Page 25 of Power Play

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“It was the only one you’re getting.”

He pulls back slowly, eyes moving over my face before his dimple appears.

“Tomorrow, Charm.”

“Tomorrow, Ryan.”

He carries the pitcher toward the table while Briggs continues shouting questions nobody intends to answer. Easton shoves one of the women away from his shoulder long enough to make room for Ryan, and Cade says something that earns him a hard shove.

I watch Ryan settle into the booth.

He glances back before I can look away.

The friendship between us has been easy for years because I learned how to hide the part that wasn’t friendship. I could joke with him, argue with him, sit beside him at games and parties, and pretend the heat beneath every interaction was only an old crush I had outgrown.

Tomorrow, I’ll sit across from him in a quiet bookstore while he opens my notes and asks what I think. The idea should make me anxious. Instead, anticipation curls low and warm inside me.

The feeling lasts until I look at the basket in front of me and count the empty spaces where the fries I ate used to be.

My stomach tightens. The noise of the bar presses closer, the laughter and music turning sharp around the edges while the wine sits warm and heavy beneath my ribs. I know two fries can’t change my body. I understand calories, measurements, fabric construction, and the basic biological facts well enough to recognize how irrational the fear is.

Knowing has never stopped it.

The ladies’ room is empty when I push inside. I choose the stall farthest from the door, lock it, and sit with my purse clutched against my stomach. My hands aren’t shaking yet, though my fingers feel numb where they grip the leather.

I close my eyes and try to pull in a full breath.

It stops halfway.

The next one does too.

My pulse begins pounding against my throat as every thought I’ve held back all evening crowds in at once. The class. Klein. My GPA. My father asking why I chose an elective outside my discipline if I wasn’t prepared to excel in it. The fries sitting in my stomach. The shorts that fit perfectly this morning and feel too tight now. Ryan looking at me as though I’m intelligent enough to sit across from him tomorrow and have an opinion worth defending.

I press my palm against my sternum and force myself to breathe quietly. Someone could enter at any second, and the possibility of being heard crying inside a bathroom stall makes the panic climb higher.

“Stop,” I whisper.

My mother taught me years ago that composure is a decision. Shoulders down. Chin level. Breathe through the nose so the chest doesn’t visibly rise. Never let anyone watch emotion take control of your face.

I follow every instruction, but my body refuses to cooperate. My lungs pull too fast. Heat crawls beneath my clothes, and the waistband of my shorts feels unbearable against my skin.

I stand abruptly and turn toward the mirror mounted inside the stall door.

The woman reflected there looks fine.

That should help.

It doesn’t.

I turn sideways and lift my shirt enough to inspect the line of my stomach. The soft skin below my navel looks different beneath the fluorescent light. Everything always looks different beneath the wrong light. Larger. Less controlled. Every perceived flaw becomes evidence that I’ve been careless, and once I find one, I can’t stop searching for the next.

I flatten my palm against my stomach, then pinch the skin between my fingers.

Disgust comes so fast it feels practiced.

I release it and lower my shirt, but within seconds I lift it again to check whether I exaggerated what I saw. The second inspection is worse. It always is.