Page 39 of Outlier
“Vicky?” Mike prompted. “What would you like, love?”
I swallowed against my dry throat, and to my horror, I felt my eyes start to sting. Ugh, please don’t let me be this pathetic and cry over a simple food order.
The writing was swimming in front of me now as I tried to focus on it.
“Um… I…” I cleared my throat. “C-could I have the green salad with no dressing please?”
Mike slammed his menu down on the table, making me jump.
When I looked up at him, his expression was furious.
“Listen, mate,” he said to the waiter. “Could you give us a sec?”
“Yes, of course.” The thoroughly confused waiter backed away.
“Vicky, look at me,” Mike said in a gentle voice, which was in sharp contrast to how angry he seemed a second ago.
When I looked up at him, I saw the fury in his expression had morphed into concern and a little frustration. “You know I think you’re beautiful, right?”
“Er… yes, you have consistently expressed your satisfaction with my outward appearance.”
“You know I wouldn’t want you to change anything about yourself, about your appearance?”
I frowned at him. “What has that got to do with anything?”
He sighed. “Vicky, you’ve been losing weight.”
I looked to the side to avoid his searching gaze as he continued.
“Look, I don’t want to push you on this, but when I take a woman I care about out to a restaurant with the intent of spending time with her and feeding her up a bit, I become a bit concerned when she only orders a side salad with no dressing. Baby, please, you don’t need to lose weight. You can’t afford to lose weight. There’s nothing of you already.”
I shook my head. “I’m not trying to lose weight, Mike. That’s not why I ordered a salad.”
“You’re not?” His eyebrows were raised, his expression disbelieving. “You haven’t been on some mad diet?”
I sighed. “No. It’s just that if I get… stressed, my appetite is the first thing to go. I used to be quite restrictive when it came to the types of food I could tolerate, but I’ve worked on that and improved over the years. However, if something triggers me, then it becomes too hard to make myself eat.”
“What’s triggered you recently then?” he asked, his eyebrows were pulled down in concern now.
I stared at him and bit my lip, not wanting to admit the truth, and also not trusting my ability to lie.
He blinked once then his face paled.
“Vicky, I…” He swallowed, his hand going up to run through his hair before it came back down onto the table. “Ididn’t trigger you, did I?”
I had to look away from him then, glancing out of the window to avoid his concerned gaze.
“Oh God,” he said on a pained groan. “I did, didn’t I? My dickhead comments when you made that move on me stressed you out so much that you stopped eating.”
I looked down at my hands, shame blooming in my chest.
When I spoke, my voice was small. “It-it wasn’t just you, Mike. There’s been other… uh, stressful interactions as well. Other triggers.”
“Vicky, can I touch your hand?” he asked quietly.
I gave him a small nod.
He reached over the table and enclosed my small fist with his large, dry, warm hand.
