Don't Kiss the Bride

“I’m so sorry. You should go back to work.”

“I’ve been sitting out there for hours. I’m not gonna leave now. Did they figure out what’s wrong with you? And don’t start calling me Uncle Lucky, niece.”

She laughs. “I was afraid they wouldn’t let you in unless you were family.”

Narrowing my eyes at her, I sit in another impossibly uncomfortable chair in the corner of the tight room. “You sure you’re eighteen?”

“Yes, Jude. I’m pretty sure I know how old I am. I’m a senior and I turned eighteen four months ago. I was held back in school when I was younger because I was absent a lot.”

“Okay. Just checking. So what’s going on?” I scan the room. Her clothes are folded on a chair on the other side of the bed. “Are you getting discharged?”

Her gaze drops and she leans her chin on her hand. “Maybe tomorrow. They’re admitting me.”

“Why?”

“They want to run some more tests. An endoscopy, I think, and some other things. The doctor talks really fast, I didn’t catch all of it.”

“What do they think is wrong?”

“Just some stuff…”

“Just some stuff?” I repeat. “Sooo… stuff is your diagnosis?”

She tilts her head and gives me a look. “No, but do you really want to hear all this?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.” I push my hair out of my face. “You don’t have to tell me, though. It’s cool.”

She takes a deep breath and pulls the thin, white blanket up. Her fingers fidget over the hem.

“I have an eating disorder. And some other problems. With my stomach, esophagus, and overall health.” She lifts her gaze from the blanket to meet my eyes. “And mentally.”

“Oh,” I say softly, letting that sink in. Now the eating of the burgerless hamburger makes sense.

“I’ve known for a while,” she adds. “I was diagnosed a few years ago. I’ve just been in denial, I guess. I’ve been afraid to go back to the doctor, and I couldn’t afford to. It’s been getting worse lately, though.”

“Then it’s good you’re getting help now.”

“Yeah.” She doesn’t sound convinced.

I struggle to say something to make her feel better, but I’ve got nothing that doesn’t sound cheesy or preachy.

“Do you want me to call anyone for you? Or bring you anything?”

She shakes her head. “No, I’m good. You should probably go, though. I know you have to work and they’re going to move me to a room soon.”

Nodding, I stand and step toward her bed. “If you want, me and Kyle can drive your car to your house so it’s not sitting in the school lot overnight. I’m sure you don’t want it getting towed.”

“You’d really do that for me?”

“Sure. We’ll do it tonight.”

“Thank you. You’re a really good guy, Jude.”

I touch her hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. “Feel better, okay, Sparkles? Send me a text and let me know how you’re doing. I’m guessing you’re gonna need a ride home?” I tease.

She lets out a little laugh. “It’s like you know me.”

As I walk outside, I realize I’ve blown half the work day sitting in a hospital with some girl I barely know when I’m on a construction deadline. Where the hell are her parents? She’s cute and all, but I can’t be some kind of transportational knight in shining armor for her, coming to her rescue every time she needs a ride. I’ll take her car home for her, and then that’s it. I have to disengage.

But when I get in my truck and see her aviator hat and goggles sitting on the passenger seat, I know she’s not the kind of girl I’m going to be able to just shove out of my mind.

Chapter 8

Skylar

Our bodies give us lots of warnings. What we choose to do with those warnings is up to us, of course. My body—and my mind—have been throwing up red flags for years. Like most people, I ignored them. Brushed them off. Made excuses. My mom did the same, ignoring my attention-seeking antics since I was a little girl. Finally, my body said screw you, Skylar… and whammied me into the sidewalk right in front of Jude.

The diagnosis I was given a long time ago is mostly the same, it’s just all gotten worse.

Acid reflux.

Ulcers.

GERD.

Dehydration.

Vitamin deficiency.

Anxiety.

Depression.

Exhaustion.

And last, but certainly not the least, and my favorite to say—ARFID. Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder.

But I’ll digest (no pun intended) all that later. Right now, I’m worried about Fluffle-Up-A-Gus. Home alone in my locked bedroom with an unacceptable-to-a-cat amount of kibble and water. Not only will Gus be disgruntled, but she will seriously run out of food and water by tomorrow morning.

If something happened to her, I wouldn’t be able to deal with it. She’s my snuggle buddy.

I haven’t texted my mom about my whereabouts yet, but I know she can’t get into my room to feed my cat. She’d never climb through my window, and I’m sure there’s too much stuff between the living room and my bedroom door for her to scale over. My mom doesn’t even like cats.