The reality of it threatens to break me. Even now, I can feel all that judgment pushing into my flesh and expanding outward, filling me with hate and self-loathing.
It makes me want to run. Far away. London seems like the answer. But even as I cling to the thought, I think of Ethan. I fear running will break us. He blames himself for this. If I leave, I’m confirming that it’s true.
They claim love conquers all. I used to believe that. Used to think that if someone just loved me enough, it would make everything better.
Now I know the truth. Ethan’s love won’t fix me. I have to do that myself. So, no, his love isn’t the cure. But it is something to live for. Without him, I might not want to fix myself. Ethan Dexter makes me want to be a better person. To be brave.
With a hard swipe, I clear the condensation away from the mirror. A version of myself stares back, her eyes ringed with fatigue and stress, her cheeks hollow. I rake my fingers through my wet hair, and Mirror Fi’s face comes into sharper relief.
I take her in, study her with unblinking eyes. She looks like shit. Ragged. Defeated.
Before he left, Ethan kissed this face, raining soft gifts of love over cheeks, nose, chin, mouth. Ethan worshiped this face, whispering, “You’re beautiful” with each reverent touch. Thing is, I knew he wasn’t talking about the way I look, but about how he saw the whole of me.
Who is the real me? I’m not sure I’ve ever really known. Despite what I project to people, I’ve never taken the time to get comfortable with myself as a person.
Truth is, we all project a false front to the world, peppering our social media pages with witty words and silly emoticons. Life narrowed down to 140 characters, staged selfies, and tirades over opinion posts. Life lived for the approval of the masses, all while tearing strangers down for the slightest misstep.
And when you turn away from that electric glow, when you no longer see those silent, pixelated opinions, who are you, really?
Who do you see in the mirror? When did the regard of those unknown masses become your existence? Those who will never be there for you except to judge.
If I run, I’m saying that every ugly word thrown my way is true. Worse, if I run, I’m taking the easy way out. I’m letting those people define me.
Staring in the mirror now, a surge of potent rage hits me. It’s all bullshit, these pictures I’ve let tear me down. I let myself feel the rage. And it gives me power. It fills me up and breaks free with a scream. Because I’m over feeling ashamed, and I’m never running away from life again.
Ethan once told me I’d been searching for my joy. I’ve found it. Now I need to reclaim it.
The edges of my phone bite into my palm as I clench it and dial.
“You’ve reached Bloom,” a woman’s voice purrs. “What is your pleasure?”
I grit my teeth, clutch the phone hard enough to feel it creak. “My name is Fiona Mackenzie. I took Ethan Dexter’s virginity. I want my million-dollar prize.”
* * *
Dex
I have absolutely no desire to play the game today. But there’s no such thing as taking a personal day in the NFL. Certainly not because you want to watch over your girlfriend. And sure as shit not on a game day.
Fi had shoved me out the door with the assurance that she’d be fine. Right. As if I don’t see the shadows under her eyes, the tight lines around her usually soft mouth.
I’m in a bad mood when I enter the locker room. But the familiar reek of sweat, body wash, and equipment soothes me a bit.
No one makes eye contact. It’s fucking awkward, and I spot more than one wince as I walk by. The idea that these fuckers have seen Fi’s naked body makes me want to break teeth.
I’m almost to my spot when Darren, a safety, mutters “titties” under his breath. He doesn’t get to take another. With a snarl, I grab hold of his throat, slam him into the wall. Guys explode into action around me, pulling at my arms to get me to let the little shit go. I brush them off, step into Darren’s face.