Page 25 of In For a Penny
“I asked what you do when you’re stressed—to relieve tension, I mean,” he asks genuinely, double-bagging all the beer bottles. “For example, I like to run.”
“Oh.” I laugh awkwardly, tying off the bag in my hand full of stale chips and containers of dip. “I eat. I stress eat. Which in the end just makes me feel worse, to be honest.”
And then it happens. Then I start thinking about it. About what I did.
“Ah, but at least it’s tasty!” He laughs, and I decide to take a break, sitting on the edge of the couch. “You okay?” he asks.
I’m tired and tipsy and vulnerable. I just ate three slices of pizza, immeasurable amounts of chips and dip, cookies, beer, and soda.
I start doing the math.
Coke: 140 calories
Two chocolate chip cookies: 190 calories
Artichoke dip: 200 calories
No, no, no, no. STOP.
“I want to throw up,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head, trying to throw my mind off the path I know it wants to go down now.
Three slices of pepperoni pizza: 700 calories
Doritos, two servings: 300 calories
Three beers: 420 calories
I put my head in my hands and try not to think about it. I try not to add the total, but it’s right there, I can do it in my head. It’s almost two thousand calories.
Two-fucking-thousand.
The numbers don’t matter. The numbers don’t matter. Breathe.
I take a deep breath in through my nose and exhale through my mouth. I repeat this process five times with my eyes closed, trying to push the reality of everything I just ate out of my head.
How much of it have I digested already? If I throw up now, can I get rid of most of it?
“Oh God.” Josh drops his bag and kneels by me. “I didn’t realize you had had that much to drink. Here,” he says, sliding my arm over his shoulder, trying to lift me from the couch. “Let’s get you to the bathroom.”
I push him off gently and sigh. “Josh, I’m not drunk. I’m just…” I shake my head. “I’m just having a moment, okay?” He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask any questions. He just stands there and looks at me with an inquisitive expression in his eyes. “Don’t let me throw up, okay? No matter what I say.”
It takes him a moment, but he seems to realize what I mean when he catches the expression of disgust on my face as I glance at my near-empty plate with three pizza crusts on it. I went from mauling the pepperoni pizza to wanting it to burn a slow and painful death.
The adrenaline starts coursing through my body, my heart beating out of my chest.
“Ah,” he says quietly, taking a seat next to me on the couch. “I see.”
“It’s fine. I don’t want to talk about it. I love food now, but sometimes the feelings and urges come back, you know what I mean?” There’s silence. “Well. I guess not.”
He’s careful when he speaks, managing to not come off as nervous or patronizing, which is not always an easy task when finding out someone you know has a history of an eating disorder. “Are you in recovery now, then?”
I nod. “Kind of.” I take a deep breath, still not making eye contact. I’m a little ashamed. “It’s been a few years, though I had a brief relapse last year. My life was such a mess, and I guess I needed the sense of control it gave me.”
He must be regretting befriending someone like me. Who else would want to be friends with someone so dramatic? I mean, first it was the wholeI-hate-school-and-regret-coming-herething, then the bitterness, then how petty and bitchy I was when he brought Eloise, and now this? He must think I’m insane.
He takes a deep breath like he’s about to say something but stops himself.
“What?” I ask.
