15. #3
I drag my hands slowly down my waist and over my hips, feeling for something that wasn't there before. I don't even know what I'm searching for — proof of change, maybe. Proof that the inch Taylor measured actually exists in a way I can see or hold.
But standing here under the water, another explanation slips in before I can stop it.
Maybe Grant noticed.
Maybe he sees the same thing Rodney does.
I look down again, running my hands slowly along my hips.
Maybe the inch is more obvious than I thought.
Maybe every time he stops it's because something about me suddenly registers differently.
Maybe every time he pulls back it's because the moment reminds him he could do better.
The thought sits heavy in my stomach.
I exhale slowly and lean my forehead against the cool tile.
Maybe Rodney is right.
Maybe every man notices the same things.
Maybe every man thinks the same way.
My mind jumps to the missed workout class this morning.
And the two last week.
I should've gone.
I could still go now.
The thought latches onto something restless inside me.
Maybe after this I'll go for a run.
Just something quick.
Just to feel like I'm fixing it before anyone else notices.
The water continues running over my shoulders while my thoughts spiral.
Grant's voice comes back to me without warning.
Tell me what you want.
The words cut clean through the rest of it.
Because that doesn't sound like someone who's disgusted.
That sounds like someone waiting.
That's the part that won't leave me alone.
No one has ever waited for me like that.
No one has ever treated my hesitation like something worth respecting instead of something to override.
For so long, sex has felt detached from me — like something happening to my body rather than through it.
I stay lost in my thoughts in the shower longer than necessary, palm flat against the cool tile, heart still thudding hard enough that I can feel it.
The frustration creeps in slowly, not dramatic, just simmering under my skin.
I finish my shower and turn off the water and step out carefully, wrapping the towel around myself. The air in the room feels cooler against my skin, and I suddenly feel too exposed — not physically, but emotionally.
I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the floor for a moment.
There's a tension sitting low in my stomach that doesn't disappear.
Maybe he just doesn't want to.
The thought makes something unpleasant twist in my chest. He's only telling me I have to ask for it because he knows I won't and secretly doesn't want to.
Except that doesn't make sense either.
I've felt him lose control for a second before he pulls himself back together.
I've heard the way his breathing changes when I press closer.
That part isn't a mystery.
What is a mystery is why I need to be the one to say it.
My mind drifts back to the moment earlier.
His hand at my jaw.
His thumb brushing my lip.
Tell me what you want.
I groan softly and press the heels of my hands into my eyes.
Why does he need me to say it?
Isn't it obvious?
If I'm kissing him like that...
If I'm climbing into his lap like that...
If I keep coming back every week...
What more does he need?
I shouldn't call him.
That thought comes first.
Rodney could walk in at any moment. Or not. There's no pattern anymore.
But the urge doesn't fade.
I pick my phone up off the nightstand before I can give myself time to reconsider.
For a moment I just sit there on the edge of the bed, staring at Grant's name on the screen. The room is quiet except for the faint hum of the air vent and the soft dripping sound of water still falling from the faucet.
This is a terrible idea.
If I think about it for even another ten seconds, I know I won't do it.
So I press call.
The phone rings once. Twice.
On the third ring, his voice comes through the speaker.
"Hey."
Just one word, but it's warm in that familiar way of his — low, steady, like he's already leaning back somewhere comfortable.
"Hi," I say.
For a moment neither of us speaks again. It isn't awkward, exactly. Grant has never rushed to fill silence, and somehow that always makes me more aware of what I'm about to say.
"You okay?" he asks after a second.
The question is simple, but the way he says it makes it clear he's actually paying attention to the answer.
"Yeah," I tell him.
There's a pause on the line.
"You don't sound convincing," he says lightly.
I shift my weight on the edge of the bed, tightening the towel around my chest as if he could somehow see me through the phone.
"I'm fine," I repeat, though even to my own ears the word comes out softer than it should.
Another small silence settles between us.
Then I hear the faint rustle of fabric on his end of the line, like he's adjusting where he's sitting.
"You're quiet tonight," he says.
I glance down at my knees, tracing the edge of the towel absently with my thumb.
"Am I?"
"Yeah," he replies. "More than usual."
Something in his tone shifts slightly then, the teasing edge fading into something more observant.
"Actually," he adds after a moment, "can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"You haven't mentioned any panic attacks lately."
The question catches me off guard.
For a second I just sit there, replaying the past couple of weeks in my head.
"You usually tell me when they're bad or when you've had one in general," he continues. "You haven't said anything in a while."
I lean back slightly against the headboard, thinking about it.
He's right.
I hadn't even noticed.
"Honestly..." I say slowly, "I haven't had one in a while."
There's a faint exhale on the other end of the line.
"That's good," he says.
"Yeah."
I twist a strand of damp hair around my finger, staring at the carpet.
"I think it helps that I'm not seeing Rodney as much lately," I admit after a moment.
The words leave my mouth quietly, but once they're out I realize how true they are.
"I'm not constantly... bracing for something," I continue, searching for the right way to explain it. "When he's not around, everything just feels calmer. Like my body isn't waiting for something to go wrong."
Grant doesn't interrupt.
He never does when I'm talking about things like this.
After a second he says quietly, "I'm glad."
I glance down at my phone.
"Anyway," I say, clearing my throat a little, trying to steer the conversation somewhere less heavy.
He just makes a soft 'hm' sound.
"I wanted to ask you something," I admit.
"Yeah?"
There's a faint shift in his voice again — curiosity mixed with something more attentive.
"What kind of something?"
I hesitate.
The question that felt so bold in my head suddenly feels harder to say out loud.
"A personal question," I say finally.
"I'm listening."
I roll my eyes even though he can't see me.
"Can you just let me ask it?"
"All I said was I'm listening," He let out a laugh.
I sigh, pressing my free hand against my forehead.
"Grant."
"Alright," he says after a second, his voice settling into that focused tone he gets when he's actually listening. "Go ahead."
And suddenly I'm very aware of the fact that I started this conversation without fully deciding how brave I was actually willing to be.
The silence stretches long enough that I almost lose my nerve.
I stare at the edge of the comforter, twisting a loose thread between my fingers.
"Why haven't we..." I start.
The words trail off before I can finish them.
On the other end of the phone I hear Grant shift slightly, like he's adjusting in his chair.
"Why haven't we what?" he asks.
I sigh softly.
Because now I actually have to say it.
"Why haven't we had sex?"
The words come out quieter than I intended, but they're still loud enough to make my face burn.
There's a pause.
"Why haven't you tried to," I add quickly, before he can answer.
My heart starts beating faster the longer the silence stretches.
"Are you... not attracted to me?"
The question slips out before I can stop it.
The second it's in the air I wish I could take it back.
I stare down at my knees, suddenly hyper-aware of everything Rodney has spent years planting in my head.
The way he looks at my plate.
The way he comments on my body like it's something constantly being evaluated.
The measurements.
The rules.
The constant reminders that I could always be... better.
Smaller.
Prettier.
More controlled.
"You think that's the reason?" Grant asks finally.
His voice isn't annoyed.
If anything, it sounds surprised.
I shrug even though he can't see it.
"I don't know," I mumble. "I just figured if you wanted to, you would've at least... tried."
Another quiet shift on the other end of the line.
Then his voice comes back, steadier now.
"Naomi."
The way he says my name makes me lift my head slightly.
"That's not it at all."
I press my lips together but don't respond.
"You're beautiful," he says simply.
The words land somewhere in my chest and sit there.
"You're more than beautiful, actually," he continues. "But that's not really the point."
I lean back against the headboard, phone pressed against my ear.
"What is the point then?"
There's a faint rustling sound on his end, like he's standing up or pacing.
"You haven't exactly told me much about Rodney," he says slowly, choosing his words carefully. "But I've spent enough time around you to pick up on certain things."
My stomach tightens.