Page 7 of Falling Backwards (The Edge of Us #1)

All the way home, I stewed.

Even though they revolved around only two of the billions of guys inhabiting this planet, I stewed about a great many things in my head, out loud in grumbles, over stoplight texts to my group chat with Joy and Emma.

Thanks to the girls siding with me about both Luke and my ex, I was calmer by the time I walked into our apartment. And thanks to the Bluetooth speaker sitting on the kitchen island, I ended up with a great way to finish unwinding: listen to music and eat a snack.

Gosh, is music a gift. Catchy melodies, melancholy vibes, lyrics, instruments. The artistic talent that goes into building songs and the stories they create out of nothing. The way people sing. Music just makes life better, and I definitely need it to improve my mood right now.

No one is here except for me. Joy is at work and Emma let us know she’s out with some new guy. It’s just me, my music library on shuffle, the afternoon sunshine coming in through the big living room windows, and the plate of fruits, veggies, and homemade ranch I fixed up for myself.

I lean against the island and pause singing along t.

“The Phoenix.”

While I chew some broccoli, I let my eyes wander around. I love our place. These apartments feature loft-type units of different sizes, so across the hall from me and the girls, Huck and Harleigh Merritt live in one of the smaller options (we love them just as much as we love their bar, and boy, do we love that they set up shop so close by). The bigger units are ideal for roommate situations like ours: the three bedrooms and one bathroom are isolated and spread around, but the center of the place is a spacious blend of living area and kitchen.

Sometimes when it storms, Emma likes to burn candles instead of turn on the overhead lights, pull the curtains back, and let lightning flicker throughout this whole big room. Although that can seem spooky on occasion, I do love the way rain looks on those windows. It’s picturesque and soothing.

Still, I’m enjoying the current sunshine. I decide to take my snack over to one of the wide beams and soak it up the best I can.

That turns into bobbing my head to the song that shuffles up next. And since it’.

“If I Can’t Have You,”

head-bobbing quickly turns into me moving around the room in time with the tune, my shoulders and hips impossible to keep still.

Thankfully, I can feel the lingering tension from work letting go of my muscles. Can feel the sting of Marcus’s actions and the grate of Luke’s ebbing away.

The latter will resurface tomorrow, I know. I saw the shift schedule. But for now, I’m going to let myself slip into a good mood.

In fact, I end up singing with off-key enthusiasm in front of my mirror. The baby carrot I’m holding isn’t the best microphone, but who cares, right? Not I.

Until the song ends and I’m crunching down on the carrot and finally getting a good look at my reflection. Then I care.

Not about the carrot—no, once again, I suddenly care about the way I look. My black work clothes aren’t unflattering, but underneath them…. As my eyes drift over my body, I can’t help feeling heavy.

Can’t help comparing how I look to how I could look. To how I used to look.

Although it’s always been clear that some of my mom’s curviness got passed down to me, I still used to be smaller than I am now. Not outright tiny, just smaller. I weighed less than I do these days. I looked better in fitted clothes and didn’t have to worry much about what suited the shape of my body. I felt decently comfortable in swimsuits during the summers. I can even recall being confident the year Halloween showed up oddly warm, when my friends and I were eighteen; our beloved Powerpuff Girl costumes took a sassy turn, and we fully rocked the midriff-baring tops we wore with our tutus and sparkly shorts.

Luke used to think I was beautiful.

The unexpected thought catches me off-guard. Once again, my insides turn into a swirl of blurred emotions.

I realize I’ve stopped chewing my carrot and gone droopy in the shoulders. I meet the clouding green eyes of my reflection.

My stomach twists over how things with him were back in those days…

…and over how he was eyeballing Marcus’s new girl earlier…

…and over the way he looked at me afterwards…

…and over the new thought invading my mind.

Did Marcus leave me because he stopped liking how I look?

The memory of the new girl flashes through my mind—the sleek lines of her body in that dress, the way her shape matched his, the PDA he stamped on her at their table. And actually, at the time, I didn’t think about how gracefully strong she was, but I think about it now because I know my ass would have done way more jiggling than hers did if anyone smacked it like that. Would have made other parts of me jiggle too.

I bet she wears loose shirts and chunky sweaters for their style, not because she’s self-conscious. Bet she never has to cross her fingers that a piece of clothing she loves will love her back. Bet she never has to craft her outfits around what will accent the shape of her body cutely and comfortably at the same time; without a doubt, she’s cute and comfortable no matter what.

I turn to the side, lift up my shirt, and look at my midsection in the mirror. Then I face forwards again to look at it straight on. Yeah, I’m not toned and tight like she is. My shape is hourglass-ish, but my eyes don’t see it in a feminine daydream sort of way. They see pounds that weren’t always there and spots that look squishy.

Even though it would be a lie to say I never feel pretty or put-together, this is one of those times when it wouldn’t be a lie at all.

Disenchanted, I tug my shirt back down into place and finally finish eating my carrot.

I don’t look or feel my best.

I wish it weren’t so. Wish I didn’t feel weighed down, down, down for long moments that make me want to abandon my snack plate even though it doesn’t have junk food on it.

Now that I think about it, I probably did pick up some of these pounds after Marcus and I got together. Our relationship had seemed relaxed, and he brought me into his habit of dining out at places like Lucent, and we liked to take it easy together in our free time….

I don’t even remember the last compliment he gave me. Conversely, I remember he hadn’t been interested in sleeping with me for almost a month before he broke up with me.

That hadn’t felt good then, and it doesn’t feel good now.

“Shit,”

I mumble as the sting of building tears hits my eyes. I blink hard, rub at them with the heel of one hand, then sniffle.

“Get it together, Maggie.”

But how? How do I not feel unhappy about all this?

Shortly, my brain registers the song that’s now playing from the other room. It’.

“Sorry Not Sorry”

and it makes me think of a funny dance-type exercise video I saw on YouTube one day.

And an idea comes blinking through my sharp dissatisfaction with myself.

“Huh,” I mumble.

Despite my love for music and random boogying, I won’t kid myself into thinking I’d be a good dancer…but maybe I could start trying to exercise in some other way. Maybe Joy and Emma would even join me and make it less dreadful.

I don’t think I’ve ever given exercise a fair try, but I have a feeling it would be dreadful.

The way I feel about myself right now is dreadful, too, though. And it isn’t new. I haven’t been truly comfortable with my body in quite a while. I just never made myself look at that discomfort for very long.

Thanks, I think dully to Marcus. To Luke as well, I guess.

Exercise.

Ugh.

It seems like such a daunting thing. Would I have to spend money on a gym membership and commit long hours to a treadmill in front of other people? Start counting calories and never eat eggs Benedict again? Spend even more money on one of those watches that track your workouts or whatever? Would I have to exercise every single day? What about when I don’t feel well? What if I hurt myself? Or do it wrong? Or make progress only to undo it over some holiday or other and then I’m back to square one and—?

Already feeling overwhelmed, I close my eyes and measure out my breathing.

I need to relax a little bit.

Surely plenty of people have felt just like I feel now and still found somewhere to start. I could do some research and find a place to start. And surely not everyone’s exercise plan is super tough and expensive and showy; not everyone can make that happen, physically or financially or otherwise.

Yeah. Surely.

Relax, girl.

Besides, I don’t want to spend any more of my day in a bad mood. I want to get back to the mood I was in when Shawn Mendes and my snack were the center of my world.

So I look at my reflection again and I nod.

“It’s okay if Marcus doesn’t love you,”

I tell her softly.

“It’s okay if Luke doesn’t think you’re beautiful. You can love you and think you’re beautiful.”

An empty sort of feeling twinges in me, though.

And I suddenly remember the guy from Mellow Burger. He called me pretty earlier. An involuntary shudder ripples through me. I don’t know why, but recalling his interest doesn’t make me feel any better about myself. It just makes me feel…well, shuddery.

I blow a raspberry and shake off that lingering chill and the unhappiness I was feeling before.

Why should I care what Luke thinks of my looks anyway? He’s Luke. I’m sure he doesn’t care what I think of his looks. We don’t wake up every day and think about how to impress each other.

I nod at my reflection again.

…Stubborn-ass Luke, though. I’d say I can’t believe he was more pissed off at me than at Ronald, but I kind of can believe it.

Shaking my head now, I turn away from the mirror, pick up a wedge of orange from my plate, and resolve to embrace my evening.