I grin, loving when she gets all fired up. “You think my smile’s sexy?” I tap her foot under the table with my boot which only makes her glare daggers at me.
“Out of everything I said that’s the only thing you choose to comment on? Seriously?”
“No. I heard it all, but since it’s all bullshit, I responded to the only truth you told.”
“It’s all a fact, Kipton. I’ve never told a lie until yesterday when I made up an excuse about being in a car accident. My coach told me to get in shape, not eat cheeseburgers and get drunk.”
“So you do admit I’m sexy then.”
She throws her hands in the air, exasperated by the conversation. “Oh for fuck’s sake! You know you’re hot as hell so stop trying to make me say it.”
“I’m glad we had this talk, Sophie.”
She rests her head against the back of the red pleather booth and closes her eyes the same time the waitress places our plates in front of us. Sophie opens her eyes and stares at her burger. Not waiting for mine to get cold, I dig in and take a bite. Moaning, the taste of the warm melted cheese mixed with the beef assaults my taste buds in the most spectacular way. I make each bite as dramatic as possible until she decides to give in to my food-gasm. She watches me the entire time I’m chewing. Once I swallow, she picks up her own burger and sinks her teeth into the warm bread.
“So much better than a salad, right?”
“It’s good, but I still hate you.”
Laughing, I pop a fry in my mouth. “I’ll take whatever you give me, Sophie. It takes way more energy to hate than love, so you must really want me.” I wiggle my eyebrows up and down and see her trying to hold in her laughter. Failing miserably, she starts eating and laughing. It’s the most amazing combination. I never want her to believe she’s anything less than beautiful.
PUSHING MY PLATE AWAY FROM my overly indulgent hands, I realize the mistake I’ve made. My stomach’s bloated and the only thought I can focus on is the grease currently sticking to my ribs. If I were to step onto a scale right this minute, I’m positive the number flashing before my eyes would be one I’m not willing to accept.
“You finished?” Kipton asks from his side of the booth. He’s polished off his entire meal without an ounce of guilt or hesitation, even licking his fingers as the last bite of burger passes through his lips.
“Yeah, I couldn’t eat another bite. It was delicious.” A mistake, but delicious.
“Nothing beats Momma June’s recipes that’s for damn sure.” He sits back and rubs his satisfied stomach.
“Does she own this place?”
“She does. I’ve been coming here since I was little. She would spoil the shit out of me, sneaking me extra fries or giving me free milkshakes before my mom could say no.”
“That’s cute.”
He stares at the aged white Formica covering the table top, twisting his discarded straw paper around his middle finger. “One of my better memories.”
Part of me wants him to elaborate, but when I can’t focus on anything other than the damaging meal I’ve consumed, I excuse myself to the restroom. Hoping it’s bigger than the size of this diner¸ I’m thankful to see a private handicap stall with a separate entrance. Shutting myself inside the small room, I lean up against the wood door, sweat beading on my forehead from the anticipation of what I’m considering.
It’s been months since I’ve had the urge to purge. Back when my dad would stroll home drunk in the middle of the night shouting at my mom, I would hide inside my closet with my trashcan. Mentally begging my mom to back down before she regretted it, I would work myself up to the point of making myself sick. When it wouldn’t happen naturally, I resorted to forcing my body to heave. After the shouting finally stopped, I was left hollower than the time before. But for whatever reason, I was relieved. No more cursing from my father about what a pathetic wife my mom was, no more anger from my mom about what a disappointment my dad was, and no more reminders of the mistake I had always been. All that was left was a shell of a body to be put back to bed—and that was the easy part.
My ritualistic behavior continued until my mom served my dad with the divorce papers. I remember crying because he was moving out. Not because I’d miss him, but because I wasn’t sure I could make it through a day without getting sick. Whether I used him as an excuse or he really did set me off, throwing up relaxed me. It made my body have a purpose because they never knew how powerful their words were—how much they tore me up inside. And no matter how many apologies my mom tossed at me, it was never enough. A girl can only be told so many times she’s a burden and a mistake before she begins to believe it herself.
But the day dad left for good, I turned a corner I never saw coming. With little effort, I started sleeping peacefully—the years of exhaustion finally catching up with me. Gone were the nights I spent huddled in my tiny closet singing songs to drown out the shouting. In some strange shifting of the universe, the divorce saved me from myself as much as it gave me and my mom our lives back.
But as I shuffle slightly closer to the toilet, I’m reminded of the comfort that comes from a purge. I should reach out to my therapist, but since I’ve yet to set up an appointment with anyone here at school, I’m on my own. Waging a self-inflicted battle with my brain, my hands begin to shake. I pause to clasp them together while staring into the mirror at the disgusting vision of my own reflection. Knowing my willpower failed me again tonight, I’m pissed at myself for repeatedly allowing Kipton to put another barrier between me and my dreams. He isn’t aware of the years of therapy I’ve endured to cure whatever screw I have loose in my head. Those are my dad’s words, not mine. Little does my dad know he’s the one who spent a lifetime cranking it tighter and tighter until I spiraled out of control. I can’t let Kipton weave his way in just as my dad did with my mom. She used to have dreams too before he fucked them up.
But I’m not stupid enough to believe this is all about a cheeseburger. It’s about control—the control I’ve worked so hard to maintain inside the gym and the control I’ve craved at home. Slowly, it’s being ripped away from me. Inch by inch, minute by minute, I’m edging closer to the ledge. A ledge I’ve toppled over enough times to know I’m not strong enough to come out unscathed.
I inhale and exhale repeatedly, trying to convince myself to go back to Kipton. When I know the desire is too strong to back down from it, I refuse to waste another precious second. This is to prove I’m in control—that nobody will ever dictate my happiness again.
Nervous about forcing myself to throw up, it becomes second nature the moment I jam two fingers down my throat. Nothing happens the first two times, but I don’t give up. I can’t. On the third attempt my insides contract painfully, expelling the contents of my stomach into the toilet. Each retching second is replaced with a euphoric numbness. And much like the past, I’m relieved. The purge is every bit as soothing as I remember it to be.
I continue until I’m positive there’s nothing left inside me, flushing the toilet in satisfaction. The guilt will eventually slam into me, but not until I savor the moment. When I stand up completely, the pressure inside my head becomes unbearable. Reaching out for support, the cool tiles on the wall hold me upright, steadying my swaying body. Desperately needing to get out of the bathroom, I lean against the wall all the way to the sink. I’m one hundred percent confident I made the right decision despite the incessant throbbing in my temples.