Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 94489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
"She'll want to hang out with her friends."
"But I'll trap her at Friday night dinners."
"So she arrives at parties too late to get drunk?" Vanessa asks.
"That's a fringe benefit."
"What's the main benefit? C-blocking her?"
"You too?"
She shrugs. "What can I say? I like it."
It's strange hearing her cop one of Liam's lines. Almost wrong—Liam lives to annoy me. But right too.
She wants to be a part of my family.
To be in my life.
It's everything.
I want it all. Now.
But I need to be patient. To give her what she needs. Wait until she's ready.
She motions to the zucchini.
I chop it into thin slices.
Then the tomatoes.
We work quietly for a few minutes.
Vanessa sautés, cracks eggs, adds pesto.
I toast bread.
Heat the kettle.
She finishes. Plates the food. Brings it to the kitchen island. Hands me a fork. "You want to talk about this?"
"If you're ready."
She tastes her eggs. Lets out a soft groan. "I'm not sure I'll ever be ready."
I know how to push. I know how to wait. I know how to get what I want.
But I don't know how to do this.
To support her the way she needs.
So I taste the food, groan over the mix of parsley and pine nuts. "Fuck, this is amazing."
"I know." Vanessa scoops another bite. "I'm a good cook."
"You are."
"I like that you're bad at something."
"Not bad."
"That you aren't great at something." She cracks pepper, tastes again, lets out a soft groan. "It's a rare treat."
"I'm not good at this."
"Eating lunch?"
"Helping without pushing."
She nods and breaks a piece of toast in half.
"I want to support you with this. Tell me how."
Her laugh breaks the tension in her shoulders.
I raise a brow.
"You're just… Simon. Even when you offer help, it's in this take charge way. It used to annoy me, but now… I like it."
"Is that a way to avoid telling me?"
"No." She takes another bite. Chews slowly. "I don't know what to say. I don't think anyone is every normal about food. Not in our world. I wasn't. When I was younger, there wasn't enough."
"And you learned to put other people's need's first?"
She nods. "And this was a way I could feel in control without letting anyone down. Or asking for more. Or taking up more space. It was… it was a fucked-up mess. A spiral of control and slipping and self-loathing that got worse every time until my disorder was in charge. In treatment, my therapist always compared eating disorders to abusive relationships. I understood what she meant. There were girls who wrote to their disorders. Who named them. Talked about them the way people talk about abusers. They wanted to please their disorder, to finally be good enough. Their disorder hurt them again and again and they kept going back for more. But I…" She stabs a tomato. "I hate that thought. That I was like my mother. Or my father. But I was."
"You didn't hurt anyone."
"I hurt myself. I wanted to hurt myself. I hated myself so much, Simon. I wanted to disappear, one ounce at a time. I wanted to prove I was worthy and this was the only way I knew how. It was so many things and… it's not like that now. I'm not self-loathing or obsessed."
"What are you?"
"I don't know. In control. But only enough I can stay in control."
My shoulders tense.
She's not well.
She's hurting herself.
Only a little, maybe, but that's too much.
Everything inside me screams an objection. I want to fight, yell, do whatever it takes to keep her safe.
But that will hurt her. Push her away. Convince her she can't trust me.
I have to wait.
"Most of the time, I'm normal," she says. "I eat three meals a day. I order dinner at restaurants. I drink a few cocktails when I want to celebrate. I run because I love it. I just keep track of everything in my head. And I… I keep track more carefully when I'm under more stress."
"Always?"
"Since my mom got sick."
That was two years ago now.
She's been alone with this for two years.
My heart breaks for her.
And it comes back together, stronger and surer and infinitely more in awe of her.
She finishes her omelet. Tears her slice of bread in half. "I appreciate the concern. I do. I want you to know… I want you to understand. But I'm not there yet. I'm not ready to deal with it."
"Will you?"
"Eventually."
"Are you sure?"
"No. But…" She looks to her mugs. "When it's bad, it's bad. I never want to feel that again. Never."
"Isn't that a risk?"
"I'm careful."
"What does that mean?"
"I only do a little. Enough to cope."
"Vanessa—"
"Simon. I appreciate the concern. I do. But this is mine. Not yours."
I swallow hard.
She tears a slice of bread into tiny pieces. "I'll get help when I'm ready. Until then—"
"What if it gets worse?"
"Then we can talk."
"What would be worse?"
"If I started skipping meals. Or intentionally losing weight. Or restricting certain foods."