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No. Ryan won't know. He can't know. Shit, I forgot a spoon. I push off the tile floor. My feet pound the hardwood. I find a spoon in the kitchen. I hesitate, just for a moment. I don't have to do this. I can stop. I can push this aside.
But I am so empty and I need something to push away the hurt.
The bathroom is so fluorescent and bright and blindingly white. The ice cream freezes my metal spoon and it sticks to my tongue. I inhale the pint. What flavor is it? Strawberry? Vanilla? Does it even matter? I am too far in now. I can't go back. I finish the second pint. I work through the third. I do not stop because I am full. No, I am beyond full—ready to burst. I only stop when every last drop is gone.
I was wrong to think I could handle this, to handle Luke, to handle acting, to handle fighting with Ryan. But there's no time to consider that.
I take my position in front of the toilet. How did this go again? Yeah, lift the lid. Lift the seat. My hair hangs around my face. I find a tie on the corner of the sink and pull my hair into a pony tail. I brace myself for the awful feeling, the awful gagging, but it comes easily, like second nature. How can it be so easy?
I push my pointer and middle fingers into the back of my throat. I keep pushing them farther and farther. I hurl over my hand, into the toilet. I do it again, and again, until my eyes burn, until my throat burns, until my stomach rids itself completely.
I flush the toilet. I wash my hands. I wipe off any evidence of my bad behavior. Ryan will be here soon, but I shouldn't brush my teeth. The acid is bad for them—I remember that much. I rinse with water and take another shower. Maybe it's been long enough? I rinse again, and again, but I can still smell it. Maybe if I eat something… no, that's the last thing I need to do. I won't eat the rest of the day. But Ryan will know something is wrong when he takes me to dinner. Fine, I'll eat dinner, but tomorrow, I'll run five miles. Breakfast and dinner with Ryan, no lunch.
I'll get back on track the next day, the day after. Back on my recovery diet. Easy foods. Healthy foods. Foods without temptation.
Fuck it. I brush my teeth. How bad can the acid be? I won't do it again. I can't. Not ever.
I go to the bed. I can say I got home early, I'm reading, but I am so tired, I fall asleep.
And the voice that wakes me is angry.
***
Ryan stands before the bed, holding the trash can. Shit, I forgot to hide the evidence. How can I be so fucking stupid when the compactor in the hall is only 100 feet away?
“I thought you were better,” Ryan says. He looks me over. I always look terrible after a purge. Red, puffy eyes, bloated stomach, chipped nails.
“I slipped. It won't happen again.”
“I'll make sure it won't.” He sits next to me.
I try to move off the bed. “No,” Ryan barks. “Stay here. You need to think about what you've done. You need to remember how bad this feels, so you never do it again.”
“I won't. I promise.”
“The dehydration can kill you. You know that, don't you?”
“Yes. I know. I drank a Gatorade.”
“Why did this happen, Alyssa?” He must be mad. He only calls me Alyssa when he's mad.
“It's us,” I lie. “All the fighting. I worry you'll get sick of me.”
“Alyssa…”
“I'm sorry,” I say. I hug my knees into my chest, turning away from Ryan. He places his hand on my shoulder and turns me back towards him.
“Was it Luke?” he asks.
“What would he want with me?”
“Sweetheart, you aren't that naïve. You're gorgeous and charming. What else would he want with you?”
“He didn't,” I say, and it's technically true, but I can't keep this up or Ryan will see through me. He sees through everyone, through all their bullshit.
“Then tell me what really happened.”
I maintain my silence.
