I talk against her shoulder blade, rubbing my face against her like a cat. If I could just capture this right here and not think about anything else…
“I’m just not feeling good,” I say. “Finish them for me?”
Maggie puts the fork down and turns in my arm to level a stare at me. I have the overwhelming urge to hide behind the counter.
“Are we going to talk about this?” she asks.
Her easy flirtatious mood has gone. Now she leans back against the counter with crossed arms, away from me, but I only loosen my grasp a little.
“About my stomachache?”
“About your eating disorder.”
“You’re crazy. I have a stomachache,” I say and drop my arms. She can go now but she doesn’t.
“We’ve spent a lot of time together these last few days. Ask me how many times I’ve seen you eat?”
“This is ridiculous.” I lift her but she locks herself into place.
“Zero times. I’ve heard your stomach growl countless times. I’ve seen you pass offer after offer, making excuses. But not once have I seen you eat. Honestly, except for the fact that you aren’t dead and clearly must eat something, I’d’ve spoken sooner.” She gestures to my shirtless form.
“It’s for a movie.” I’m by no means anorexic. I’m lacking fat because I train hard.
“No, it’s not.”
“I eat enough. My trainer provides a strict meal plan.”
“Listen.” She chews her lip, seeming to analyze this excuse. “I’ve been in this town my whole life. I went to a high school for the performing arts. I can spot an eating disorder from a mile away.”
“You’re being a little dramatic.”
“You’re being purposely thick-headed.”
I lever her off my lap and stomp toward my room. No longer feeling lovey and touchy and certainly not wanting to be shirtless. She’s ridiculous. This is some sort of tactic to push me away because we got too close. Fine. She can be like that. Maggie follows and shoves my door open, waving a spatula.
“We’re not done having this conversation.”
“We are though.” I pull a T-shirt over my head.
“You have an unhealthy relationship with food.” She jabs the spatula into my gut.
“I don’t.” My rage is growing. She has no right to pretend to know me. She has no right to talk to me about this.
“Fine.” She scrutinizes me.
She heads back toward the kitchen and I think I’ve won, so I let out a breath. This conversation makes me absurdly uncomfortable.
“I’m going to toss all these then,” Maggie calls from the other room.
I hurry to the kitchen in a second. She holds the plate poised over the trash can.
“Stop. Why? You eat it.” I won’t have her throwing it away. Four perfect pancakes made with real butter and real maple syrup. It could feed a few children easily. She shakes her head and the food slips a little toward the trash. I quickly snag it from her.
“Fine. I’ll eat it.” I shrug casually, contradicting myself. After this, I’ll run a lot. And skip my lunch protein shake.
“What were you just thinking?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I snap.
