Page 25 of #Beautiful

She puts her arm around my shoulders as we walk into the house, Declan and his dad a few feet behind us. “Oh, he is going to die. He thinks his father is so proper, but when we were dating, Aiden climbed up the side of my house to my window once, slipped, and would have fallen and probably broken his neck. But his pants leg got caught in a trellis that was on the side of our home for roses, and at one in the morning, that’s where my father found him. Hanging upside down, yelling for help. Even had to call the fire department to get him down safely.”

“Oh my gosh,” I say with a giggle. “I can’t even picture it. Mr. Harp really did that?”

“Mm-hmm,” she says glancing over our shoulders, “don’t tell him I told you, though. He’d kill me.”

Inside the house, I set the bags I’m carrying against the wall in the foyer, the sweet aroma of coffee and cinnamon rolls wafting from the kitchen at the back of the house, making my mouth water. “It smells delicious in here.”

“Yeah?” Mrs. Harp says with a smile. “Are you hungry? They should be about done. And my Christmas rolls are always best right out of the oven.”

“I’d love that.”

Mrs. Harp guides me to the kitchen and gestures for me to take a seat at the massive island in the center. Moving around it, she goes to the oven, slips on a mitt, and pulls out a huge pan of cinnamon buns. The sugary smell intensifies a hundred fold, and I almost groan at how good it is. I haven’t smelled anything this good since last year when my grandmom was baking while we were on holiday here.

After setting them on the stove, she pulls two mugs from the cabinet and makes us each a cup of coffee, gently setting one in front of me. I take a slow sip, closing my eyes to savor it. Moments like this with Mrs. Harp make me wonder if things would be different in my life if my own mother had stayed, if she was here to help me through all the things I’ve gone through over the last few years. It’s not a thought I dwell on often, but sometimes, especially around the holidays, I can’t help but consider the what-ifs.

As Mrs. Harp turns back to the stove, picking up a large bowl and puring glaze onto the rolls, Mr. Harp comes from behind me. Walking up behind her, he gently puts his hands on her hips and leans in to kiss her cheek. Watching them, I know that this is what I want for my future with Declan. I want a home that our kids can come to whenever they want, where they feel accepted, and know that we will always be there to help them and love them through anything.

I jump as strong arms go around me, soft lips pressing into the side of my neck. Declan’s breath tickles my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I love you, babe.”

“Mmm, I love you, too.”

“Alright,” Mrs. Harp says as she turns toward us and sets the food on the island, “everyone else get one before Declan because they’re his favorite, and there won’t be any left once he gets going on them.”

“Rude, Mom,” Declan says playfully as he reaches around me and puts one on a plate and sets it in front of me. “Mind if I steal some of that coffee? I’m exhausted.”

I slide it to him as he steps next to me and sits down. Mr. Harp slides me a fork as Declan takes a sip of my coffee with an appreciative hum. Using the fork, I cut a piece of the cinnamon bun and put it in my mouth. The sugary goodness practically melts on my tongue, and I groan before cutting another piece and eating it.

“These are so good,” I grumble, taking a third bite. Declan reaches his hand toward my food, and I playfully jab him with my fork. “Don’t even think about it.”

He yanks his hand back, pretending to be hurt. “Ouch, you savage. Didn’t your dad teach you to share?”

Jokingly, I growl at him and use my arm to pull my plate in close like an animal protecting its food. “Try to touch my yum-yum again, and you might lose a finger or two.”

His parents and he both laugh and start chatting, asking Declan about his shoulder and the outlook for next football season. As I go to cut another piece, my stomach rolls, though, and I stop. It happens again, and my mouth waters, but this time, I know it isn’t from the food. What in the world? My stomach heaves, and I set my fork down, bracing my hands on the island top. This doesn’t make any sense. I’ve eaten plenty in the last few days and haven’t had the urge to purge at all. I’ve been doing really good.

With the third roll of my stomach, the acid hits the back of my throat. Rushing from the kitchen, Declan yells my name, his feet echoing behind me. The half-bath door in the hall bangs open as I hit it, and I don’t even flip the light on, barely kneeling before I’m puking in the toilet, trying to keep my hair out of the way. I heave again, tears stinging my eyes as guilt and confusion flood my entire mind. This doesn’t make any sense. I’ve been doing better, I really have. I didn’t even want to purge when I sat down and started eating.

As soon as my stomach settles, the tears come, a quiet sob escaping past my lips as Declan’s gentle fingers pull my hair back from my face and neck. I don’t realize how hard I’m crying until he sinks down next to me.

“Shh, babe,” he says quietly, running his hand up and down my back, “it’s okay. Just breathe.”

“I-I don’t understand,” I say between shuttered breaths. “I swear, I didn’t do-do this on purpose, I—”

“Lena, it’s okay. I know you didn’t, babe, shhh.” His lips press against my temple, and I flop further until my butt is fully on the floor. Declan gathers me in his arms and gently rocks me back and forth, and I can’t help the tears. They just keep coming, and I’m so confused and angry with myself.

I thought I was getting past all this. . .

Chapter 22 - Declan

“I don’t understand what happened,” I say quietly to my parents while we’re in the kitchen sipping coffee.

I completely believe Lena when she said she didn’t intentionally get sick yesterday when we got here. She’s only forced herself to purge a handful of times since she went to the hospital, and most of it was when she was slammed with too much stress— finals week. Other than that, though, she’s gotten sick on and off, sometimes, if she eats a lot more than her body can handle right now, but she hasn’t forced herself. Through both her actions and words, I can’t say that my girlfriend isn’t trying her absolute hardest.

“Sweetie,” my mother says gently, reaching over to lay her hand on mine, “there isn’t always going to be a rational reason for things. Lena’s body has been through a lot of ups and downs over these few months, and now she’s trying to get it back to functioning properly. It’s going to take time, and her body isn’t always going to do what she wants it to do.”

Hanging my head, I sigh. “I know, it just kills me to see her get that upset.”

“We know, son,” my dad says as he sits next to my mother at our breakfast nook. “But you’re doing the best thing you can for her, just being there. We were very proud of how you handled yesterday.”

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