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)
"It's strange, seeing you eat," I say.
"Strange how?"
"Spicy noodles and Thai iced tea. That's not what I expect."
"Should I order steak and whiskey instead?"
"No."
"But that's what you imagine?" he asks.
Do I imagine him eating? "No, I imagine you gaining nutrients though victory."
"Photosynthesis by domination?"
I nod.
He laughs, actually laughs. "How would that work?"
"I don't know. It would be a scientific miracle. Doctors would study you."
"And that's why I never let on?"
"Exactly."
"It could still be the case. I could be hiding it." He scoops noodles with his fork. Offers me a bite.
I take the fork—a disposable utensil, but a nice one, made of bamboo—and bring it to my lips. The spice hits my tongue first. Then a mix of heat and sweetness.
Basil. Garlic. Ginger.
Soft noodles. Crisp vegetables. Tender beef.
It's fucking amazing.
The best thing I've tasted in days. Months. Years even.
When was the last time I sat and savored a meal?
I stopped tasting food when mom got sick. Then I started restricting, and I turned off my senses completely.
It wasn't severe the way it was when I was a teenager. I didn't lose too much weight or eat so little I passed out. I stayed reasonable. Enough to help me cope. Not so much I drew attention.
People noticed I lost weight, but most paid me compliments. Even in my field, with people who should know better.
The people who showed a shred of concern nodded when I mentioned my mother.
Of course, I wasn't eating much.
Of course, I was losing weight.
It happens to so many people. They stress eat. Or stress not-eat.
It was the same for me.
Just more intentional.
"You're hard to read," Simon says.
I return the fork. "You too."
"But I'm learning."
"Oh." I find my fork. Stab an eggplant.
"You're off somewhere."
"That's how I am." I bring the bite to my lips. Fuck, it's amazing. Oil and basil and spice. The perfect mix of rich, savory, herbaceous. And just a little sweet. I let out a soft groan.
"I like your thoughtfulness." His voice is sure. Steady. "I like having you here, with me. I understand you're not always in the moment."
"You aren't either."
He nods. "Where do you go?"
I can't tell him this. I can't admit I'm a thirty-one-year-old wrestling with her teenage eating disorder.
Not to Simon.
He's always in control.
Maybe he'd understand that impulse, but the rest?
Even if he would—
It's mine.
He's still sitting there, watching, waiting.
Endlessly patient.
I have to say something.
I want to say something. To tell someone. To not be alone with everything all the time.
"My mom," I say. "When she was sick last year, I… lost my appetite."
He nods with understanding.
"This is the first time in a while I've really tasted. It's delicious. But overwhelming."
"I was the same, after Bash. I've never lingered on sensory pleasures."
"No?"
"No."
"Your reputation…"
"I know my reputation."
"All rumors?"
"Some. I fuck, yes. It feels good, yes. But that isn't why I do it."
"Why do you do it?"
"Because it makes sense."
That's not what I expected him to say.
But I guess it tracks. He's like me. In control. Precise. Goal-oriented.
"After he died, I lost interest," he says.
"When did you find it?"
"I'm not sure I did. Until the other night."
Fuck.
"No. Before, it was a need I filled. I enjoyed it, but I didn't savor it. I didn't replay the sound of someone's groan. Or picture her in my bedroom naked."
It's hot in here.
I need to say something to keep my composure.
Or I need to tear off his clothes immediately.
One of the two.
"I don't usually savor things." My eyes go to my food. The deep purple eggplant skin. The pale brown rice. The thin slices of deep green basil. The slivers of red pepper. "I did, sometimes, before mom got sick." After my first recovery. "I tried, after she went into remission. I'm not good at it, but I have moments. A night out with Lee. A run on a crisp day. A family trip to St. Barts."
"You went to St. Barts?"
"I did."
"And?"
"I worked the whole time."
"What did you enjoy?" he asks.
"Lee dragged me to the beach. Made me lie on the sand."
"And you hated it?"
"Of course? Why would I lie in the sun? For a tan?"
He laughs.
"Oh, are you tanning on the beach?" I reach for his hand. Run my fingers over his designer watch. "Is there a white line under here?"
"I don't tan in my watch."
"You're darker than Adam."
"When did you last see Adam?"
"The wedding," I say.
"Ah." He nods. "That was something."
"It was." Lee and her husband Harrison had a huge wedding planned. A secluded beach in the Hamptons, near the Pierce manor. They were set for a big to-do. Then Harrison's father, Preston, collapsed at the rehearsal dinner.
He was hiding his illness.
Hiding the ugly truth to protect his son.
He's dying.
He's okay for now, but he's probably not going to be around for long.
Harrison was furious. Lee tried to talk to him. To remind him what it was like for me, for her, for the two of them, attending treatments with my mom. Watching her fade. Wondering if it was the end.