I storm upstairs before she can harp on about it. I’m allowed to exercise if I want to. Just not to excess.
On Sunday I go to the library again and work all day. It’s getting difficult to concentrate, but I don’t feel hungry anymore, so there’s that.
While I’m changing into my running gear that evening, I see a pair of jeans tucked up high on a shelf of my wardrobe. Nobody knows I kept them. I bought them when they were two sizes too small for me and made it my goal to fit into them. When I reached my lowest weight I managed to struggle into them, though I was so weak I could barely find the strength to do the zipper up.
They won’t fit anymore. I should have thrown them out a long time ago, but I guess I kept them as a grim souvenir.
I pull them down, knowing I’m doing the wrong thing but unable to stop myself. All the hairs are standing up on the back of my neck, and my heart is thumping painfully in my chest.
Do it. Do it. Do it. Put them on. See how fat you’ve become.
I heave the jeans up my legs. The denim is skinny cut and the pockets pull awkwardly over my thighs. I manage to get the waistband up over my hips, but my stomach protrudes over the fly, which I can only just close.
I stare into the mirror in horror at the rolls of fat over the waistband. I’m fat. I’m fat and disgusting.
The lid flies from the box, and out she comes in frenzy of beating black wings, shrieking in triumph. Look at yourself. Look what you’ve become without me, you SHAMEFUL LAZY FAT COW.
I haul the jeans off and reach for my sneakers and shorts and pull them on. I need to run. Run and run until I leave this terrible sight far behind me.
The sharp pain blazes through my chest almost immediately, but I ignore it. I need to run through the pain. Run through the hurt. Get back to the place where everything’s numb.
I need to find my way home again. She’s guiding me. She’s the only one who can take the hurt away.
The pain in my chest gets fiercer, and I run faster. I’m not there yet. Just a little bit further. My breath is labored and I can barely see the path ahead. The pain makes my whole body spasm and I stumble over my own feet. Darkness opens before me, as welcoming as a lover, and I fall gratefully into her bony arms.
Chapter Seventeen
Stian
The whole weekend passes and Lacey doesn’t answer my calls or text me back. My anger and frustration grows until I’m prowling my house like a caged wolf. I keep circling back to the same thought over and over again.
This is fucking bullshit.
I grip the door jamb between the kitchen and living room, breathing hard. People’s feelings change toward each other. People are let down by sex and new experiences. Women decide they don’t like a man as much as they thought they did. Office affairs can fizzle out as soon as one of the pair quits. I know all that, but I don’t believe that’s what’s happened between Lacey and me. We shared something intense and beautiful when we went to bed together, it brought us closer for a moment, and then we went careening off in opposite directions.
I wanted her to stay, but she couldn’t, and something broke inside of her.
Even though it killed me not to push her as she pretended to be sick or busy so she could miss our private time together those last few days, I let it go. I gave her space all week, not wanting to interfere as she struggled to right herself. Hoping that she and her therapist would figure it out. That she’d get down before me on her knees, press her cheek against my thigh and whisper that she’d missed me so much.
Because I miss her so fucking much. Where did my little girl go?
It’s Sunday night and I’m done giving her space. I grab my keys and head to the garage. Her anorexia tells her things that aren’t true, and I have a terrible feeling she’s started listening to it again.
The nasty voice. She tells me that you’ll like me better if I’m smaller.
Someone could be pouring poison into her ear, and it’s someone I can’t even get at because she lives inside Lacey’s head. As I drive, I try and rein in my fury. I’m not angry with Lacey, but if I burst in shouting she’s going to think I am. Mostly I’m furious with myself for not going to her house on Friday night after she gave me the slip on the way to the Tube station. She’s been alone with her thoughts for two days, suffering, and I might have done something about it. Petrou likes me. He can’t be too angry with me that I’m seeing his daughter, can he?