Don't Kiss the Bride

“You shouldn’t have to.”

I yank the leaf out from its trap and fling it onto the ground. “I don’t have a choice.”

“You’re right.” He rubs his hand across the stubble on his chin. “Are you okay? You have meds now? You’ll feel better?”

I wish.

“Not exactly. I can’t afford the prescriptions or the weekly appointments they want me to go to.”

“Weekly?”

All these questions have me on edge. I’ve never had to explain myself to anyone before. I’m used to being brushed off and ignored. Able to fade into the shadows and disappear.

I bring my knees up to my chest and rest my sneakers on the chair, wrapping my arms around my legs.

“I think I told you when we were at the hospital, I have an eating disorder,” I say, letting my gaze finally meet his. Tiny lines etch the outer corners of his eyes. “It’s called ARFID. It stands for Avoidant Restrictive Food Intake Disorder. Apparently, I’ve had it for a long time, but I was officially diagnosed with it last year. I saved up some money and took myself to a doctor. I couldn’t afford to keep going.”

“What is that? Like bulimia?”

“No, I don’t make myself throw up. I just can’t eat certain foods. I mean, I can eat them. I just… Mentally, I can’t get myself to. If I try to, I gag. Or feel nauseous and get sick. They told me it’s like a mental illness. I’ve connected certain foods to traumatic things that happened to me when I was young, so its like my brain is trying to protect me by not letting me eat those foods.”

I’m glad it’s dark out, with only the streetlight and the moon casting a glow over us. I don’t want him to see my face. I don’t want to see his face while I’m telling him—this guy I barely know, but want to know—every embarrassing detail about my personal life.

“I think it started when I was little because my mom kept expired food in the house. Like milk. Eggs. Chicken. Fruit. Pudding. I didn’t know any better, so I ate it. Then I’d get sick. I guess my mind related certain foods with getting sick. Sometimes it’s not even the exact food, but the same color of that food, or the texture.” I exhale and try to gauge his silence. Is he just listening? Pitying me? Judging me? “I have digestion issues, too. Acid reflux. I get really bad heartburn. And sore throats and sinus pain. Sometimes I don’t eat or drink enough because it makes me feel sick. But then not eating or drinking makes me feel sick, too. I guess I’m just a hot mess.”

“You’re not. Don’t ever think that.”

The deep sincerity of his voice reaches way down into my soul and calms me like a warm blanket. I can’t help but revel in it for a few moments before I start to talk again.

“You’re the only person I’ve ever told all of this to. Megan doesn’t even know everything, and she’s been my best friend for years.”

“You were dealt a shitty hand.”

“Maybe so, but I’m not going to let it play out the rest of my life. I’ll find a way to get out of here and I’ll figure out how to eat a damn hamburger.”

He lets out a laugh and nods with admiration all over his face. “And that right there is why I call you Sparkles.”

I’m not sure how he does it. Somehow, he makes me feel like every molecule in my body has learned how to smile.

I like it.

I like him.

Chapter 10

Jude

The walls are pink. Not a light, nursery room pink, but a bold magenta kind of pink. I pulled the beige carpet up a few years ago and it damn near took me two weeks to finish. Not because it’s hard to rip carpet up—I can do that in my sleep. But because the brighter, cleaner, plushy areas of the rug were reminders of where the bed and furniture once were.

Memories can be a bitch.

The hardwood floor I’m standing on now is much better. Not harboring any ghosts. But even though I refurnished it with brand new furniture, this is the only room that continues to feel like a pit of emptiness.

I hate pink with a passion, but I could never bring myself to repaint it.

And yet, I still feel like it’s screaming at me. This fuckin’ room and its hideously girly walls. It’s saying Hey! Look at me! I’m a nice, clean, pink room without a person!

Like a bun without a burger.

Leaving the room, I close the door behind me. I’ve always kept the door closed, hoping that, maybe someday, I’d hear Erin in there. Blasting music, giggling on the phone with a friend, or yelling wise-cracks at me.

The mind tells us silly things to appease us.