Control Freak

by Brianna Hale

  She laughs shakily. “We don’t need to go out anywhere. I like it here just fine.”

  “But you’re leaving, käraste,” I remind her softly.

  She’s silent for a long time, looking down into her lap. “Can I think about it?”

  A cold feeling slips down my spine. I can take being rejected. I like to think I can, anyway, but is that what’s happening here? Am I misreading something? I know I have to go carefully because there are so many more things at play here than just romantic feelings. All this is so new to her, and anything I ask of her will be disrupting her routine.

  Don’t push her. Give her some time to think.

  Even though it takes every ounce of my self-control not to dig into it further, I let it go, for now. “Of course, käraste. We can talk about it later.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lacey

  Relief pours through me at his words. I don’t have to deal with this now.

  The box rattles. You’re disgusting and unlovable. He’ll see that soon enough, out there in the cold light of day. What use are you to him when you’re no longer his assistant, anyway?

  “One thing. Call me Stian.”

  “Pardon?” I couldn’t hear him over the sound of the voice, and he repeats himself, but I feel more confused than ever. “You don’t want me to call you daddy anymore?”

  “Of course I do. But you think of me as Mr. Blomqvist, don’t you? I want you to start thinking of me as Stian, not your boss.”

  I force a smile and nod, but the sick, fearful sensation in my stomach intensifies. When he’s my boss I know my place. I have things to do, and I know how to talk to him. If he’s just a man who expects me to be a normal woman, then I’m going to disappoint him so goddamn fast.

  In the Tube on the way home, I do what my therapist would want me to do, and I think critically about my emotions. What I’m really afraid of is the unknown. Of change. Of failing because I’m not prepared for anything that isn’t as ordered and restricted as the way Mr. Blomqvist treats his bonsai.

  How Stian treats his bonsai.

  Stian. His name feels like longing, an intimate piece of him that I hold in my heart. I imagine being someone who could call him that.

  Stian and I really liked that movie.

  Stian’s picking me up soon and we’re going out.

  Things are going really well with Stian.

  I picture the breezy, happy Lacey who says such things, and she’s like a fairytale princess. I imagine she’s me, and I’m walking hand in hand with Stian, out in the open. Sitting with him in a bar and flirting with him over my wine glass. Laying on a blanket in the park with him having a picnic. Sharing all the small and wonderful things we both love. Just the two of us.

  Just the two of you? You think you can have that? You think you DESERVE THAT?

  She screams so loudly out of nowhere that I jump as if the train has lurched, and grab a handrail. My heart pounds wildly. It’s as if the clock strikes midnight, and everything blasts apart and I see the truth. That’s not what would happen if Stian and I were a couple. It could never be just the two of us, because she would be there. I’d be in a cubicle in the bar’s bathrooms, having a panic attack because a glass of wine has three hundred calories. In the park, I’d have my hands over my ears while I sob silently because I can’t bear the sight of anyone seeing me eat all this delicious food spread out on the rug before me.

  It’s not a fairytale. It’s a nightmare.

  I tremble like a leaf as I grip the handrail. I’ve made a huge mistake by opening the door and peeking through to a future that will never be mine. The nasty voice is louder than ever within her box, rattling the lid and cackling with high-pitched laughter.

  You’re mine. How could you think you’d ever be free?

  I close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing. It’s all going to be fine. You have your routine back now, and you’re going to get through this, just like you have every time before. She’s not you.

  I am you, you stupid little bitch. Forever and ever and ever, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

  On Wednesday morning Doctor Loftin looks up from the scale and beams at me. “You’ve gained almost the whole pound back. Well done, Lacey.”

  I get off the scale and concentrate on putting my shoes on, not looking at her. We go through to the armchairs we sit and talk in. While the results with the scales may have deflected the worst of what Doctor Loftin can do to me, this part is going to be almost as challenging.

  “How have you been this week?”

  There’s no point in lying. I look like shit. “I haven’t been sleeping. The cake and ice-cream were stressful, and so are men, you know?” I give her a tired half-smile. Inviting her to share in that sisterhood thing I’ve heard about. Men, am I right?

  She doesn’t play along.

  “Has Mr. Blomqvist been having a negative impact on your recovery?”

  Oh, you know. He’s just standing on the other side of a door I can never go through, and realizing that was one of the worst moments of my life.

  I’m so hungry that this doesn’t even make me sad anymore. “It’s challenging dealing with these new feelings, but I’m grateful for this opportunity for growth.”

  I sound like I’m reading from my list of affirmations, but Doctor Lofton doesn’t seem to notice. She just nods and waits for me to go on.

  “He’s asked me to call him Stian. I’m trying to get used to that.” The weight of what I’m missing out on is crushing the life out of me. She’s shredding my heart with her black fingernails. Help me, please.

  Doctor Loftin peers at me, her head on one side. “Lacey, I’m going to need you to go into a little more detail.”

  “Look, like I’ve been saying, it’s difficult for me to talk about this stuff when it’s so personal. I’m not ready to go into it with you yet.”

  I get away with this because while I seem off, the scales have told Doctor Loftin that there’s no urgent cause for worry. We finish the appointment by talking about other things. She wants me to continue the weight gain diet for another week, and I agree without argument.

  An hour later, in the bathroom at the office, I remove the two one-pound strap weights that I’ve Velcroed just above my knees and stash them in the bottom of my bag.

  I’m fucking up so bad. I know I’m falling victim to that voice again, but the allure of what she’s doing for me is too powerful. If I eat, then I feel, and I’m so frightened of what might crash over me.

  I’ll be ready to eat and deal with it all soon. Maybe tomorrow. At lunchtime, I eat one piece of broccoli, bag up the rest, and throw it into the trash on another floor.

  That night I tell Stian that I have a dentist appointment and leave the museum at five-thirty.

  The next I day I email him at three when he’s in a meeting, saying I’m not feeling well, and I leave. I’ve lost count of how many lies I’ve told this week.

  Then it’s Friday, my final day, and it’s all over. I stand in his office instead of kneeling on the floor, and he comes out from behind his desk, his hands pushed into his pockets and arms so tense that I’m certain they’re balled into fists.

  I can sense him wanting to offer to take me out to dinner or for a drink, or ask if I’ve thought about seeing him outside of work, but those are invitations for other girls. I don’t know what to say, and I’m so deadened by hunger that I don’t have the energy to think of anything.

  In the end, we fall into well-worn phrases that sound strange in our mouths.

  “You’ve been an amazing help. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”

  “Thank you for this opportunity. It’s been a great summer.”

  I was happy working here. Within these four walls, he allowed me to be free for one whole hour every day. I’m going to miss him so much.

  I turn and hurry toward the elevator, unable to bear it any longer.

  “Lacey, wait.”

  I pretend not to hear him and pr
ess the close doors button. Down in the entrance hall, I run out of the building and make a sharp right because he’ll be expecting me to cross the square to the Tube station. I head toward Goodge Street Tube instead.

  At the top of the stairs, I turn and glance behind me, expecting to see six-feet-something of angry Viking bearing down on me, ready to blast me for running off while he was talking to me. Demanding to know what’s wrong and why I’m taking another route home. Ready to grab hold of me, kiss me fiercely, make me sorry for all the lies I’ve told and stupid things I’ve done.

  But Stian’s not there.

  Of course he’s not. He was glad to get rid of me.

  “Shut up,” I say to the voice, but I’m talking to myself.

  “Look what happens when you try to ignore me,” I say out loud. “You make stupid fucking mistakes. This whole summer has been a mistake. Mistake. MISTAKE.”

  A few people turn and look at me, the woman shouting at no one.

  I flee down the stairs. When I get out of the train at my stop twenty minutes later, I see that Stian has called me three times, and I switch off my phone. I walk home, trying to feel strong. Trying to make a new plan for myself that means I won’t have to admit to anyone how badly I’ve been screwing up. No one knows yet, and if I’m careful I can keep it that way. Stian’s gone from my life and so is the museum work that kept me busy. I can switch straight to study mode and start prepping for the new semester. There’ll be several issues of the antiquities and archaeological journals for me to catch up on, plus the online news. My thesis topic and research questions could use a going over. I can spend the weekend in the university library studying.

  “How was your last day, sweetheart?” mum asks me as I head for the stairs. She’s folding a pile of laundry on the sofa.

  I smile as best I can. “It was really great. I’ll miss the work, but it was such a good way to spend the summer.”

  Dad comes into the room and beams at me. “I knew you’d be just the assistant Stian needed. I checked in with him about you a few times, and he only had the best things to say.” He laughs. “Getting three words out of that man is remarkable, but he didn’t seem to want to shut up about you.”

  I swallow hard on the sob that’s threatening to rise up. My smile is painfully stretched on my face. “I’m going to take a shower. It’s really hot out there.”

  I see my sneakers the moment I step into my room and change my mind. What I need is a good run, and I get changed and head out. Bushy Park is just a block away, and there are miles and miles of paths that skirt ponds and copses of trees where I can get lost.

  I’m a good runner. I’ve got a long, even gait and I enjoy the tight feeling in my lungs as I push against my cardio limits. I’m out of practice, so I reach that limit quickly, but I manage to keep it up as the solemn red brick walls and white statues of Hampton Court Palace rise before me, and then I turn around and run back again.

  A herd of deer lift their elegant heads to watch me as I sprint by on a gravel path. The tight feeling in my chest is replaced by a sharp pain that gets more and more pronounced. I wonder if I should stop.

  Ignore it. Pain is just an excuse to be lazy.

  Mum gives me a look when I come back an hour later, but she doesn’t comment.

  Busy, busy, busy. That’s how I need to stay. I get up at my usual early hour on Saturday morning and head into the university library. Stian has left me voicemails but I delete them without listening to them. I lose myself in reading and drawing mind-maps for my thesis research plan. At lunchtime, I lock myself in the disabled toilets and do star jumps for forty-five minutes.

  When I get home from the city, I head straight for my workout gear and put it on. The pain in my chest comes back halfway through my run, and it’s worse this time. I don’t stop until black spots dance in front of my eyes, and I have to bend at the waist to prevent myself from fainting. My blood pressure must be dropping because of the lack of food.

  In my mind, I hear a pleased snicker.

  It’s lazy to be standing still where there are so many joggers and walkers passing by me in the park. They must think I’m pathetic, so I start running again.

  When I get home, mum intercepts me at the back door. The expression on her face is grim. “Is there any reason you’ve started running again?”

  I shrug. “I wasn’t very active this summer because I was at the museum so much. I’ve been feeling cooped up.” I push past her into the kitchen for a glass of water, and she follows me.

  “But you look pale and drawn, sweetheart.”

  I slam the fridge shut. “Mum! That’s so rude of you to comment on my appearance. I’m just trying to adjust back to my normal routine again. Can’t you leave me alone?”

  I storm upstairs before she can harp on about it. I’m allowed to exercise if I want to. Just not to excess.

  On Sunday I go to the library again and work all day. It’s getting difficult to concentrate, but I don’t feel hungry anymore, so there’s that.

  While I’m changing into my running gear that evening, I see a pair of jeans tucked up high on a shelf of my wardrobe. Nobody knows I kept them. I bought them when they were two sizes too small for me and made it my goal to fit into them. When I reached my lowest weight I managed to struggle into them, though I was so weak I could barely find the strength to do the zipper up.

  They won’t fit anymore. I should have thrown them out a long time ago, but I guess I kept them as a grim souvenir.

  I pull them down, knowing I’m doing the wrong thing but unable to stop myself. All the hairs are standing up on the back of my neck, and my heart is thumping painfully in my chest.

  Do it. Do it. Do it. Put them on. See how fat you’ve become.

  I heave the jeans up my legs. The denim is skinny cut and the pockets pull awkwardly over my thighs. I manage to get the waistband up over my hips, but my stomach protrudes over the fly, which I can only just close.

  I stare into the mirror in horror at the rolls of fat over the waistband. I’m fat. I’m fat and disgusting.

  The lid flies from the box, and out she comes in frenzy of beating black wings, shrieking in triumph. Look at yourself. Look what you’ve become without me, you SHAMEFUL LAZY FAT COW.

  I haul the jeans off and reach for my sneakers and shorts and pull them on. I need to run. Run and run until I leave this terrible sight far behind me.

  The sharp pain blazes through my chest almost immediately, but I ignore it. I need to run through the pain. Run through the hurt. Get back to the place where everything’s numb.

  I need to find my way home again. She’s guiding me. She’s the only one who can take the hurt away.

  The pain in my chest gets fiercer, and I run faster. I’m not there yet. Just a little bit further. My breath is labored and I can barely see the path ahead. The pain makes my whole body spasm and I stumble over my own feet. Darkness opens before me, as welcoming as a lover, and I fall gratefully into her bony arms.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Stian

  The whole weekend passes and Lacey doesn’t answer my calls or text me back. My anger and frustration grows until I’m prowling my house like a caged wolf. I keep circling back to the same thought over and over again.

  This is fucking bullshit.

  I grip the door jamb between the kitchen and living room, breathing hard. People’s feelings change toward each other. People are let down by sex and new experiences. Women decide they don’t like a man as much as they thought they did. Office affairs can fizzle out as soon as one of the pair quits. I know all that, but I don’t believe that’s what’s happened between Lacey and me. We shared something intense and beautiful when we went to bed together, it brought us closer for a moment, and then we went careening off in opposite directions.

  I wanted her to stay, but she couldn’t, and something broke inside of her.

  Even though it killed me not to push her as she pretended to be sick or busy so she could miss our private time toget
her those last few days, I let it go. I gave her space all week, not wanting to interfere as she struggled to right herself. Hoping that she and her therapist would figure it out. That she’d get down before me on her knees, press her cheek against my thigh and whisper that she’d missed me so much.

  Because I miss her so fucking much. Where did my little girl go?

  It’s Sunday night and I’m done giving her space. I grab my keys and head to the garage. Her anorexia tells her things that aren’t true, and I have a terrible feeling she’s started listening to it again.

  The nasty voice. She tells me that you’ll like me better if I’m smaller.

  Someone could be pouring poison into her ear, and it’s someone I can’t even get at because she lives inside Lacey’s head. As I drive, I try and rein in my fury. I’m not angry with Lacey, but if I burst in shouting she’s going to think I am. Mostly I’m furious with myself for not going to her house on Friday night after she gave me the slip on the way to the Tube station. She’s been alone with her thoughts for two days, suffering, and I might have done something about it. Petrou likes me. He can’t be too angry with me that I’m seeing his daughter, can he?

  I accelerate toward the main road. I guess I’m about to find out.

  There’s a gravel path next to the road that skirts Bushy Park, and I see a runner in a gray-blue jogging outfit. Something about the way her ponytail swings looks familiar. I keep watching, certain that I recognize her. She bends over her knees as if she’s dizzy, then puts one desperate hand to her chest and crumples to the ground.

  “Jävlar!” I pull up onto the grass verge and get out of my car. “Lacey.”

  Several people are crowding around her, some of them reaching for their phones to call an ambulance. I think I hear someone say, “Isn’t that Chris Petrou’s daughter? Quick, call him.”

  I push past them all and fall to my knees beside Lacey. I turn her over, and her eyes are closed and her face is a deathly white. “Lacey, oh jävla Kristus.”