Page 95 of Guy's Girl
“Traitor,” mutters Clay.
“Virginia Murphy,” the voice calls again.
Ginny sighs, easing herself out of the chair. She walks along the short hallway and places a hand on the doorknob. Glances once over her shoulder. Then she twists the knob and opens the door.
“Who the fuck,” Heather says before she even makes it through the door, “gave you the right to exclude me from helping my little sister recover from fuckingbulimia?”
She pushes past Ginny, dragging her suitcases down the hallway. Even in the dim light Ginny can tell that Heather brought at least two—unsurprising, as her sister never travels with just one suitcase. “One for shoes,” she always says, “and one for everything else.”
“I knew it,” Heather says as she stomps into the apartment. “I knew something was up. You were ignoring all my calls, and being cagey when I asked how your eating was going, and God onlyknowshow many articles I’ve panic read about how anorexia can easily turn into its sister disease, and...”
When she reaches the living room, she stops, her suitcases rolling to a halt at either side. She takes in the scene before her: Tristan in the armchair, Clay on the couch, and boxes of takeout scattered on the coffee table. She’s just deplaned after a five-hour flight from Los Angeles, but she looks perfect. Her skin is bronzed, her hair long and brushed, curly extensions clipped into place. She wears leggings and a cropped jacket that saysgucciacross the front.
Ginny’s hair is in a bun. She wears an oversize Mackinac Island sweatshirt and thick, fuzzy socks. It’s the same look she’s worn for the past twenty-four hours, one that requires zero effort and hides all the growing parts of her body, the parts that make her wish she owned a vacuum for her insides. Around the boys, she never once felt insecure about how sloppy she looked.
But now?
It’s not just the clothing. It’s her face, too. The sweatshirt might hide her swelling arms and stomach and thighs, but it does nothing to obscure the ever-rounding edges of her face, her mushy chin, which doubles so easily now it almost seems to be laughing at her.
Heather spins around and zeroes in on her little sister. Her eyes travel the length of Ginny’s body.
As she stares, her face screws up into an expression Ginny has never seen before. At the peak of her anorexia and bulimia, Ginny was the same size as Heather. Maybe even smaller. But there’s no doubt in Ginny’s mind—her sister can see how much weight she’s gained. She can see how large she is now. How weak. How ugly. Heather is judging Ginny. Thinking,Thank God I don’t look like that.It’s obvious. It’s written all over her face.
Heather lets go of her bags. She takes a step toward Ginny.Another. “Oh, little sister,” she says, face twisting even further. “You look—”
Ginny inhales, pinching the soft skin of her thigh, waiting for her sister to say it.
“God,” Heather says, shaking her head. “You lookhealthy.”
Then she bends over and scoops Ginny up into a hug so tight it squeezes her very insides.
***
“Right.” After forcing the boys to clear out of the apartment and “look at overpriced sneakers or whatever you do for fun, I don’t care,” Heather settles onto the sofa. “Tell me everything.”
Cautiously, Ginny sits beside her. “Everything about what?”
“Everything about everything.” Just as soon as she sat, she’s up, heading to the coffee machine to put a pot on. “You’ve been ignoring my calls for months, Gin. Now I know why; you were puking your guts up and knew I’d sniff it out, even from across the country.” She opens the cabinets one by one, in search of filters and grounds. “I always do.”
“Right,” Ginny says.
Heather opens the last cabinet to the left, where she finds both a bag of Peet’s and a stack of filters. She takes out both. “But none of that explains how you gothere, stuffed into a tiny apartment with two dudes doing their best to simulate outpatient therapy.”
“Yeah. Um.” Ginny looks down at her fingers, which are folded up into the creases of a blanket, the soft fabric spilling up through her knuckles. “It’s just temporary. I’m taking a week to pack my stuff, tie up loose ends at work, and find a good in-patient program in Michigan. Mom and Dad want me to be close by while I recover.”
“Damn straight.” Heather pours a steady stream of grounds into the coffeepot. “Mom said you didn’t want her and Dad here while you packed up. Just your roommates. Which is killing her,by the way. You owe her a FaceTime.” She slams the lid on the coffeepot shut and turns to face Ginny, arms crossed. She glares down at her little sister. Behind, the coffeepot starts to bubble. She glares for so long that Ginny has to look down at her hands.
“I didn’t...” Ginny stops, then exhales. “I didn’t want...”
Heather’s voice softens. “Gin,” she says. “Look at me.”
She does.
Quietly, Heather asks, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I—” Ginny squeezes a bundle of blanket in one fist. “It’s hard to explain.”
Heather walks over to the couch and sits. “Just try.”
