Fading Out (Living Heartwood 3)

When the fit is over, I wipe my hand across my lips. My body trembles, but that’s more from the adrenaline easing off than losing my stomach. The calming effect slowly begins to encase me in a warm buzz, my thoughts clearing, the chaos and constant hum drowned out to silence.

It’s like being swept away by a current. Alone. Tranquil. In the middle of the ocean. Peaceful. And that calming sound of crashing waves breaks over me. I can breathe.

Now collected, I slip my blouse back over my head. As I unlock the stall door and ease it open, there’s a small worry that someone heard. I glance around. Still alone. I move to the sink and pull out my disposable toothbrush pack. I swear, the person who thought of these is a genius. I used to go through so many toothbrushes in high school. Just tossing them out at random places; on dates, between classes, church.

No one questions carrying disposables around. It’s just good hygiene, not considered OCD. Like my high school guidance counselor once deemed before the ultimate truth was uncovered—

Bulimia. Anorexia. Social Anxiety Disorder. Take your pick.

They threw so many labels at me my medical file overfloweth. None of those disorders encapsulates me, though. They’re like an extension of the bigger issue—just a way for me to deal. Being the perfect weight means less pressure I have to endure from my stepmother. Looking pristine means I don’t stand out amid esteemed society. Following my father’s direction means I’m valued.

And losing his approval isn’t an option. I’ve already suffered four months of emotional isolation…a lifetime of being a blacklisted Wyndemere infuses me with fear.

Who am I, if not a Wyndemere? Who am I? Who am I?

My reflection in the mirror blurs around the edges, the image fading out of focus.

My thoughts are starting to drift again, becoming muddled. I use what focus I have left after the initial purge mutates, transforming into guilt, to brush my teeth and collect myself into perfected, have-it-all-together Arian.

I’m not stupid. The counselors and nurses at Stoney Creek didn’t have to explain how this is a vicious cycle; I understood that long before my four-month commitment. Still, understanding something doesn’t make it any easier. It just brings on the guilt quicker, the shame deeper. Like a notched razorblade slicing jaggedly through my awareness.

I rinse my mouth and spit into the sink, then toss the used plastic brush into the trash. Looking into the mirror, I note the red puffiness around my lips. The newly bloodshot vessels of my eyes.

I actually did try, or at least trust that I would give it my best shot this time. That I would use the tools given to me by the faculty at Stoney. That I’d reinvent myself, having been given a new, redeeming chance—because I know more than anyone that this obsession will eventually be the death of me.

It’s just…how do you defend yourself against an attacker when the attacker is you?

* * *

Lunchtime: Only the second most dreaded part of my day.

But at least here at Braxton—with its small student body—almost everyone ventures off campus for lunch, absorbed in their own lives. Friends. Studying. Food that is not cafeteria food. Which leaves the actual cafeteria practically vacant.

I find Vanessa easily, seated at an oblong table near the back wall. She has a book propped against the table and her knee, absentmindedly feeding herself from a tray, her eyes never leaving the page she’s reading.

Hiking my tote higher on my shoulder, I wander into the short line and nod to random food items: small house salad; dry celery and watery ranch dressing; turkey croissant. None of which looks appealing, but I know—from past experience—that if I don’t get something on my stomach soon, the afternoon drop will hit hard.

I plan to take full advantage of the campus gym later this evening.

Besides, I think, as my gaze longingly sweeps over a lone piece of carrot cake, with my steady-climbing adrenaline pumping my heart rate super fast, my nerves will work off the sugar in no time.

“Thumb wrestle you for it.”

The deep voice makes me jump, and I’m quickly pulled out of my rapid-cycling thoughts. “I’m sorry,” I say, turning to see the guy behind me in line. “You can have…it…” My words trail off slowly as my gaze lands on his chest and I’m forced to angle my head back to find his face.

He’s built like a freaking brick house. His wide-set shoulders squared, muscular arms easily defined beneath a white-ribbed thermal. He holds a red tray before his tautly muscled stomach. I can tell, because the fitted thermal showcases each indent and bulge, outlining his clearly defined abs.

When I reach his eyes—clear, glacier blue—they’re squinted, crinkling at the edges, matching his ear-to-ear grin. He’s so massive; I suddenly fear he’ll plow right through me on his mission to get the last piece of carrot cake; that he doesn’t even see me. But then I recall, with a stupid shake of my head, that he just spoke to me.

What did he say again?

“Oh, I know I can have it. The kitchen makes the cake specially for me, but I was giving you a fighting chance.” He smiles, revealing straight, white teeth. “I think you could take me,” he adds, craning one deep brown eyebrow. “Don’t give in so easily, shorty.”

Shaking my head again, I focus on what I said before I lost my train of thought while checking him out. Right, carrot cake. The last piece. As I’m still standing here, dumbfounded, the person directly behind us huffs and moves around to jump ahead in line.

Now the guy raises both eyebrows, trying to prompt some response from me. And this is what happens when I skip meals. All loss of brainpower. But then his cocky smile collides with his conceited words, pulling me out of my stupor. Did he really just call me shorty?

“Wait. The kitchen makes it for you?” I’m not even a fan of carrot cake, really. I just have a sugar craving to sate—but this guy’s superior attitude makes me determined he’s not getting that last piece. I turn and nod toward the display glass. “The carrot cake, please.” Then I begin to push my tray along the metal bars, trying to focus my gaze on anything but him, completely—and annoyingly—aware of his proximity as he follows too close behind.