The kissing is slow and in between the kisses Ben says your name softly, over and over and over again. You love it when he whispers your name because no one in the world says your name the way he does—it sounds like a light snow falling or rain on a spring day, or dandelions blowing in the wind—all the things you know are beautiful.
He takes the pillow you’ve been holding and sets it on the floor. He lowers you onto the bed and moves over you, locking one of his legs over one of yours. All the while you keep kissing. Kissing him is that moment between wake and sleep when you’re still not sure if you’re dreaming.
37
Ben drives you home at eleven-thirty and you sneak in through the garage. There’s a light on in the kitchen and you don’t think anything of it as you head toward the stairs to your room, but you run right smack into your mother, who’s holding a glass of water.
Her eyes bulge out in shock at seeing you there in your regular clothes and your Chucks, and not in your pajamas.
“What in the world? What’s going on? Were you out?!”
“Mom!” You think fast. “You scared me! I woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep so I went for a walk. I wanted to clear my head.”
“You don’t leave the house this late at night! You were in bed all day because you’ve been”—and she uses those annoying air quotation marks here—“‘sick’ … and now you’re out doing God knows what, acting like everything in the world is just fine?”
“I went for a walk. Around the block, okay? For twenty minutes. Can I go to bed, please? I’m tired.”
“That is totally not the point! Anything could have happened to you this late at night. This is not something that you do!” She glares at you, and you don’t answer her. You feel like you might cry.
She senses your tears coming and softens her tone. “Honey, are you okay? Is there something more going on? Do you need to talk about anything?”
She looks deep into your eyes like she’s pleading with you to tell her everything that’s going on, but you haven’t got it in you to tell her what’s wrong. So you tell her the only thing you can tell her.
“Mom. I’m okay.”
“Get some rest. You know I’m just worried about you, right?”
“I know, Mom. I’m sorry. I love you.”
Because you do love her. You do. It’s just so hard. So hard when the monster is telling you so many things. He’s telling you not to eat, he’s telling you to hurt yourself, he’s telling you to push away the ones you love, he’s trying to ruin your life. And he’s succeeding.
“I’m sorry I scared you.”
“Go to sleep, honey. I love you too.”
*
Saturday morning you ask your mom if you and Ben can go to Lake Pleasant for the day on Sunday to hike and swim. She hesitates for a moment but then agrees on the condition that you eat breakfast and wear plenty of sunscreen. You tell her you’ve already promised Ben that you’ll eat breakfast too. You see your mom suppress a smile and you take that as a good sign.
Friday night when Ben asked you to eat breakfast before the hike, you said you would, and he asked what you might have.
“I eat breakfast. Breakfast isn’t hard,” you told him. “I eat waffles like it’s my job.” You smiled, and it felt wonderful to do that. To smile.
“Okay, eat waffles like it’s your job on Sunday morning because you’ll need a lot of energy for hiking. What do you want for lunch? I’m going to pack a lunch.”
“A picnic?” you asked.
“Yeah, a picnic. Haven’t you ever been on a picnic?” he asked.
“Not with a boy I like,” you told him.
“I like you too,” he said.
“You do?”
He touched his finger to your nose and kissed your lips softly.
Then he said, “Very, very much.”
38
Sunday turns out to be a beautiful day and when you arrive at Lake Pleasant you get out of the car and stretch your arms wide into the sunny, open skies. It’s under one hundred degrees, which means it’s actually cool, and Ben grabs his backpack and another one that he’s packed for you. You’re not a big fan of hiking but you’ve decided that if you’re doing something with Ben, even if it’s walking on fiery charcoals, you’ll do it happily. Because you’re with Ben.
You’d do anything with Ben.
“How many waffles did you eat this morning?” he asks.
“Promise you won’t laugh?”
“Of course.”
“Seven.”
“Good Lord, woman!”
“You told me to eat a lot!”
“Is it that easy to get you to eat?” he asks.
“Maybe I don’t need therapy,” you say. “Maybe I just need you to tell me what to do.”
“If only it were that easy,” he agrees.
“Yeah.”
“I wish I understood your eating disorder better,” he says.
He leads you to the trailhead and you start on your hike, holding hands along the way. You feel like you want to tell him more, so that he understands.
“The stuff I did to my wrists and hands—which I’ve never done before, I want you to know that—and being mean to you … I’m not myself when that goes on, if that makes sense,” you say.
Ben gives your hand an encouraging squeeze, so you continue.
“I feel restricted by this ‘thing,’ almost like there’s a monster inside of me, telling me what to do, you know? And I’m sorry I’ve treated you so horribly when you’ve been nothing but amazing to me.”
“No more I’m sorrys,” he says, and he kisses the top of your head.
You tell Ben how you only think of food in negative ways, and how you wish you could change your behavior and rewire your brain.
“Is therapy not helping at all?” he asks.
“I’m not sure.”
“Are you being open to it, I mean, really, really open to it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe you have to be more open-minded to what they’re trying to teach you,” he says kindly. “But no more cutting. I don’t want you to cut yourself anymore. The other night when I saw that, well, it scared the crap out of me. When you left, I thought about it a long time.” He says it in a tone that makes you feel a little anxious. You feel like he has more to say but you interrupt.
“I won’t,” you say. “I won’t do it again.” You hope you can keep that promise. You truly do.
“I’ll try to help you any way I can. I may not say the right things all the time, or do the right things, but I care about you and want you to get better.”
You smile. “I want that too.” And you mean it. You actually feel the monster quiver. Good, you think. Die.
39
Ben takes you on a trail around the lake and he actually makes the hike fun. He holds your hand the whole time and leads you through the rocky terrain so you don’t trip, which is your main reason for being apprehensive of hiking. That, and the fear of snakes. He assures you that if there’s a snake he will fight it off for you. Actually, he promises if there’s a snake he will help you get away from it so it won’t bite you.
You trust him to keep his word.
There are no snakes.
Instead, you are surrounded by stunning lake views and desert foliage you rarely see near home: spindly saguaro, blooming cholla and organ pipe cactus, and colorful desert sage and marigold.
Ben pulls out his phone, clicks on his camera, and drapes his arm around you.