by Leigh, Tara
Tucker hurt me, true. But he’s also been my biggest supporter. He helped me with my scholarship, although I have earned it by pulling my grade point average up to nearly a 4.0. And he’s been a godsend to my mother who is doing well after going to the fancy rehab Tucker arranged and is now back at home with Sadie.
I do care about Tucker. And I am genuinely attracted to him. Maybe it’s his confidence that keeps me so enthralled. Tucker is so damn sure of himself, secure in where he’s come from and where he’s going. Being with Tucker means I’m relieved of the pressure to pretend I have all the answers. It’s freeing, in a way.
Tucker has the safety net of his family’s wealth and influence, but he’s still ambitious and competitive. On the field, he will stop at nothing to win. And when it comes to school, he shows up, does the work, and is always at the top of his class.
But it’s Tucker’s work with TeenCharter that impresses me the most. He doesn’t have to do it, but he seems to genuinely enjoy his time with the kids—often acting like a big kid himself. He’s spent time and his own money, creating programming that’s both entertaining and inspiring.
The more sides of Tucker I see, the less I remember the one from that night.
Sometimes he’s the charmer from our first New Year’s Eve together. Sometimes, like after he wins a big game, he’s cocky and flirtatious.
He can also be quite a tyrant. Not cruel. Just… bossy. Tucker likes to be in control, always. Surprisingly… I don’t mind ceding it.
When we’re together, I don’t have to think about where to go to dinner or what movie to see. Tucker always has an opinion, and I’ve realized that I don’t miss dealing with the daily minutia that once cluttered my mind.
He’s insightful, too. I’ve learned to listen when he points out which of my study partners is just using me for my notes, or what sweater is best left in my closet. The same goes for which guy is taking my casual smile as an invitation of something more.
We made the decision to become exclusive last semester. Well, Tucker decided to become exclusive. I wasn’t seeing anyone else and had no plans to. I am the center of Tucker’s attention, his priority. And I like it.
When we walk through campus, hand in hand, I feel the jealous stares of other girls. No more dismissive, disparaging glances that cut me to the quick. I’m not an unwelcome misfit anymore… except to Wren. But I don’t care about her. After graduation, Tucker and I will probably go our separate ways and Wren can have him back.
For now, Tucker and I spend almost every night together. I enjoy sex with him, deriving just as much pleasure watching him come apart in my arms as I do when he sends me off that same ledge. Afterward, our limbs tangled beneath the sheets of a twin-sized bed and my head resting on his chest, his heartbeat pounding beneath my cheek, I know I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
So yeah, I surrendered.
Is this a different kind of love than I knew with Gavin? A less risky kind of love? Maybe. Yes.
Nothing like freshman year has ever happened again. And not just because I rarely drink, and never more than a few sips here and there. Tucker’s careful, too. He pays attention to everything I do when we’re together. What I eat, how much I drink, who I talk to, what I’m wearing.
A silvery white ribbon is wrapped around the black box, and I pull at it now, my fingers stiff and clumsy beneath the weight of Tucker’s stare. There is a frisson of impatience wafting off him, like steam rising from wet asphalt beneath the morning sun, and I concentrate on untying the knot beneath the bow.
Finally, the ribbon comes loose, sliding off the square edges into a silken pile on my lap and fully revealing the name stamped across the top. Giorgio Armani. Folded inside the layers of white tissue is a diaphanous blouse the color of freshly poured cream, practically weightless as I hold it up. “This is beautiful, Tucker.”
That impatience disappears and a happy smile splits Tucker’s handsome face. I love it when he looks like this. Like he wouldn’t know an ulterior motive if he stepped on it. “There’s more,” he prods.
Setting the blouse aside, I pull out a stunning navy jacket and matching skirt. My mouth opens on an appreciative sigh, both pieces so well-tailored I know it will spoil me for anything I can afford on my own. “Tucker, this is just—”
“Perfect for you,” he finishes.
I was going to say “too much,” but decide to swallow the words instead. Price tags don’t matter to Tucker, and he’ll interpret it as criticism. “Thank you, really. I love it.”
“Why don’t you try it on?” he suggests. I glance at the size, my heart sinking when I see the small number printed on the tag. Not surprisingly, Tucker notices the quick flash of disappointment streak across my face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Nothing at all.”
I get up, crossing the room to my dresser and unobtrusively slipping a Spanx slip from the top drawer. Opening the door of my closet, I position myself behind it. Tucker has seen me naked dozens of times, at least. He likes my curves, or at least that’s what he’s told me. But I’m worried about the number printed on the tag at my neck. Size four. The one I’d been when I started at Worthington. I’ve gained at least ten pounds since then. Weight even Spanx might not be able to erase.
I bite back a groan as I tug the modified scuba suit up my hips, and manage to squeeze into the clothes, although the zipper and buttons aren’t happy about it. “It’s a little tight, I think.” Emerging from behind the closet door, I stand awkwardly on the other side of the room.
Tucker rises, walking toward me. I expect him to pull out a gift receipt and encourage me to exchange the clothes for the next size up. He doesn’t. “That’s okay. You said you wanted to get back into shape, so I bought it a little small.”
A disconcerted flush races up my chest to heat my face. I know if I look in the mirror there will be unsightly pink patches on my cheeks. “Oh.” I’m at a loss for words. Thanks?
“I’ve got to run to practice.” He drops a quick kiss on my lips. “I’ll swing by later.”
And then he’s gone. In the span of Tucker’s visit, he’s made me feel happy, appreciated, grateful, insecure, and mortified—all within ten minutes.
I don’t want to see him later.
I hope he comes back soon.
Scared of popping a button, I suck in my breath and carefully undress. Hanging Tucker’s gift in my closet, I practically rip the skin-toned shapewear from my body.
You said you wanted to get back into shape, so I bought it a little small.
Had I said that? I must have.
Rather than slipping back into comfy sweats and opening up my laptop, I dig through my drawer for the workout clothes I haven’t worn in ages. Too long, obviously.
At the track, I run until sweat beads my brow and my muscles ache from fatigue.
I run until the chaos clouding my mind is quiet, solely focused on my next step, my next breath.
I run until the pain in my chest is from exertion rather than shame.
Chapter 28
Worthington University
Spring Semester, Senior Year
The cafeteria on campus is practically empty at five o’clock. I know this through careful observation, timing my visits in fifteen-minute intervals to determine the most optimal time to pick up my dinner. If I fill my cardboard take-out container quickly, most days no one will even see what I put inside.
I always tell myself I’ll only have a salad. Just some lettuce and chickpeas, a tiny drizzle of vinaigrette. And usually, I listen to that inner voice.
Sometimes, I ignore it completely.
Today is one of those days.
Instead of heading immediately to the salad bar and turning a blind eye to anything else, I do exactly the opposite. The glistening displays of pizza, buckets of French fries, pasta, and stir-fry stations are all I can see. I’ve eaten nothing but a banana for breakfast and a protein bar for lunch. Because this is what I eat. Every day, sin
ce deciding that squeezing into a size four Armani suit was my most important goal in life.
Having to stand in front of Tucker, literally busting at the seams, was an experience I will do anything not to repeat. That afternoon, while I was sucking wind on Worthington’s track for the first time ever, I came up with a plan. No need to research the latest diet fads, or sign up for Weight Watchers. All I needed was willpower. I would eat three meals a day. Banana for breakfast. Protein bar for lunch. Salad for dinner. Plus a half-hour run.
My plan worked. Within a couple of weeks, I didn’t need Spanx to close the zipper. And by the time I walked into my interviews, I felt pretty and successful. Being offered a job with a Manhattan-based marketing company was the icing on my cake. Slowly but surely, I’m working toward the goals I set for myself when I applied to Worthington. Goals I set with Gavin, showing him pictures from stolen magazines.
Missing him hurts a little less these days. Mostly because, for my own sanity, I pretend he’s the guy who got away instead of the guy I turned my back on. Everyone has one of those.
Dieting down to a size four was almost too easy. I felt good, especially after Tucker said that my newly slim figure made me look like I’d been born on the Upper East Side.
Like Wren.
Except, Wren is a size two.
So now I pick the smallest banana in the bunch instead of the biggest. Choose a protein bar with less sugar. Even less salad dressing.
These days, my new suit is a little too big.
Tucker noticed, of course. Just last night he’d swirled his tongue over my protruding hipbones, calling me delicate. He’d been so gentle, pushing into me as though I might shatter in his arms. I liked it.
But I have a secret. I’ve discovered a trick. One or two nights a week, I hit the cafeteria early, filling my cardboard box full of everything that tempts me. Pizza and pasta. French fries. Egg rolls and fried rice. Bread and cupcakes and chocolate mousse. Everything I can fit into the takeout box, in five minutes or less. And then I race back to my room, lock the door, close the lights, turn off my phone. And I eat.
My bites are determined, mechanically pulverizing each mouthful. I eat until my jaw hurts, until my stomach feels like a five-pound bag stuffed with ten pounds of rocks. By the time I get three-quarters of the way through my super-sized meal, I’m crying. And that feels good, too, like the tears make way for more food.
This is what I’m doing right now. Eating and crying.
I don’t stop until I’ve finished every bite.
The second I’m done, the greasy cardboard stares at me in accusation. I can’t get rid of it fast enough. The bathroom would be the easiest way, but it is communal, shared with the other residents of my floor.
I have a system though. With shaking fingers, I line my garbage pail with two grocery bags. Quickly, because every second that passes means more calories are digested.
As soon as the bags are wrapped tight around the edge, I turn up the volume on my speaker and shove the fingers of my right hand down my throat, holding the pail to my chest with my left. My first attempt is unsuccessful. So is my second. There’s too much in my stomach, and it’s too thick.
Panic spirals through my veins. I have to get this food out of me. Now. I let go of the pail, chug half a bottle of water, jump up and down a few times.
Then I suck in a deep breath and try again. My stomach lurches once, twice, its contents finally rising up and spewing from my mouth before I can get my hand out of the way. Vomit and saliva drip from my fingers, but I don’t care. The need to purge myself of every single gluttonous thing I just shoved down my throat is overwhelming, undeniable, irresistible. I want to feel good again. Empty and light.
I shove my fingers back inside my mouth, again and again. Until all that’s left are dry heaves and I’m sure there’s not a single French fry or bite of cake left inside of me.
It’s not just food I’m expelling. It’s sadness and shame and self-loathing. Feelings of not being good enough.
The person who ate enough for a family of five—she is disgusting. Undisciplined. Lazy. Coarse.
I am not her.
After tying the bags closed, I put them inside another trash bag, and throw everything down the garbage disposal chute. Half an hour later, I’m at my desk, freshly showered and Listerine’d, with a hot cup of tea at my side while I study. Feeling like a different person. A better person. A person who deserves nice things, and a smart, handsome boyfriend.
A person who’s not falling apart on the inside because I’m so determined to keep up with my confident, pulled-together facade on the outside.
I get about an hour’s worth of work done before Sadie calls, and I have to stifle my irritation at the interruption. “Hey, sis. How’s Mom doing?”
“She’s fine. And would it kill you to ask about me occasionally?”
“Whoa. What’s gotten into you?”
“Maybe if you’d call me every once in a while instead of the other way around—”
“I call!” If I’d known what kind of mood Sadie was in, I would have sent her straight to voice mail. But ever since our mom’s arrest, I pick up right away.
“Only to talk to Mom or ask about Mom. Never me.”
I swallow an aggravated sigh, but I know she’s right. “Fine. I’m sorry. How are you?”
A few seconds pass. “Well, if you really want to know, why don’t I come up this weekend. We could spend some time together and—”
“This weekend?” I love my sister but she rips through my life like a hurricane whenever she comes to visit. She wants to hang out with Tucker and explore the campus and go to parties. I miss the days when she was happy to hang out in her own bedroom, her nose buried in a book.
“Yeah, this weekend. I haven’t seen you in ages.”
“On Sunday I have a TeenCharter—”
“Of course you do. You’d rather hang out with those kids than with your own sister.”
“Sadie, I made a commitment—”
“Yeah, well, maybe you can recommit to your own family. You’ve all but abandoned us.”
I choke on a mouthful of now lukewarm tea. Doesn’t Sadie realize what I’ve sacrificed for my family? “If that were true, mom would be in jail right now.”
Sadie’s scoffs. “She’s not in jail because the guy you’re fucking waved his magic wand. Is his dick just as magical, Poppy? Because maybe I should find someone—”
“Stop it,” I cut her off. There is more than a grain of truth to what Sadie is saying, but I won’t have my little sister shoving it in my face. “If you only called to say ugly things to me, I’m hanging up.”
The sudden silence on the other end of the line means Sadie is biting her lip, hard, to keep quiet.
“How about next weekend?” I offer begrudgingly.
“That depends. Are you going to cancel on me like you did last time, and the time before that?”
“I—” I stop myself from denying it. She’s right. “I promise. Now, do you want to come or not?”
She exhales a pent-up sigh. “Fine. I need to get out of Sackett for a while.”
I hated Sackett when I lived there, so I can imagine how Sadie feels having never left. Yet the tone of Sadie’s voice makes me wonder if there isn’t something more to her call than just wanting a brief respite from small-town life.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing. It’s stupid.”
“Okay,” I say, knowing the way to get my sister to talk is to pretend not to be interested.
“It’s all a misunderstanding. I mean, I’m not a stalker for God’s sake.”
I close my laptop. Sadie treats boys like she used to treat her novels—completely enraptured until she’s finished, then casting them aside to move onto the next one. I’ve never known her to pursue a guy before, unless you count checking out his social media history. “Who’s accusing you of stalking?”
She groans. “Just some girl.”
“A girl?” I hav
e to fight an amused grin. “Is this some kind of love-triangle gone wrong?”
“Oh, please. I only wish it were that scandalous. Life in Sackett might be interesting for once. No, it’s just some idiot who’s too dumb to realize no one can steal a guy. If he’s not happy, he’s going to leave. That’s not stealing.”
My empty stomach clenches. “Sadie, please tell me you’re not dating a married man.”
“I’m not. They’re not even engaged.”
“Good.”
“But even if I were, what’s the problem? He would be the one cheating. Not me.”
My jaw sags. “I guess technically, but—”
“But what? It’s the truth.”
“It may be the truth, but that doesn’t make it right.”
I can tell she’s rolling her eyes at me. “Whatever. See you next weekend, sis.”
With a sigh, I check the time. Twenty-three minutes of my life I won’t get back.
On the other hand, I am twenty-three minutes closer to my banana breakfast.
Chapter 29
Worthington University
Graduation Day
“…Earning a diploma from Worthington University is a tremendous accomplishment. Looking out at all of you, I am confident this is only the first of many worthy endeavors, of milestones and crossed finished lines, earned through hard work and tenacity…”
I look around at the sea of navy caps and gowns surrounding me in the main quad. The graduating class is arranged alphabetically, which has landed me in the second to last row. In front of us is a stage with the chancellor and provost and commencement speaker, and a whole bunch of other people I don’t recognize.
I hadn’t wanted to be here today. The commencement ceremony is really just a formality. If I skipped the event, my diploma would simply be mailed to me. When I floated this concept to Tucker, he’d been horrified. If you don’t celebrate the big things, you’re going to live a very small life, Poppy.
