Lighter

by Gia Riley

  The car shuts off, but she doesn’t move. I tap her shoulder to get her attention. “We’re here. You okay?”

  She nods her head. “I’m good.”

  “Where’d you go? You were spaced out.”

  She unbuckles her seatbelt and opens her door. “Nowhere. I’m good,” she says as she climbs out of the car. Of course I stare at her ass again like a dick and then get out of the car myself.

  Once inside, I look over the menu deciding quickly on my usual melt and fries. Sophie’s sitting across from me in the booth scanning the menu. “Whatcha getting?”

  “I’m not overly hungry. Probably a garden salad and some water.” She closes her menu and lays it on top of mine. What?

  “There’s no way you can come here and get lettuce, Sophie. This place is famous for milkshakes and burgers.”

  “Coach would kill me if I ate all that. It’s bad enough I can’t practice or exercise, I’ll never get in shape at the rate I’m going. He’s going to cut me, I know it.”

  So that’s what’s been on her mind. It all makes more sense now. Remembering back to her drunken confession about being too ugly, I suddenly want to have words with her coach. How the hell can he tell someone the size of Sophie she’s out of shape? She wouldn’t have been given a scholarship if she wasn’t talented. But I know what it’s like to be your own worst critic. I have to word what I say to her perfectly, or she’ll believe what her coach told her. Before I can get a word out, the waitress stops at our table. “What can I get you two?” she asks.

  I respond before Sophie has a chance to open her mouth. “We’ll take two patty melts, a large fry, and two chocolate shakes.”

  “Coming right up.” Tammy, as her nametag tells me, scoops up the menus and sashays across the checkerboard floor with her order pad and pen.

  When I chance a glance at Sophie, she looks stunned. “What?” I question.

  “Kipton, I said I need a salad. Why would you do that?”

  “You said you need it, but what do you want, Sophie?”

  She’s shaking her head back and forth, visibly pissed off with my selection. “It’s not a matter of what I want, Kipton. Nothing ever is. I wanted to live a little last night and look what that got me—a concussion with an entire team and coach who don’t want me in the gym anymore. I’ve never screwed up more in my life than I have this week, so stop trying to tell me what I want. All you’ve done so far is cause trouble with your damn winks and sexy smiles. So stop fucking with me!”

  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 pu
t 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.

  Despite what I did, my years of therapy aren’t forgotten. If I were to call my therapist right now and admit what just happened, she would ask one thing and one thing only. Why? My response would be simple yet complicated. Because it erases the wrong. It’s the only answer I’ve ever been able to give to her question and the only way I can justify making it better.

  After splashing some cool water on my face and rinsing out my mouth, I slowly come back down from my high. I dig around in my purse for a stick of sugar free gum that instantly makes my mouth water from the cool spearmint flavor. Swallowing painfully, I’m certain my throat will be raw for the rest of the night. It’s nothing I can’t handle though—I’m back in complete control of my universe.

  Maybe a part of the old Sophie came back to life tonight, but I don’t fear her—not yet. With my head held high, I return to Kipton. Just like Coach Evans said, temptation is all around me. I’ll show him I’m strong enough to resist—that I want to win more than anything else.

  Kipton looks concerned when I slide into the booth. “You okay, Sophie? You look pale.”

  “I’m good. A little tired.” I take a few sips of the water left sitting on our table even after our plates have been cleared. I’m thankful the waitress thought to leave them behind. The cool temperature of the water helps to soothe my throat. “How much do I owe?”

  “Not a cent. You’re my date tonight, darlin’.’”

  “Thanks for covering the bill, but you didn’t have to. I’m fine with paying.”

  He ignores my offer entirely, being nothing but the gentleman I’ve known him to be. “I wanted to.”

  “Okay.” I’m too worn out to argue as much as I’d like to pay my own way. I slide my weakened body out of the booth and Kipton follows closely behind me. His fingers graze the small of my back. The gesture, although foreign to me, appears slightly possessive. When I glance over my shoulder, Kipton offers me one of his signature winks. He’s aware his touch is affecting me. I only wish I didn’t crave it as much as I do. It’s wrong to want it, but maybe it doesn’t have to be.

  “You nervous?”

  “Kinda. I don’t like anything related to the doctor.” Because they make me tell the truth, but I don’t share that information with him.

  “You’ll be fine. It’ll be over before you know it and then we can get back to our date.” He rests his arm around my shoulder and looks confident about his plans. I’m fine with it as long as he keeps me out of trouble. Or maybe I’m just too weak around him to decipher anything threatening.

  THE YOUNG RECEPTIONIST BLUSHES WHEN I step up to the counter. She’s glancing between the paperwork and Kipton while rattling off which ones to sign and what she needs from me. He gives her a smile and leans further inside the open window. She looks thrilled he’s inching closer, maybe even hoping he asks for her number. “Isn’t she beautiful?” he whispers.

  My pen slips off the signature line and draws a line onto the counter top. I stare at him like he has two heads. “Kipton!”

  The receptionist sputters, trying to figure out an appropriate response to his statement. I almost feel bad for her—almost. But considering he does it to me every time I’m around him, I enjoy it instead.

  Kipton backs away from the window with a smirk. “It’s not my fault my date’s smoking hot.” He walks away and finds a seat near the TV. Flipping a few channels, he finds ESPN and gets comfortable. Make yourself at home.

  Before I have a chance to sit down next to him, the technician calls me back to the dressing area. It’s a damn good thing they don’t take my vital signs because right about now my heart is nearly thumping out of my chest. Kipton continues to surprise me every time he opens his mouth. So much so that the entire time I’m lying on the table, I’m busy trying to put his words into context. Either he’s just a natural born flirt, or he speaks the truth. I’m not sure which it is yet, but I’ll figure him out sooner or later.

  “You can sit up, you’re finished.”

  “Already? That was fast.”

  Laughing, the technician says I’m free to go. Other than the discomfort of lying down and being as still as possible, the test only lasted a few short minutes. It took me longer to change into and out of the gown. Not that I’m complaining.

  Exiting the dressing area, Kipton’s sitting in the far corner of the waiting room paging through a magazine. He moved since I left him. Giggling when I realize he’s reading a popular gossip magazine, I stand in front of him, but he doesn’t even see me he’s so engrossed in the article. “So what’s the scoop?”

  Kipton’s head snaps up and he quickly closes the magazine, returning it to the side table. “It’s all they had.” He’s full of shit.

  I bend down and pick up a men’s fitness magazine off the top of the stack. “Then what’s this?”

  “I didn’t see that.” He stands up from his chair with a smile on his face, not the least bit embarrassed about being caught. “How was your test? You all done?”

  “It was easy, thankfully. We can go.” I turn around towards the exit, but Kipton puts his hand on my shoulder from behind, halting me in my tracks. His body is flush against mine causing my heart rate to increase from his body heat alone. When I sense him inching closer, I’m positive he’s about to kiss my neck. Leaning my head back towards his chest to give him better access, I close my eyes as his lips brush against my ear. He’s so close, his warm breath on my skin sends goose bumps down my arms. Eager to hear what he wants from me, I anticipate the sexy suggestion. Leaning even closer, he whispers so nobody else in the room can hear, “Your shirt’s on backwards.”

  Mortified, I look down and realize he’s right. The brand logo is on my back instead of across my boobs. I slip inside the bathroom in the waiting room to fix it. The simple task of turning around my top has me winded and suddenly exhausted. This is ridiculous.

  When I open the door, Kipton’s leaning against the wall waiting for me. “That’s better, beautiful.”

  My cheeks redden from his endearment, but I’m not embarrassed. Part of me
might even like it. While my body’s reaction to Kipton continues to confuse me, I can’t convince myself to tell him to stop. Between the touching and the sweet words, he’s not making it easy to resist his charm.

  After tucking me back into the passenger side of his car, he turns the radio on. I flinch from the intensity of the base. “Can you turn it down a little,” I ask. My head is once again throbbing.

  “Sure.” He reaches for the dial and turns it so low we can barely hear the words. “Are you okay?” he asks again.

  I rub my temples hoping for a little relief. “Damn headache.”

  “I’m sorry. Do you have anything in your purse you can take? I might have something in the glove box.”

  “I ran out, but I’m sure Cara has something in the room until I can get to the store.”

  At the next red light, Kipton glances at me and rubs my knee soothingly. His touch has me squeezing my thighs together tightly. “I hate seeing you in pain, Sophie. Especially when it’s my fault.”

  I turn my head to look at him. The old Sophie would have made him feel the regret of his ways regardless of the truth, but I’m not that girl anymore despite my moment of weakness tonight. My purge pushed my reset button. It’s as close as I can come to getting a do over because this time I’ll get it right—I’m solely responsible. “Kipton, none of this is your fault. If anything, you made it better.”

  Raising an eyebrow he doesn’t comprehend what I’m trying to say. “You helped me at your house when I was sick, let me sleep in your bed, bought me dinner, and drove me to my scan. You’re taking care of me better than I’ve taken care of myself.” After the admission springs free, I realize the truth of the statement. Maybe I still am my own worst enemy, but I refuse to go down without a fight this time.