as I’ve recovered enough to move, I clean up the food from the floor. Once that’s done, I let myself take a minute, one solitary minute, to feel sad about what just happened. I won’t waste more than that on him.
I fill that minute with quiet reflection and some deep breaths, allowing the hurt and regret to have their way with me. And then, I pull myself together. I take all my female power and put it on like a shield.
If Owen doesn’t like me for who I am, then that’s his loss.
I am not perfect, but I know my worth. I have my demons, and they’re darker than most, but I slayed them all.
I’m a nice, kind, decent person. I’m a hard worker, I’m loyal, and I’m a great friend.
I also give spectacular head. I am fine just as I am, and suggesting I need to lose weight says more about him than it does about me.
More importantly, I have a huge meeting this morning with our firm’s biggest client, and my boss has asked me to lead on their social media strategy.
I don’t have time to worry about Owen and my less-than stellar-dating record.
I have the job of my dreams, some great friends, a loving family—even if they are all back in Chicago—and a solid pelvic floor, thanks to all the Pilates. And that’s all a girl really needs.
That’s all this girl needs, at least.