“Were you thinking about throwing up?” She shakes her head, talking as much to herself. “No, you won’t waste food. Were you calculating all the pushups you need to do?”
“You’re insane.”
She takes the plate from me and hovers it over the trash. I whip it out of her hands again and cradle it in my arms. She raises her eyebrows.
“I’m acting insane? You’re holding that plate like you birthed it. I’m not crazy and you know it. You need to talk to someone.”
“I don’t.”
“Then why don’t you just eat and not think about it.”
“Because I have to watch my figure,” I say with venomous sarcasm.
“Listen, I get this industry is harsh. The standards are hard but you’re going a step past rational. You’re being highly irrational when it comes to food.”
“No.”
“Then eat. And don’t exercise at all today.”
This isn’t her business. I have no reason to share this with her but maybe she’ll get off my fucking case.
“You act like… it’s nothing weird,” I say. “The hunger pains, they just remind me.”
“Remind you of what?”
“Of being hungry. And poor. It reminds me of why I do this.”
My cheeks burn as my statement hangs in the air like flies over rotting fruit. I surprise myself. My past is my business and nobody else’s. She turns off the burner and removes the pan from the heat.
“Do what, exactly?” she asks, less accusingly, but infuriatingly patient. “Act?”
“Yes, act. But mostly the other stuff. The press tours, the pictures, the interviews, the invasion of privacy, the mind games, and networking. I hate it all. I fucking hate it. But the hunger pains take me right back. They keep me strong.”
She frowns.
“Puberty was the worst. I was desperate for food all the time. It was all I thought of. More than sex.” I hope to ease the tension but her frown remains. Telling her all this seems ridiculous in comparison to what she went through. Do I really want to explain all the nights curled in bed crying from pain? Share about the headaches and dizzy spells? The desperate times I ate from the dumpster behind the doughnut shop by my house? It’s humiliating.
“I’m sorry you went through that. Truly.” She comes around to me and kisses me softly on each cheek. “No child should ever know hunger.”
I look away. It’s embarrassing to talk about this. I don’t want her pity or the shame.
“But do you see how this isn’t healthy?”
My fists ball and I turn my face away, even when she climbs into my lap. Trapping me.
“Your thoughts about food. They’re not rational. You’ll never get to that point again, Roe. You’ll never lose everything and be destitute. Or rather, it’s highly unlikely. Even if your career tanks you must have millions saved, invested? Your house alone would set you up for a few years, living modestly. Especially if you invested wisely. I call bull.” Her tone is still patient, but her accusation surprises me.
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah. Bull. You’re miserable and you’re torturing yourself but I can’t quite understand why.”
I want to shove her off me and end this conversation. How could she take such a nice morning and ruin it? Why would she want to undo all the progress we made last night by driving a wall between us?
“There’s nothing to understand,” I say.
“You need to talk to someone about this.”
“I’m not telling people my shit. The last thing I want is people telling me what I need.” I scratch at my stubble.
