So, no stress. Eat more. Check. Double check. Why haven’t I thought of this before?
Kate pats me on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t normally advise this, but drink some milk shakes. Eat some hamburgers. Get some calories into your system.”
Right-o. It’s sooo easy to just flip that no hunger switch. Got it.
Don’t be petty, Caleb warns.
I’ll get right on that, too. Because girls like me—breakable girls who have probably killed innocent nons—there’s nothing we can’t do, right?
“You look like crap.”
None of my other friends have the balls to say this to me nowadays. Not even Cora. They skirt around the issue, especially since I pretend that everything is okay. That I’m okay. That my life is perfect and fine and I’m definitely not drowning when I know my air supply as I sink to the bottom of the ocean I’m trapped in is miniscule, at best. And they accept this because I don’t give anyone the option to do anything but accept that I’m fine.
I sip my tea, but it tastes bad. Everything tastes bad. I tell Callie, “Gee, thanks.”
“You’re wasting away.” Her eyes flit towards a plate of scones, untouched, by my cup.
Has she been talking to her Aunt Kate? “I’m not hungry,” I tell her. But I sip my tea again and hope that it’ll be enough to satisfy her curiosity.
I’ve been unable to stem the weight loss tide, despite Kate Blackthorn’s warnings. And I’ve tried reducing my stress levels—yoga, meditation, calming music, you name it, I’ve tried it, but nothing seems to work. Sleep is becoming increasingly elusive. I’m so exhausted I can barely remain standing most days, but when night rolls around, my brain won’t let me rest. I keep thinking about what I’ve done, what I keep doing—of yet another cycle I’m trapped in, where I love two people so much I’m falling apart. About how I can’t seem to let Kellan go. About how I still haven’t told Jonah about what happened between Kellan and me in Costa Rica. About how I’m beyond terrified of losing him. About what it’ll do to the twins’ increasingly rocky relationship. About how I’m too much of a chickenshit to actually ask someone to translate those newspaper articles. About how I’m an utter failure at learning the language they’re written in. How I’m hiding this from Jonah. How I hide too much from Jonah nowadays.
Despite constantly blocking my increasingly out-of-control emotions, Jonah’s worried about me. It seems I can’t quite pretend very well around him. Why aren’t you eating? Is there anything I can get you? Did you have a bad dream? Is there anything you’re not telling me? What are you not telling me, Chloe? You know that you can tell me anything, right? Let me help you. Please let me in.
And Kellan . . . well, Kellan knows the answer to some of these questions. He doesn’t bother asking me anything, but our times together are filled with a sense of quiet helplessness. And the times when I think he might start asking things I’m not able to handle, he’ll shut up the moment I touch his belt. Fresh notches are materializing at an alarming rate. I can’t breathe when I see them.
I’m kicking so hard to stay afloat, but it seems the harder I kick, the further from shore, into deeper water, I get.
Callie sets her teacup down; her eyes narrow and look me up and down as best they can while seated at a table. “Do you have an eating disorder?”
I choke on the tiny sip I’ve just taken. She goes to smack me on the back, but I think she’s afraid of hitting me too hard. Like she’s afraid I’ll break. She ends up rubbing my back instead before she settles back into her chair. “NO. Callie, c’mon. It’s nothing.”
“Yeah. Skinny girls like you just drop weight and become lollipops for no reason.”
I scoff. “Whatever that means.”
“You know. Where your body is way smaller than your head.” She shakes a finger at me. “What’s going on with you lately?”
I stare out of the window. It’s raining, and the streets are filled with colorful umbrellas. I give her my pat answer that I give everyone. “Nothing.”
Nothing is a safe answer, mostly because it’s what people really want to hear. No one actually wants to hear the truth.