“How was the skiing, man?” one of the guys, Ned, asked Jack.
He shrugged, not looking at her. “Okay, I guess. The weather wasn’t so hot.”
If that was a lie, she appreciated it. Hearing about perfect spring days and two feet of fresh powder would have been quite intolerable.
“What did you do?” someone asked.
Was that directed towards her? She looked up. “Oh.” Should she tell them about her stay in the hospital, or just describe the many family encounters yanked straight out of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? “Nothing special. Hung out. Watched movies. That kind of thing.”
“See anything good?” the girl asked.
They weren’t going to like her if she told them that all of the studios always made every single movie they were releasing available to the White House, and if any of them had an urge to see something in particular, old or new, it was just a question of someone on the staff picking up the phone, and it would be delivered with startling speed. “Not really,” Meg said. “My brothers usually pick what we’re going to see, and they have absolutely terrible taste.”
Several people at the table laughed, which she didn’t expect.
The story would be much more interesting, if she could add the part when her mother had lost her patience one night up at Camp David, and snapped, “Would it be even remotely possible for us to watch an actual good movie, or is that too much to ask?” The rest of the family had pretty much ignored her, since the film in question was, while very stupid, quite funny, but the staff members who overheard the outburst were disturbed to witness the President’s vociferous frustration, and the fact that—although she at least stayed in the room, for once—she spent most of the rest of the movie sullenly flipping through briefing books.
Despite downplaying his ski trip, Jack was an active participant in the conversation, although he seemed to be getting increasingly tense, and she wasn’t quite sure why. But it was upsetting, given the fact that he had been so glad to see her earlier. Christ, maybe this boyfriend business was going to be more trouble than it was worth.
The dining hall had stopped serving, so most of the tables were empty now. All but one of Jack’s friends had taken off, and she wanted to leave herself, but he was still eating, and it would be rude.
“I can’t believe you’re not going to play Beirut with us tonight,” his friend Ned said to him, standing up to go. Then, he nodded at Meg. “Uh, nice to meet you, Meghan.”
Meg nodded back. “You, too, Ned.” Then, once he was gone, she glanced at Jack. “Everything okay?”
He nodded, halfway through a massive heap of apple crisp.
“If you want to play with them, you should,” she said, although it struck her as being pretty dumb to get wasted on everyone’s first night back, with classes starting bright and early the next day.
He shrugged, eating.
What the hell was bothering him, anyway? “I’m sorry if I talked too much,” she said.
He glanced up. “You only said about five words.”
Okay. Maybe that’s what had upset him. “Oh. I’m sorry,” she said. “Since you all know each other, I felt intrusive, so—well, that’s all. I mean, they seemed very nice.”
He nodded. “They are, yeah. I mean, I could do without Mona, maybe—” who had something of a braying laugh, and, to make matters worse, seemed to find almost everything screamingly funny, as far as Meg could tell. “But, even she’s okay, when she isn’t showing off.”
It had seemed pretty clear why Mona had felt the need to preen, noisily, during the meal, although it would be impolitic for her to say so. “Well, she probably likes one of you guys,” Meg said, “and was trying to make a good impression.”
Jack laughed. “She was showing off because you were sitting at the table. Like, if she said just the right thing, you two would end up being best buddies.”
That had been her instinct, too. “I was a little surprised—” to put it mildly— “when she kind of grabbed my arm,” Meg said. She hadn’t yanked free, but she might have recoiled.
“Yeah,” Jack said, and laughed again. “You didn’t look too happy.”
So, maybe that was it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that,” Meg said. Christ, with all of the damn apologies, she was starting to sound like her mother. “I just don’t like it when people I’ve never met are sure they already know me really well.”
He nodded. “Must be weird, yeah.”
Very much so. And the fact that they all, if so inclined, could have watched a large chunk of her spring break on television was unsettling, too.
She waited for him to say something else, but all he did was glance at her, and then bend over his tray again. Swell. She didn’t want to fight with him, but if it was going to happen, she didn’t want to put it off any longer, either. “Um, maybe it’s my imagination,” she said, “but it seemed as though you started getting angry at me during dinner.”
He shrugged, finishing his dessert.
She was really worn out, and not at all in the mood for detective work. In fact, she wasn’t in the mood to sit here anymore. Maybe she should date someone like Simon, after all. Being able to push him around too much would irk her, but it might be preferable to all of this sturm and drang. So, she hooked her cane over her shoulder and reached for her tray, hoping that she would be able to make it over to the dishroom without tearing anything new in her leg.
“Look how much you didn’t eat,” he said, accusingly.
Christ, was that the damn bee in his bonnet? And how in the hell was she going to explain it, without sounding self-pitying. So, she shrugged. “I guess I’m a little tired tonight.”
“Yeah,” he said, not without a trace of belligerence. “Normally, you eat so much, it’s embarrassing to be seen with you.”
Her appetite, or lack thereof, was really exclusively her own business.
“I mean, you go ahead and get racked up on caffeine,” he said, “but that’s about it.”
It was tedious to be criticized constantly about something she bloody well couldn’t help. She was tired, and she wasn’t hungry. Nothing exactly earth-shattering about that.
During the first several days of her captivity, she had been ravenous to the point of near-incoherence, since starving her, intentionally, had been one of the many things the man found funny. It was hunger at a level she never would have been able to imagine. Hunger that made her dizzy, and sick, and incapable of thinking clearly. Hunger so severe that it hurt.
It had almost reached the point that if the guy had come in with a piece of pizza or something, grinned, and said, “It’s all yours, if you do what I want,” there was an excellent chance that she would have gotten down on her knees in front of him, or whatever other ugly demand he might have made. She liked to think that she would have told him that she would never be that hungry, but if—instead of being discarded in a mine-shaft, like a piece of worthless debris—she’d been forced to spend a few more days handcuffed in that dark, tiny room, she was pretty sure she would have been capable of agreeing to almost anything to get something to eat.
And also sure that, if she knew, even Beth would look down on her for being weak.
Jack sighed. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do, Meg, I just—”
Oh, the hell he wasn’t. “No, I didn’t think you were,” Meg said, and looked at her watch—which made her homesick. “I need to go make a call, though, okay?”
He got up, lifting her tray on top of his. “Let me go get rid of these, and I’ll come with you.”
She wanted to go back to the dorm and be by herself, but she waited for him, wondering if she looked composed—or as impatient and irritated as she felt.
Of course, if she decided that she didn’t need to have a hypercritical boyfriend, she could walk away from this. For good. Whenever she wanted. And he could move on to Frances, or Gaylan, or Connie, or some other female acolyte, in no time.
“Got a feeling I’m going to be pl
aying Beirut tonight,” he said, when he came back.
How perspicacious of him. But, she shrugged.
“Yeah, I figured,” he said, and then shook his head.
She had neither the energy, nor the inclination, to pursue this post-break reunion any further, so maybe, if she made her way towards the exit, she could—
“Have to tell you, I’ve spent most of the last two weeks imagining what we might do the next time we were alone together,” he said.
It had also maybe crossed her mind, more than once. And here they were, pretty much alone right this very second, except for a few people cleaning up the dining hall, and, of course, her damn security entourage. “Was standing in the middle of Mission being pissed off at each other part of what you imagined?” she asked.
“Well, I did picture us in here,” he said, “but we weren’t pissed off.”
His probable train of thought was easy to predict. “Were you on top of me?” she asked.
“Other way around.” He grinned for a second. “Lots of people watching.”
Well, that was certainly vivid.
“Anyway, look,” he said. “I’m not going to apologize if something makes me worry about you. I mean, it’s just not going to happen. Okay?”
Fine. She shrugged. “I’m not going to apologize when I’m too tired to eat.”
They looked at each other, and—well, she couldn’t speak for him, but she was certainly still pissed off, albeit not entirely against the notion of being on top of him.
Just not tonight. And, of course, not here, in the dining hall.
Even though his dorm was part of the Mission Park complex, he insisted upon walking her back to Sage, and she didn’t feel like getting into another fight, so she just nodded.
When they stepped outside, it was so cold that he offered her his coat, a suggestion she declined without a second thought. He frowned and took the jacket off anyway, even though all he was wearing underneath it was an In-N-Out Burger T-shirt. At least she had a sweater on. But, to hell with it. If he wanted to be even more doltish and stubborn than she was, that was his call.
They barely spoke along the way, and ended up standing outside the main door to her entry, not looking at each other. It was freezing, but since he wasn’t shivering, she god-damn well made sure that she wasn’t, either.
“Well,” he said, rather sulkily, hands going into his pockets. “Guess I’ll, I don’t know, see you in Psych tomorrow, maybe.”
Dating was supposed to be fun, wasn’t it? Christ, she couldn’t even describe this as a disaster-in-the-making, since it had already crashed and burned far beyond that. But she needed to remember that she actually liked this guy. Very much. “I wanted the steak,” she said, as he started to walk away.
Jack stopped. “What, and you didn’t get it, because you thought it might make you fat?”
He had no way of knowing how small and pathetic that made her feel, and the degree to which that tone of voice felt assaultive, so she shouldn’t judge him for it.
Shouldn’t being the operative word.
The wind was picking up, and she shivered for a couple of seconds, before remembering that she had had no intention of doing so.
“Well, trust me,” he said. “You can afford the calories.”
She didn’t just feel small; she felt tiny. Insignificant. Like—debris, in fact. “Jack, I forgot to bring my stupid rocker knife with me, and I can’t use a regular one by myself, so even if I’d rather eat something else, I have to pick foods that only need a fork,” she said, gesturing with her splint. Or, alternatively, live in the god-damn White House, where unseen hands would artfully cut and chop everything up for her before sending it out of the kitchen.
His expression changed, every trace of anger disappearing. “I, uh, that didn’t even cross my mind.”
There was really no reason that it should have. “It’s okay,” she said. “I mean, it’s not—I wouldn’t have thought of it either, before.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t have helped you?” he asked. “I mean, God, Meg, you just had surgery, and—of course I would have helped you.”
In front of a table of strangers, who had already watched him carry her tray, and pull out her chair, because she was too crippled to manage basic tasks by herself. Christ, that would have been a scene for one and all to remember.
“Meg?” he asked, when she didn’t say anything.
A few people from her dorm walked by, including Dirk, who was carrying a large brown paper bag.
“Hi, Meg,” he said cheerfully, and indicated the groceries. “Snacks in a while.”
The weekly, unofficially-obligatory Sunday Snacks entry get-together—which she skipped, more often than not—although she nodded and smiled at him, as though she was incredibly eager to attend.
“Going to rush right up there?” Jack asked, when they were by themselves again.
She nodded. “You bet. When it comes to food, I’m a bottomless pit.”
To her relief, he smiled, then looked at her for what seemed like a very long time. “Do I get to kiss you before I take off?” he asked.
“I’d like that very much,” she said.
* * *
SINCE SHE HAD no intention of engaging in any further social interactions for the rest of the night, she took the elevator upstairs and ducked into her room as quickly as possible. She was already lying down before she remembered that she should have taken a couple of her not-cold-enough ice packs out of the mini-refrigerator, but the thought of getting up again was too daunting.
After a while, the phone—the private line, not the drop-line—rang, and she lifted her head just enough to be able to look at the Caller ID number. Beth. She wasn’t sure if she felt like picking up, but right before it would have gone to her voice-mail, she did.
“Hey,” Beth said.
“Hey,” Meg said, in lieu of sighing heavily.
“That doesn’t sound too good,” Beth said.
It wasn’t. Meg kept her sigh to one of only moderate depth. “I want to go home.”
Beth laughed.
It was true, but yeah, it was also a little funny.
“Seen him yet?” Beth asked.
Meg nodded. “Yeah. We were at the dining hall, and it was great, and then he started giving me grief about not eating more.”
It was quiet on the other end of the line. Too quiet.
“Please promise me that you aren’t going to bug me about it, too,” Meg said.
Beth took her time answering. “You’re really thin, Meg,” she said finally. “Scary thin.”
Great.
“You’re under a hundred pounds now, right?” Beth asked.
“I don’t know,” Meg said. Okay, lied, because she was a ninety-eight pound weakling, the last time she’d checked. Well—ninety-five pounds, without the surgical brace, if one wished to be precise.
Beth didn’t say anything.
“Did I used to eat?” Meg asked. “I honestly have no idea.”
“Yeah, you put away almost as much as Steven,” Beth said. “Remember how Sarah was always bitching that you constantly stuffed your face, but never gained any weight?”
Only vaguely. “I think tennis gave me a pretty big appetite,” Meg said. Guessed, really, since she just couldn’t remember.
“Yeah, probably,” Beth said. “You were usually out there three, four hours a day.”
And, often, twice that much, on weekends.
“If he’d held on to me much longer, do you think I would have offered him sex, for food?” Meg asked, breaking the silence.
“No,” Beth said. “I think you would have let yourself starve to death, instead.”
Oh, she of too much faith. “I don’t,” Meg said.
Beth sighed. “Meg, you wouldn’t do it to save your life, so I really don’t think you would have given in for, I don’t know, a bag of potato chips or something.”
In theory.
“Besides, you were getting to him,” Beth s
aid. “He was probably about to break down and bring you something on his own.”
Maybe. She swallowed, feeling nauseated suddenly. “He told me not to trust any food, because they would have done something to it, first.” The grotesque potential details of which she usually tried not to imagine.
“The bastard was just screwing with your head,” Beth said.
Yeah. Effectively so.
“None of this has anything to do with why you’re not eating, right?” Beth asked.
There were a lot of ways to answer that—most of which were mean. But, being mad at Jack—and the guy—and her parents—didn’t mean that she should yell at Beth. It might be cathartic, but, as her mother would say, it would be bad form. “The last time I remember being really hungry was in the mine-shaft,” Meg said.
“I know,” Beth said. “And I hate that. But I’d rather see Jack wanting you to eat more, than saying that if you’re not careful, you’re going to start packing it on.”
Which had been the precipitating remark in her breakup with Ramon, who had told her that after dinner one night—and managed to hit several of Beth’s long-term, well-hidden insecurities in one fell swoop, despite the fact that she had had a striking, classic, hourglass figure since she was about twelve. Although when they were that age, they had both been confused, and unnerved, by the number of inappropriately graphic comments men made to Beth almost every time the two of them were out walking around somewhere.
“Ramon was a schmuck,” Meg said.
“You got that right.” Then, Beth laughed. “Nigel may be, too.”
Her latest conquest, a graduate student from Oxford, who was studying abroad for a year.
“I’m sorry,” Meg said. “I hope he isn’t.”
“Yeah, it’d be a nice change,” Beth said, and paused. “Is Jack a schmuck?”
Was he? Meg thought about that. “I’m not sure yet. But it’s kind of—high maintenance.”
“So, you’re already looking for an excuse to break up with him,” Beth said.
Long May She Reign Page 59
