Page 16 of A Guardian for Christmas

Her shoulders rise and fall, her eyes momentarily defiant. But then she gives in because she knows what she’s up against. I’m a teddy bear, but I ain’t a pushover.

She lets out a small sigh and turns to the mirror.

“You see that person? That’s not the Esme I know. You’re twenty pounds thinner and you look like a vampire.”

The vampire comment shocks her, and a tiny corner of her lip curves up. “Thanks,” she says, shaking her head at my audacity.

“You can barely think, let alone function. You know what will fix that? Food.”

She squeezes her eyes shut. “Nothing tastes like anything. Everything tastes like nothing.”

I glance over at the domed tray by the door. “You want me to call down and have them cook something else?”

Esme shakes her head. “No. It’s not that it’s bad food. It’s just…I don’t know what I want. They ask me what I want to eat, and I don’t know how to answer.”

She’s talking, which I mark as progress.

And based on what I’m hearing—and based on what I know about her—I’m getting an inkling of what’s going on here. I might be wrong, though. I’m no doctor, but my gut is hitting on something important.

“You don’t have to decide shit anymore. That’s my job now. Come on.”

Chapter Nine

Esme

I would be embarrassed that a man I barely know is feeding me with a spoon like I’m a stubborn toddler.

But there’s no one here to judge, except Sagan.

Each time I open my mouth to let him spoon some of Cressida’s room-temperature oatmeal and jam into my mouth, I see no judgment or mocking in his eyes.

Only a clinical professionalism, laced with relief.

This is both second nature to him as a nurse, and it’s personal.

I’ve had a few friends in my life. When I went to boarding school in Europe, some of my suitemates and I modeled on the side. We hung out with an array of sparkling, fabulous people.

But that’s all it was. Sparkle and fabulousness. I could count on all those people for fun, but could I phone them in the middle of the night to tell them I’m seeing ghosts?

No. No, I don’t think so.

After my parents’ funeral, once all the estate planning was squared away, I couldn’t stand to be alone at the house anymore. So I returned to Europe to continue modeling. I don’t know why I did it; perhaps I was trying to recapture what I thought were the happiest times in my life. But then one night, I completely broke down.

I could barely function, let alone show up to my modeling jobs. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I felt weighed down with everything I was trying to put behind me.

I remember phoning up my old boarding school suitemate. I was in tears, and I couldn’t make it stop. My old friend was kind, but so distant. Clearly, I had misjudged our relationship. I’d hung up the phone feeling awkward and more alone than ever.

After that, I came home, shut myself in my room, and didn’t come out for weeks.

Friendships were always so confusing. And then I learned to keep it superficial. Make human interaction about fun and only fun, and not to talk about the creeping sense of dread that I felt every hour of every day of my entire sentient life.

Briar was the best girlfriend I’d ever had, but she was paid. How sad is that? At times, I treated her poorly, subjecting her to my flights of fancy when I had the notion to leave my house. I still cringe when I think about how I stole her car to run off with Sagan that night. I’ve apologized so much that Briar sometimes jokingly answers my calls with “You’re not calling to say you’re sorry about the car, are you?” Instead of “hello.”

Everything about sitting here with Sagan feels like how I felt around Briar. Secure in who I am, but even better. Safer. The safest.

With food in my belly, I feel a little better.

“You took four bites,” Sagan says, holding the spoon aloft.

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