Un-put-together.
Puppyfuck.
Charity case.
I'll take sticks and stones any day over these words. Words do hurt. They echo in your mind, then bounce off your brain before falling down the hole into your heart to slowly leak into your gut, eating at you slowly over time.
Bug-eyes.
Ghettogirl.
Trailer trash.
Those childhood names cut deep, and these new ones aren't much better.
My shiny sparkle.
I try to focus on Kat's nickname for me, which is the only nice, affectionate nickname I've ever had.
"You okay in there, jelly bean?" His finger taps on the door.
A small smile touches my lips. Well, up until yesterday. Now I have a new nickname, and I kind of like it.
"I'll be right out," I say around my toothpaste-rabid mouth.
I rinse and spit then brush my hair. What am I supposed to wear? What the hell do you wear to bed with your new, stranger husband when you want him to be attracted to you but you don't want to lead him on?
I go out in the hall and tiptoe down to the guest room where my suitcase is.
"Wrong room!" he yells from the master bedroom.
"I'll be right there!" I yell back, giggling.
I dig through my suitcase and pull out a pink tank top and a pair of black boy shorts. These should do. Comfy and cute with a dash of sorta sexy…but not slutty.
I think.
"Christ, it's almost morning. What have you been doing?" He groans when I enter the dark room. There's a nightlight on in the corner, throwing a bluish glow onto the bed, which he's already in, the sheet and comforter pulled up to his waist. All I can see is muscle and ink on his upper torso against the white sheets.