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“Oh.” Fuck. “I don’t actually eat very much.”
He stopped what he was doing, and leant over the worktop, giving himself a chance to breathe. I didn’t blame him. It was all me, me, me.
He picked up a packet of cigarettes, flicked one out and stuck it between his lips. Sucked on it like it was oxygen.
“You don’t smoke in here,” I stated like the controlling idiot I was. The flat had never smelled of smoke and didn’t now either.
“There’s a balcony thing off the living room window. I’m trying to give up. I’m struggling, though.”
“I can tell.”
“Listen, I don’t know shit about eating disorders. I’ve tried to read up on it, but I think I’ll probably do things all wrong. Say the wrong things and all that. You’re going to have to help me here.”
“You’ve done nothing wrong.” I was aiming for gentle, but my voice quivered.
“What can I do to help you?” he asked, still sucking on that unlit cigarette.
“Last night was perfect. I really liked the cheese with the apple and that there was no pressure. I struggle with everything, but especially if someone plonks a whole plate of something in front of me and tells me to eat it.”
“I can understand that.”
“I’m not stupid. I’m not trying to starve myself or lose weight or become really, really fit and I’m definitely no gym bunny. I know what I need to do to stay healthy. I just…still need to have some kind of system. Control. Know that what I’m trying to do is achievable. I get easily overwhelmed and then I just spiral.”
I sounded like a psycho, and any minute now, he would laugh at me and chuck me out in the street. Or not.
“I know the feeling,” he said, surprisingly, and spat the cigarette into the sink as a timer went off. Pulling on some hardcore oven gloves, he hauled a tray of bread rolls out of the oven. It seemed to take all of his effort. He put the tray down and grimaced when he caught me watching.
“I have to concentrate really hard to do things, like this and writing, and when I get stressed, I can’t and everything just…falls apart.”
“Relatable.” I liked that he was telling me things.
“I’ve tried to quit smoking. Several times actually, but I just can’t. It’s hard when I’m on my own and have nobody to hold me accountable. I need that.”
“I can do that,”I said. What was I thinking?
He just kept talking.
“I can eat with you. You’ll have to give me ideas on things you can handle eating and portion sizes. When we’re both home, we can eat together—there’s always loads of food in the fridge, just…you know. Pick at stuff. That’s what I do, anyway.”
“And in return I’ll help you quit smoking?”
“That actually sounds…” He smiled. I liked when he smiled, and that he was still covered in flour with handprints all down the shorts he was wearing. It was February and he was wearing shorts. That made me smile too.
“…terrifying,” he finished, laughing nervously. “I’ve smoked since I was, like, eighteen or something. Mark gave up overnight and never smoked again. I just…can’t do it.”
“You can,” I said, sounding more confident than I actually felt. But impulsive gestures were my forte, so here I went again.
I grabbed the pack of cigarettes from the worktop, then I walked over to the kitchen window, opened it, and chucked them out into the cold air with a laugh.
“I hate you,” he said. He sounded like he meant it.
“No, you don’t. You’ve just stopped smoking.”
“For that, you’re getting a ham sandwich. Fuck you.”
“Fuck you too.” I laughed.
It hadn’t been a bad day. Honestly? It had been kind of…good.
