“True.”
“And it’s totally natural to want something painful and uncomfortable to be over,” I assure her. “You’re not a monster, Cora. You’re doing beautifully.”
She sighs. “I needed to hear that. Thank you.”
We’ve driven about three hours north of Los Angeles to a small town on a lake for Shawn and Aya’s wedding. Well, what they’re calling their ‘real’ wedding. They were married in a church about a week ago that was all kinds of stuffy and formal.
This is definitely more reflective of their personalities.
I just wish Cora could enjoy herself.
Today, she’d helped her best friend choose a dress and get married. She’d held my hand through the ceremony and as we all ate dinner. Now, as we sit on the patio, amongst our friends, watching the fire die down, I know she’s itching to get out of here.
Fine by me.
Shawn and Aya are completely preoccupied with each other and the other four are deep in conversation, so I don’t think anyone will care too much if we slip on out.
We say our goodbyes to the newlyweds, and I help Cora back to our room.
“Feeling okay?” I ask her, opening the door and ushering her inside.
She nods.
“Tired?”
“No,” she answers. “I mean, physically yes. But I’m not sleepy.”
“Want to watch a movie or something?”
“That sounds nice. I think I’m going to take a bath first,” she says. “I’m so sweaty all the time. Is that normal? I don’t remember anything about excessive sweating, but… ugh.”
She starts to unzip her dress, but needs another hand, so I step in and do it for her.
“Thank you,” she says, heading into the bathroom.
She walks into the bathroom, closes the door and locks it. Cora never used to lock the door when she showered. And now it’s commonplace.
I know she’s only on the other side of the door, but somehow, she’s a million miles away.
Twelve
Cora
My bath helps. I feel a little less achy and terrible after soaking in the hot water. I dry off and put on flannel pajama pants and a big tee shirt. They’re Ian’s. But since my clothes don’t fit anymore, I’ve commandeered them. He doesn’t seem to mind.
I towel dry my hair and look in the mirror. I look… rough. For the past few months, I haven’t cared about haircuts, worried about makeup, or taken care of my skin. I mean, I put on makeup and a nice dress today, but this was a special occasion.
I sigh out hard. Usually, I like to look put-together. I like the way my body looks in my clothes. I like putting on a little makeup and walking around my neighborhood feeling confident.
But now I just feel… sloppy.
And I look like I’ve given up.
The tears come quickly. They always do. Ugh. Everything makes me cry these days. Literally everything. Commercials for pet food, even. I don’t even want to admit how many tissues I went through today watching my best friend get married.
But I wipe them away before I go back out there. I don’t want to unload all this on Ian. He’s been amazing this entire time, always there with a neck rub or whatever weird food I’m craving, or to tell me that I look beautiful when I really look a mess.
Or to tell me that I’m not selfish for feeling the way that I do even though I know I am.
I put my hands on my bump. By Alicia is growing a little more every day, and I try to picture what my life will look like once she’s here. I imagine feeding her and changing her. And rocking her to sleep in the rocking chair Ian got for her bedroom.
I even imagine Ian and me taking her to the park. Maybe he’ll play with her in the sand or teach her to hang from the monkey bars and push her on the swings. The thought of Ian being so sweet and fatherly to our little girl turns me on in a weird way.
But, as I look at my swollen belly, my double chin, and the patches of acne that the hormones have caused, I’m disgusted with myself. I don’t find myself sexy at all. I have no idea how Ian possibly can.
Which hurts me because Ian, believe it or not, has gotten even hotter since he found out that he was going to be a dad. To me, anyway. Maybe that’s just biology and all, but ever since I told him I was pregnant, he’s been extra attentive and protective, and I want him ten times more than I usually do.
Of course, I’m feeling too unsexy and self-conscious to act on it.
I open the bathroom door and pad out into the bedroom. Ian’s kind of sprawled on the bed. Shirtless, of course, wearing only a pair of loose, black track pants. His muscled torso and all of his tattoos are on full display.
So, basically, he looks gorgeous and I look… pregnant.
“Are you okay, Cora?” he asks.
I nod, forcing a little smile.
“No, you’re not. What can I do to help you?”
Ian gets up and helps me over to the bed. He coaxes me to lie down and rest my head on his shoulder.
“I just don’t feel like myself anymore,” I tell him. “I’m not comfortable in this body. I don’t like the way I feel. And I’m worried about everything that’s going to change after Alicia’s here.”
“Like what?”
“Like my job.” I confess.
I’ve thought about what it will mean to go back to acting and auditioning after having a baby. My agent and several producers seem to think that my body will just snap back after giving birth. Like magic. I’m already scheduled to audition for a supporting role in a big-budget action movie, but God knows if I’ll be able to keep up with the physical demands of the part.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, Cora,” Ian starts, “but would it be the worst thing in the world if you didn’t go back to work right away?”
My eyebrows hit the ceiling. I can’t believe I’m hearing this from Ian.
“Are you kidding me?” I sputter. “Are you seriously asking me to give up my career and stay home while you…”
“I’m not saying that at all.”
“Because I worked too fucking hard to get to this point, Ian,” I state, firmly. “And we’ve talked about this before. I don’t want to be a stay-at-home parent. Not for longer than I have to be, anyway.”
To be totally clear, I’m not knocking the stay-at-home parents. My mother stayed home with me and didn’t return to work until I was old enough to go to school. But I know that that’s not the life for me.
“I just want to feel like myself again,” I tell him.
Ian holds me closer.
“I know, baby,” he whispers. “I was just saying that you don’t have to jump in and be a superhero right out of the gate. Give yourself time to adjust and heal.”
I nod.
“And you’re not going to have to do it alone. The band isn’t touring for the next year. I’ll be around all the time.”
I know. The band agreed to postpone their first international tour for a year. It wasn’t an easy decision to make, but he refused to leave me alone with a newborn.
Which is good. It makes me sick to think about Ian up on stage with the band and the crowd throwing themselves at him while I’m at home, up to my elbows in dirty diapers. Probably still bloated and greasy and insecure.