Page 37
He shook his head as if admonishing himself and ordered two glasses of champagne and a bottle of sparkling water. The waiter left us.
“What do you want to eat?”
“I’ll have the soup, please.”
“Not if you’re drinking alcohol. Choose something else.”
I scowled at him.
“No, Emily. Don’t frown at me. You’ve already fainted once today—have something more substantial.”
“I’m really not hungry. I had most of my breakfast.”
His demeanor suddenly changed. He grabbed the end of the table and leaned toward me, his eyes burning with quiet fury, but his voice was soft with measured, icy calm. “I can see what you’re trying to do. You’re making yourself smaller and smaller. I know you want to disappear, but I am not going to stand idly by and let you do that.”
I gasped. What?
He’s chosen to do this now?
In a public place!
“Your parents entrusted you to me, and they’d be horrified to see you like this. Please. Eat. Something.” His voice cracked on the last word, and his fury melted away, leaving only his desperate plea.
The urge to fight him rose and fell as tears burned in the back of my throat. I had no idea Doctor Dyl felt this intensely about my well-being. He looked exhausted, his eyes the color of a bleak winter sky.
Oh no. Dylan.
From some deep, forgotten place, compassion bloomed in my chest, making it ache, and I banked my threatened tears. I hadn’t considered how much he might worry about me. It never occurred to me that he would care, because I only saw myself as an inconvenience.
“This has to stop,” he whispered. “If you won’t talk to me, perhaps you would to a counselor. Please, Emily. I can’t bear to see you like this any longer.”
I stared at him, trying to keep my composure. Of course he didn’t understand. Hunger was much easier to bear than loss. My hunger grounded me. It had become my constant companion, like the white noise. A nagging pain, different from my grief but always there, keeping me human and reminding me that I was alive, even though I felt dead inside.
But Dylan looked desperate.
How can I hurt Doctor Dyl?
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll have… um… the burger.”
He sat back. “A burger. Really?”
“Do you want me to eat or not?” I snapped.
He held his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. Thank you.” His voice was soothing.
The waiter appeared with our drinks and a bottle of sparkling water, which he placed on the table.
Dylan ordered for both of us, choosing the steak. The waiter left, and Dylan smiled and wrapped his fingers around the stem of his champagne flute. It was the first time I noticed he had longer fingernails on his right hand.
Oh. For the guitar.
He raised his glass. “Congratulations on your results, Emily.”
He seemed back to his usual calm self. His mood swings were difficult to keep up with, but I didn’t want to antagonize him further. I raised my glass and we clinked flutes, and my equilibrium returned. I took a cautious sip of my drink.
Mmm, it tasted cold and decadent.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
