“Fuck,”he growled through gritted teeth, his voice slicing through the mantra playingthrough my mind. “God, Molls …”
Thatnickname. He had always used it and had never stopped. It was the evidencethat, while some things had changed dramatically from our childhood, somethings still stay the same. Nicknames. Bonds. Love. My eyes welled up, and Ilaid my lips over his, to stifle the shouts and moans that ripped between usat the momentof release, to drown out the sound of ournoisy hearts.
Afterward,I laid against him with my head on his chest. His fingers moved lazily over myshoulder and into my hair, twisting the strands around his fingertips andholding them tight. I listened to the thumping in his chest and the promises hehadn’t yet spoken. I knew they were there, hidden between the beats, and Icouldn’t wait for the day we made them a reality. Marriage. Children. Forever …It was a certainty I never thought before that I’d get to live, and especiallynot with him, but I had wished until wishing felt pointless. Now, it was there,right within my grasp, and I wanted it so bad, I could taste it.
Chadfell asleep easily, and while I was desperate for sleep myself, it just wasn’thappening. No amount of tossing and turning was helping, and out offrustration, I quietly climbed out of bed and headed into the living room. Thegentle, steady buzz from the highway provided an ambiance in the otherwisequiet room, and I sat on the couch to cuddle into a fuzzy leopard printblanket. The TV remote was within my grasp, but so was my laptop, and withinminutes, I was surfing the web.
Thesmart thing to do would’ve been to watch something on Netflix, or maybe a fewYouTube videos. Anything to relax my mind and lull me further toward slumber.But instead, I found myself on Instagram, searching for that hashtag—Chally. It sounded so stupid to me, and I hated saying it,but scrolling through the hundreds of documented moments, I found it was alsonice. It was the proof of our bond, the evidence that our love was prominentenough to be known by others, and while I didn’t need reassurance, it was niceto have it.
Icame across oneparticular post. It was casual andcandid—Chad leaning against an amp, me standing beside him with my head on hisshoulder. We were listening intently while talking to Devin and Sebastian. Icouldn’t remember the moment it was taken, but I liked the realism portrayed inthe picture. It was comfortable, and after a couple seconds of staring, I savedit for myself. But the moment was fleeting, and it passed when I made thefoolish decision to read the comments. Because that’s where everything goeswrong; when you get the notion in your head that what other people have to saymatters.
Thefirst few comments were fine. Complimentary, even.
“There are too many good-looking people inone picture. It’s not fair.”
“Couple goals. OMG.”
“Molly is the luckiest woman alive.”
Igrinned at that last one, and I thought the excitement and happiness was goingto last. I could’ve closed the laptop then, gone back to bed, and cuddled upbeside the man whomade metheluckiest woman to ever live. I could’ve drifted off to sleep, floating on acloud of gratitude and appreciation. But I didn’t. I scrolled further, and justbelow that small collection of positivity was this:
“WTF are you all talking about? Molly’s fat.Yeah, yeah, body positivity – whatever. She has rolls, and those rolls are madeof, guess what, fat. And Chad looks diseased. The least they could do is coverthe dark circles under his eyes. I mean, his girlfriend piles on enough makeup– you’d think she’d hook him up with some concealer and make him look less likethe walking dead. They’re an ugly couple, plain and simple. Sorry, not sorry.”
Fifteenpeople had liked that comment. Fifteen wasn’t a lot, I knew that, but rightnow, sitting alone in the darkness of my living room, it felt like an army. Awhole fucking fleet of haters, and I dared myself to read the sixty replies.While most of them were from fans, rushing to our defense, there were stillthose horrible people, hiding behind their screens and spewing their hatred.
They don’t matter. I keptrepeating the words to myself, as I shut down the computer and climbed off thecouch.They don’t matter. I thoughtabout grabbing a snack before bed, but I’d have to work that much harder thenext day to burn it off. I got myself a drink of water instead, becauseanything else would add to my caloric value for the day.They don’t matter. I went back to the bedroom and crawled under thecovers beside Chad. He slid his arm around my waist, and all that crossed mymind were thoserolls.
They don’t matter.
Buttheydid.
Chadhad been right when he said ignoring it wouldn’t solve anything. It never did.Those kids in high school? I ran away from them instead of standing up formyself. I could argue that it was wrong of him to not defend me, while I was watching,but other than perpetuate my reliance on him, what good would it have done?
Iwondered now if I was only tricking myself into believing that I didn’t careabout the opinions of others. I’d grown up a lot since high school, and yes, Idid love myself. Yes, I was strongandconfident. But this shit stillhurts, and maybe it was time to try a new tactic.
33
Geta Place of My Own
CHAD
AFTERYOGA WITH MORGAN,Molly sat on the couch, a bowl of oatmealcupped between her hands. Her gaze was trained on the TV when I asked if shewanted to jump in the shower with me before I headed home, and soundlessly sheshook her head.
“No?”I asked incredulously. “Darlin’, two weeks ago, we managed to squeeze into thatshitty little shower on the bus, and you said, and I quote, ‘I can’t wait untilwe’re at home, so we can shower together every single day.’”
Mollysighed and lifted her shoulders in a half-hearted shrug. “Showering together isn’twhat it’s cracked up to be, anyway.”
“That’strue,” I agreed uneasily, sitting down beside her.
Shewasn’t wrong. Unless you have some fancy showerheads shooting from a variety ofangles, a couple’s shower sucks. Someone is either doomed to freeze, ordestined to drown, and it’s just not a good time for anybody. But it wasn’tthat she’d declined that had me worried. It was the dismissive tone in hervoice, and the rigidity in her shoulders.
Ileaned forward and interlocked my fingers, staring ahead at the TV but notbothering to see what was playing. “What’s wrong, Molls?”
“Nothing.”
“Pleasedon’t play that game with me, okay? I hate that.”
“Idon’t know what you want me to say, Chad.” There was a cold bite to her tone,and I felt the chill deep inside my chest. “Nothing’s wrong. I didn’t sleepvery well last night, I have a lot of stuff I need to get done, and I’m just …”Her words faded, and I looked to her, to find her bottom lip pinned between herteeth.
