8. Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Lina
As usual, by closing time we’re sold out of cinnamon rolls and every other baked good.
The last display case sits almost bare, crumbs and empty trays telling the story of a successful day.
Ube Magic turned out to be that—a magical hit. The energy it brought into the shop lingers.
The evening descends as I wipe down counters, sweep floors, and move through our well-practiced closing routine.
There’s a comfortable tiredness in my bones that comes from doing work that feels deserved.
The lights throughout the shop soften, the espresso machine goes quiet, and we all begin to exhale as we prepare to lock up within the next couple of hours.
As I reach into my pocket to check the time, my phone buzzes in my hand.
A text from EJ.
I glance at my screen, a small smile tugging at my lips, part curiosity, part anticipation, already guessing the direction the message will take.
Before I open EJ’s message, I also see a text come through from an unknown number.
I open it.
Absolutely not.
Every time I block his number, Cole gets a new one. He probably heard an earful from Cassie about our encounter and wants to bitch me out.
Not happening.
I ignore Cole and open EJ’s message, and reply.
I exhale a soft laugh at our banter.
EJ manages to instill confidence into my day through brief, well-timed messages that linger far longer than they should. Nowhere near romantic or tender. Just something to remind me that my body occupies a permanent, unapologetic space in his thoughts.
Messages like—
Still thinking about the way you move.
That dress yesterday? Fuck Me.
You don’t know what you do to me.
Each message lands like a spark, lighting something warm and electric in me.
I’m not oblivious to the fact that he probably sends those messages to a dozen other women too. I honestly don’t care.
I at least enjoy what he copies, pastes and sends to me. I’m not overthinking it because he’s a damn good lay.
With him, I’m sexy. Desired. And that’s fine by me. Especially since that hasn’t always been the case.
My relationship with my body has been complicated. For years, I was taught to treat it like something shameful. Too much. Too obvious. My breasts were too big, my ass too noticeable—features that invited attention were wrong.
I learned to cover up without being asked. Double sports bras to flatten my chest. Looser shirts. Longer coats.
I had a constant awareness of how I took up space.
Your body is a temple. Sacred. Private. Only for me.
What he, as in Cole, really meant, was I own you so don’t fucking show off.
Cole made it clear that letting anyone else look—really look—was a betrayal. Praise from someone else was not flattering, but rather disgraceful.
I carried that belief for years, folding myself smaller, convincing myself that invisibility was the same thing as protection.
EJ doesn’t know any of that history. He doesn’t need to. None of the men I’ve dated since do. Not even he who shall not be named.
But through my complicated sexual desire post-divorce, something came undone inside me. I stopped apologizing for my shape and I stopped bracing for disapproval.
Little by little, I started to realize my body was never the problem. It was Cole’s sad pathetic ego.
Cole wanted to possess me in every way imaginable. My body, my gaze, my attention, including my thoughts. He spoke about devotion and exclusivity as virtues, as if his desire to keep me contained was proof of love.
Meanwhile, Cole shared his body freely. Flirting was harmless.
Fun and absolutely natural. Something men did.
He ogled openly, commented liberally, and laughed when women leaned in too close or touched his arm.
And if I reacted—if I stiffened or flinched—he accused me of being insecure and unreasonable.
But God forbid my eyes lingered. If I laid eyes on another man by accident, his anger flared fast and sudden. He would accuse me of inviting attention, of disrespecting him. Of embarrassing myself or cheating.
It didn’t matter that I gave him no reason to believe it. I didn’t flirt or stray. I barely existed outside the narrow space he allowed me. Still, he’d spiral—voice rising, accusations stacking on top of each other until I was defending crimes I hadn’t committed.
Words like whore and slut fell easily from his mouth, thrown with the confidence of someone who knew where to aim.
Each accusation chipped away at me until I believed I was dirty for existing in a body that drew notice—like my God-given curves were crimes, like my desirability was something to be punished. The hypocrisy was so fucking suffocating.
He demanded loyalty he never practiced.
My body was meant to be his temple—while his was a public fucking offering.
Dating after divorce removed all of those groomed thoughts without trying.
Men regard me like my desirability is mine to wield—not something to apologize for. And in that contrast, the truth became impossible to ignore.
I was never asking for too much. I was asking the wrong man-child.
Men flirting doesn’t only boost my ego—it recalibrates it. I walk taller. Linger in mirrors. Stop shrinking myself. When someone looks at me now, I don’t ask why. I assume they are—and I sway my hips a little more as I walk.
Fuck being tamed. I was controlled for far too long and I won’t allow myself to go there again.
The beginning was quieter though. Slower. Years of therapy spent untangling what it meant to be groomed from sixteen to thirty-one. My sense of self shaped before it could form on its own.
It took years of patience. Sitting with truths that hurt before they healed.
Dating helped. Awkward first dates. Gentle ones. Forgettable ones. A few that surprised me. Each experience chipped away at the lies I’d been fed.
Men didn’t recoil when they learned I’d been married before. They didn’t see me as damaged or less desirable. They didn’t flinch when I spoke about why I have a C-section scar.
I had been told—over and over—that no one would want me. That I was used. Ruined.
None of it was true.
This new version of me appreciates my body and someone like EJ benefits from the work.
Luckily for EJ, my new found confidence carries straight into desire and heat. Wanting without hesitation. Being wanted back and letting that be enough.
I don’t second-guess. I take up space. And I plan to do just that tonight, take up space with EJ.
It feels like forever since I’ve had sex. EJ was out of town for a couple of months on a job site. I’ve been on several dates hoping for a good one-night stand but the chemistry was lacking.
Tonight with EJ is much needed.
I really need to get laid.