Through His Eyes
Maybe it’s because I was dressed professionally, covering the majority of my skin. I make it a point to buy work clothes that hide the rolls and imperfections as much as possible, but even the most expensive, flattering outfits can only do so much. He couldn’t see the cellulite on my thighs that turned Rick off, or the newly formed stretch-marks on my stomach that came with being pregnant. I cringe, thinking about how Rick would’ve reacted to my stretch-marks. He would’ve blamed me for gaining too much weight during my pregnancy. Damn it! I hate that even after five years, I still allow that asshole to make an appearance in my thoughts. He doesn’t deserve any place in my life, alive or dead.
The last few years I’ve made a conscious effort to eat healthy, and I work out at the gym a few times a week—when time permits. I’m proud to say I’ve lost the majority of the baby weight I put on. I’d like to say my hard work has nothing to do with my dead husband’s last words to me, but I would be lying if I didn’t admit that more often than not I hear him telling me how I’ve let my body go, and use it as motivation to workout harder. That being said, I’m still not skinny. My hips are still too wide, and my ass is too big. I hope one day to be at a size I can be proud of, but today is not that day…and tomorrow isn’t looking good either.
Which is why I’m so confused as to why Lachlan was so insistent about taking me out. Maybe he saw it as a challenge. I told him no, and most men hate that word. Hell, most people do. But then I think about the way Kinsley droned on about him the entire way home and for several days afterward. How nice and funny he was. When he cursed, he paid her a dollar, she said. When I asked her where the dollar was, her cheeks flushed and she admitted she cursed, and then blamed me because she was only repeating what I always said. My daughter is a lot like me…well, the me before Rick. She’s sassy and smart and takes nobody’s shit, while at the same time, she wears her heart on her sleeve and trusts too easily. The last two are both a blessing and a curse.
It’s now Sunday morning and I have nothing booked for today. Kinsley and I are on our way to the park to practice soccer and then we’re planning to go to the science museum afterward. It’s her first time playing a recreational sport and she’s nervous, so she asked to practice first instead of getting to the museum for opening. She loves kicking the ball around at school, but it’s different once you’re playing an actual game—at least I imagine it is. I wasn’t exactly one to play sports. I was more of a sit-in-the-stands-and-photograph-the-people-playing kind of girl.
“Can we invite Uncle Jax to play?” Kinsley asks as we walk down the sidewalk toward the neighborhood park. “No offense, but you’re not very good, Mom.” I stifle my laugh, shooting her a mock glare, and she shrugs. Damn kid is too honest. “Sorry, but it’s true.”
“I texted him and Aunt Willow earlier.” They had already left for the shop before we were up. “Uncle Jax said if they get done with inventory and ordering early enough, they’ll meet us.”
When we get to the park, we head straight to the soccer field. There are a few other families playing as well, so we find an empty spot in the corner to kick the ball back and forth.
“Go stand at that end!” Kinsley exclaims. “I’ll kick it to you, and you kick it back, okay?”
“Sure!” I yell with as much fake enthusiasm as I can muster.
About thirty minutes later, as I’m chasing down the soccer ball for what feels like the millionth time, I hear Kinsley yell, “They’re here!” I breathe out a sigh of relief. Jax being here means I get to sit down on a blanket in the grass and watch, and take some pictures.
“Hey, Lachlan!” Kinsley squeals excitedly, and I find myself spinning around in shock to confirm he’s here. And sure enough, dressed in another white T-shirt—this time with some band logo across the front, black jeans that are molded to his thighs perfectly, and a pair of Vans that match the color of the logo on his shirt, is Lachlan freaking Bryson (I may have stalked him on social media and learned his last name). He’s sporting a beanie similar to the one he was wearing the other day, but this one is black.
As I watch him approach us, with his clear as the sky cocky smirk splayed across his perfect lips, and all of his various tattoos on display, my breath hitches. I felt it the other day, the unexplainable attraction to him, but I chalked it up to it all being in my head. I’m a single mom who hasn’t gotten laid in over five years. My vibrator gets more action than Bruce Willis…you know, because he does action movies. Okay, maybe that was a bad analogy. But my point is, I’m having to charge that thing quite often. But now, standing here staring at the way Lachlan is looking at me once again, I can’t deny it. The sparks are there, threatening to turn into an all-out fire.