Back to Yesterday (Bleeding Hearts Book 2)

by Whitney Barbetti

  “It’s not like you’re chunky,” she replied. She poked my stomach and I winced. “You have a little belly fat, but it’s not bad or anything.”

  “Gee, thanks, Char.” She ignored my sarcasm and shrugged.

  “You could always try to lose the weight, like I do.”

  But what she did wasn’t healthy, I reminded myself when I felt the faintest hint of temptation. I couldn’t do it.

  I wasn’t sure why I needed to remind myself of these things.

  When we finally left the bathroom, the guys were in the pool along with four beach balls. They didn’t notice us at first and I was thankful for that. Even though I wasn’t romantically interested in Chris, I still didn’t want him to look at me and see the fat that clung to my figure stubbornly.

  The moment they lifted their heads in our direction, I jumped into the water.

  It was like bath water, warm and soothing over my limbs. I treaded water on one end even though I could easily touch the bottom, as Chris and Brendan tossed a ball back and forth to one another. Charlotte climbed down the ladder into the pool, and I found it an interesting contradiction to how she approached life. She’d been single for two weeks before she’d latched on to Brendan, and her relationship with him was longer than any of the ones I’d been around for.

  I watched her arms circle his neck and his hands went to her waist as he spun her around. The lights in the water changed from blue to green and the music could barely be heard over our splashing and swimming. “Catch!” Chris called just as he lobbed a beach ball my way. I barely had a second to register its approach, but lifted my hand just before it hit me in the face, hitting it back in his direction. The pool was only about four feet deep the whole way around, so we were able to move around with ease.

  “Let’s play chicken!” Charlotte shouted before Brendan dove under the water between her legs and lifted her in the air on his shoulders. He shook his face and then wiped the water that poured over his eyes.

  I started shaking my head, but before I could say anything, I felt myself being lifted off of my feet and I yelped, grabbing hold of Chris’s body as he emerged from the water. “I’ve never played chicken,” I said weakly, feeling even more self-conscious of the fact that I was on Chris’s shoulders, his neck in line with my crotch. But his arms crossed over my shins, holding me firmly to him.

  “All you have to do is knock me off of Brendan’s shoulders,” Charlotte said as Brendan stepped toward us and Charlotte put her hands out to grab me. I let her hold on for a second before I pushed her a little. Brendan barely stepped back a step before coming forward again. Chris stepped left and right as I reached for Charlotte, keeping us moving so that we were a harder target for them. Once I’d grabbed hold of Charlotte’s forearms, she grabbed mine and we struggled back and forth, twisting one another as the guys laughed at the noises we were making. Slowly, I lost what had made me self-conscious and began to enjoy myself. I knew my thoughts were exhausting, which was why I often kept them to myself, but I hadn’t realized how much they hindered me.

  We struggled for a few more minutes until I grabbed Charlotte’s hands and then pushed, sending her sliding backward off of Brendan’s shoulders. Immediately, Chris went under the water and I slid from his shoulders. The water felt shockingly warm on the backs of my thighs after being on Chris’s shoulders for so long.

  When Charlotte emerged, she shouted, “I call a rematch!”

  “Come on, brother,” Brendan said to Chris as he pulled Charlotte to him.

  “No way, I’m whooped.” Chris swam to one side of the pool and then leaned back against it, his arms up on the side as his legs kicked out.

  “Oh, you really put the ‘baby’ in the label ‘baby brother.’” Brendan picked Charlotte up and tossed her in the air as she squealed.

  “Well, you had it easy,” Chris said with a nod to where Charlotte had landed in the water. “She weighs less than a beer.”

  I wanted to curl into myself then; make myself so small that not only would they be unable to see me, but their comments couldn’t touch me.

  “Ouch, dude,” Brendan admonished him with a look at me.

  It didn’t matter, I told myself, at the same time as Doug’s haunting words filtered through my thoughts.

  Fat. Worthless.

  I rubbed a hand over my stomach under the water and turned my face away from them. Why should I have been so affected by what Chris said? It was amazing to me that we could hurt so deeply over the things said by inconsequential people.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” Chris said as Charlotte’s head popped up from under water.

  “What did you mean?” Brendan asked, and I wanted to tell him to shut up so that I didn’t have to listen to them having a conversation about my weight while I was within hearing distance.

  “I meant that Charlotte,” Chris said, with clear and defined frustration in his voice, “weighs practically nothing.”

  “What did I miss?” Charlotte asked, but I had turned away from the lot of them to look out of the window, at the stars that blinked up in the sky.

  “Chris won’t go again because Trista is too heavy for him.”

  I closed my eyes and curled my toes into the smooth bottom of the pool. Shut up, shut up, shut up, I thought.

  But somehow, the silence that ensued after that comment was even worse—like everyone was looking at me, or thinking about me, and the way I was too heavy for another guy to carry on his shoulders.

  I didn’t last long in the pool after that, and went back to my room alone. Charlotte was splashing around when I left, so I knew she hadn’t noticed me leaving. Which was fine. It was. I didn’t need her taking pity on me.

  As I brushed my teeth for bed, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks were rounder than I remembered them being and my pointed chin wasn’t so pointed, not with the flesh that surrounded it. I was wearing pajamas, but my shirt was tight enough on me that I could see the roundness in my belly protruding against the fabric.

  I gripped my hand around the toothbrush handle a bit tighter, sliding over the back of my teeth more rigorously.

  Remembering the story Charlotte had told me, about being pregnant and puking, I paused in brushing my teeth.

  I wish I could say I wasn’t fully aware of what I was doing, that the toothbrush moved back, farther and farther until I felt my stomach clench down, that I wasn’t controlling it all. But I was—I was the one in control. I was the one that pushed the toothbrush all the way to the back of my mouth until I felt that hot vomit rise up my throat and pour out of my mouth into the sink.

  Gagging, I dropped my toothbrush and gripped the sides of the sink. Their coolness seemed to have an immediate effect, calming my stomach and my nerves, and my breathing became less shallow as the water pulled my vomit down the drain.

  Looking into the mirror, I saw the blood that had rushed to the skin around my mouth, the tears in my eyes, and I found myself hating that person in the mirror a little less than I had when I’d left the pool house. Even though most of my vomit had just been the water I’d drank in the pool house, there had been a little bit of food. My stomach whined from being empty, so I filled my hand with water from the faucet and drank it, clearing my mouth of the acid taste.

  And then, with more calm than I knew I possessed, I squirted another glob of toothpaste on my brush and brushed my teeth again.

  I felt like my thoughts were swarming me, trying to get me to sort out how I felt about puking.

  Relief was the biggest sensation, but close behind was disgust. I was weak. I’d followed a crooked path, made a decision I couldn’t take back. I had given in. I was weak. And I was still fat. Still worthless.

  But I was empty—a feeling I knew all too well, a feeling that was comfortable, in a way.

  And overwhelming all of this was knowing that it wouldn’t be my last time forcing myself to vomit. I was weak. Fat. Worthless.

  I’d already admitted defeat in doing it the fi
rst time. Why shouldn’t I do it again?

  Just then, my phone buzzed. It took me a second to register what the sound was, because I so rarely received texts or calls, but there it was. Buzzing.

  I looked down at the name that flashed across the screen: Mila.

  There were few reasons she could be calling me, but I found myself pressing answer anyway.

  “Hello?”

  The silence on the other end was punctuated with the sound of one breath being exhaled. “Trista.”

  It wasn’t Mila on the other end. It was Jude.

  I didn’t know what to say. My fight or flight response kicked in and I wanted to drop my phone. Instead I cradled it, not saying a single word.

  “Are you okay?”

  I nodded, but the vomit smell that remained in the bathroom with me was pungent all of a sudden. “I’m fine.” I was glad he couldn’t look at me, call me the liar I was.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m somewhere safe,” I told him, but it felt false somehow.

  “It’s Christmas. Are you alone?”

  “No.” It was a whisper.

  “I’m worried about you.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “I miss you,” he said, and I felt it slither in between my ribs, racking against my heart.

  “I miss you too.” And then I hung up.

  Chapter Eleven

  May 2012

  Tuesdays were my favorite, because I had the day off. I worked half days on Wednesdays and Thursdays and full days every other day of the week.

  Except Tuesdays. Often, I spent them in a coffee shop, reading books on poetry so that I could learn more. I didn’t need more inspiration, necessarily.

  But that Tuesday, something in the air felt different, so I took my books and a roll-out towel mat to the beach. The weather was much cooler than what was typical desirable beach weather, but I wasn’t going to go in the water, so the cooler air didn’t bother me.

  On my way out the door, Maura stopped me as she dried her hands on a dish towel.

  “It’s my day off,” I told her, like she wasn’t the person who made the schedule and knew when my days off were.

  “I know,” she said plainly, looking me up and down with an eagle eye. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Huh?” I asked, slipping my bag up higher on my shoulder with one hand while I wrapped my fingers around the strap.

  She pointed with one hand at my face. “You’ve lost weight. I’m not sure as to how much, but something’s different with your face.”

  Ever since Christmas, I had found myself more comfortable with vomiting after eating. Not all my meals. Not even every day. Just a few times a week. I’d noticed a negligible difference in the way my pants fell from my hips, but then, I wouldn’t notice a difference in myself. I wore this skin day in and day out, my feet carried this weight every single day. I wouldn’t notice any change over a period of five months. “I’ve been more active since I started on here.”

  “Uh huh.” It was Maura’s favorite thing to say. “For someone who claims to be active, I sure see you sitting in the sunroom a lot, tapping that pen to your mouth.”

  I blinked at her, surprised she’d noticed. In my off hours, which were blessedly few, I often found myself in the sun porch Maura had installed at the back of the inn, curled up in the window seat if it was free, staring at a notebook as I contemplated what to write. “It’s the nicest spot in the house.”

  With a lift of her eyebrow, she said, “I know that, girl. But what I’m saying is that I don’t see you walking around,” she lifted her hands in air quotes, “being ‘more active’ and such.” She tucked the dish towel in her apron and cocked her head to the side. “I’ve noticed you’ve been hanging around Charlotte more.”

  I’d been growing closer to Claire before Christmas had hit, but ever since Christmas at Charlotte’s boyfriend’s house, I’d felt more drawn to her. She understood what it was like, to walk around in a sleeve of flesh that you didn’t understand. To live with heartbreak and find solace in other things.

  “I’ve been walking a lot, on Tuesdays,” I explained, which wasn’t a total lie but not the reason I left the inn on Tuesdays. “Do you need me today?”

  Maura peered at me, and I had the feeling that she didn’t believe me. “You taking the laxatives?”

  With a laugh, I gave her a raised eyebrow. “The laxatives? Is that code for something?”

  Maura pointed above us at the ceiling. “Claire, when she was in school, got into the laxatives.”

  “Do you mean actual laxatives?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “’Course I do. Do I look like someone who would one, know street names for drugs and two, use code words? I’m talking plain English, straight up laxatives, girl. Follow what I’m sayin’ here.”

  She had a point, so I nodded. “But why would Claire take laxatives?”

  “Psh,” Maura said with a roll of her eyes. “Girl thought she was fat or something. So I told her if she was worried about it to lay off the midnight ice cream. But does she listen to me? ‘Course not.” Maura seemed to fire up the more she spoke. “But then my brother calls me and tells me she’s taking laxatives to lose weight. Couldn’t have been comfortable, being on the shitter all the time, but what do I know?” But Maura, with one hand on her hip and the shake of her head, was keenly aware that she knew better than a teenager taking laxatives to lose weight.

  “I’ve never heard of that.”

  “Well, that’s because it’s stupid.” If Maura could spit in her own home, she would’ve. But she tossed her head back and shook her hair away from her face. “Anyways, she’s not on them anymore, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you did something like that too.”

  I laughed, because it was Maura, someone who did better with insults than compliments. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Maura.” All this talk was making me more anxious, so I hiked my bag up higher and gave her a raise of my eyebrows. “But I’m going to go down to the beach for the day, if you need me.”

  She wagged a finger at me as she shuffled some papers along her desk. “Can you help me with the site later? I’m getting double bookings for some reason when people try to reserve a room.”

  I nodded, my hand on the door. “Sure. I can do that tonight.”

  She nodded but then tilted her head. She looked me over like she saw something in me, but wasn’t sure what it was. “You got a coat in there? It’s breezed up out there,” she said with a tilt of her head to the window.

  I was getting used to some of the Maine colloquialisms, but they still set me back for a pause as I looked out the window—seeing the wind sending a stray bit of trash down the drive. “Come on, Maura,” I said with a light laugh. “It’s the warmest day we’ve had in ages.”

  She waved a hand at me. “Then get off with you, if you know so much.”

  “I’ll be back before dinner. I’ll look at the website then.”

  “Good.” She nodded like I’d satisfied whatever worries she had for me. I said one last goodbye before I left the house.

  I was halfway down the planked walkway to the beach when I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket.

  In the months since I’d first texted Mila from my new phone, we’d exchanged very few texts. In fact, I could count on two hands the number of times she’d initiated conversations with me, whereas I hadn’t reached out to her even once. But the text that came through made me pause my steps.

  Mila: I’m really sorry.

  I stared at that for a minute before I scrolled up through our previous messages, wondering what her meaning was. Our last text exchange had been a week earlier and had gone simply:

  Mila: Just checking in. You okay?

  Me: Peachy. You?

  Mila: Fine. Just bored, waiting at a casting call.

  Me: Jude?

  Mila: Everything is good here. I’d tell you if it wasn’t.

  Me: Thanks, Mila.

  And that was it. That was how our conver
sations generally went. She often extended the olive branch to talk to me about things going on in her life, but part of me still hadn’t forgiven her for what had happened before I’d left Colorado. I was still angrier with Colin, but that anger felt abstract—like I wasn’t that upset because I hadn’t felt much for him in so long. But the apology text confused me. So I replied simply.

  Me: ?

  She didn’t respond immediately, so I spread my towel mat onto the sand and wrapped myself in the sweater I’d packed before I laid out my pens and notebook.

  Maine was such a different landscape than Wyoming or Colorado. And even though I’d lived in Maine far longer than I had ever lived in Colorado, Maine didn’t feel like home. I had a job, I had people counting on me. But it wasn’t a place that felt permanent. It was just a place that I was in for the time being. I likened it to a grocery store, a place I visited to get what I needed. I just hadn’t figured out yet what I needed.

  But when I said that to myself, my mind always, always went to Jude. I needed to change my way of thinking, because I shouldn’t need anyone to be myself. That’s how I differed from Charlotte. She chased heartache so much that it was a part of who she was. But I’d had enough sadness to last me for a long while. I just didn’t know who I was outside of the pain.

  I opened my green notebook, and thought of who always crossed my mind the moment I put pen to paper.

  Jude. My muse.

  I never realized

  my silence

  was tied to

  my suffering.

  I never realized

  how lonely

  my heart was.

  Until your voice

  filled my ears

  and your love

  filled my heart.

  And now

  it’s always silent

  and I’m always empty.

  But it was my choice,

  and, very likely,

  my mistake.

  I no longer cried when I wrote words like these ones, the ones admitting that leaving Colorado had likely been a mistake. But it’d been ten months, and I was still gone. In my head, I wanted to know he was happy—even if it was with someone else. But if I let myself think about it too much, my heart, my undeserving, selfish heart, wanted him to be waiting for me.