Fat Girl (20 page)

I don’t want to do this. But I can’t stop. It’s what I know. It’s who I am. I’m not a woman down in the dumps seeking solace in a few muffins. I’m a junkie desperate for her fix. The crave. The comfort. The soothe. I slide to the floor, gripping the plastic in my hands, and shovel in one muffin after another. It’s not enough. I go through my fridge and cupboards as if I’m a human Hoover. I scarf down whatever’s in my path until I’m too stuffed to think or move. Until all I feel is full.

It doesn’t take long before shame pierces the numbness. With my back against the fridge, I sit there clutching my bloated belly, boxes and containers lying scattered beside me and on the counter next to Mick’s empty glass. A reminder of how I lost control.
Oh, God!
Is Mick, like food, another destructive compulsion? My stomach lurches in answer.

Scrambling to my feet, I rush to the bathroom and drop to my knees in front of the toilet bowl. Disgusted with myself, I lift the lid and stick two fingers down my throat, gagging from the jab that makes my eyes water and forces the contents out of my body. Each heave wracks my shoulders, and the acid burns my throat. But when it’s over, as weak and wretched as I am, I feel I have some semblance of control back.

The control that was taken from me the first time my mother sent me away to live with strangers, and all the times after.

I drag myself to stand at the sink and wash the bits of blood and vomit off my finger. Glancing up, I catch my reflection. I don’t look as though I’m a woman in control. My skin is a sickly pale yellow, and my eyes are dull and lifeless. Haunted by too many painful memories and too much grief.

I should have known better than to open the door. I hesitated out of self-preservation. But my worry for Dwayde—and, if I’m honest with myself, my weakness for Mick—pushed past my guard.

The instant he stepped inside my house, his presence overwhelmed the small space, sucking up the available oxygen and, seemingly, my logic. No one had the power to break down my barriers the way Mick could. When he shrugged off his leather jacket, the motion caused the sleeve of his T-shirt to rise, revealing a tribal tattoo I hadn’t seen earlier. I never thought tats were particularly sexy, but on him it was. A band of red and gold flames circled his large right bicep and flexed when he moved, warning me that I was playing with fire.

A warning I tried to heed. But when the heat of his mouth covered mine, I had no hope of defending myself against the danger that was Mick. He powered through any remaining resistance by kissing me with a hunger that made me feel desirable and wanted. I didn’t think about my weight. I didn’t think about the hurt he’d caused. I completely surrendered, addict that I am. In seconds, I was writhing, craving; my need desperate…and minutes later, erupting in an earth-shattering orgasm while I stood in my kitchen fully dressed. Then he held me as if he cared, as if what we shared were something more than lust. I reveled in the comfort of his arms, filling those lonely places in me—until my dreamy state collided with cold, hard reality.

You’re still mine.

His triumphant declaration sliced through my post orgasmic euphoria, cutting me to the quick. I could just imagine how I must have looked to him, coming apart, moaning his name. Weak. So very weak. I foolishly gave Mick a piece of myself—when I’d vowed never to again—and it meant nothing more to him than a tryst to salve his ego. To prove he could still make me succumb.

Anger, familiar and safe, returned with a vengeance. I pushed him away and lashed out. As expected, he lashed back with vile insults that only confirmed his low regard for me. Hurting in the depths of my soul, I struck him hard enough to sting my palm. But even that couldn’t compare with the vicious blow he delivered.

The man who loved you like a daughter...the man you deserted…is now dead, but I doubt that matters to a coldhearted bitch like you.

I drag myself into my bedroom and curl up under the blanket. Closing my eyes, the grief descends on me like falling bricks; burying me beneath a rubble of guilt and despair.

Hot tears seep from under my lids. “I’m sorry, Papa T,” I sob into the silent darkness, “so sorry.”

My cries engulf me, and cradling my stomach I bawl my heart out for everyone and everything I’ve ever loved and lost.

SLEEP FINALLY CLAIMS ME IN the wee hours. I toss and turn through tormented dreams of the night before and wake with the memories still clinging to me. The phone rings and I let the call go to voice mail. And when the doorbell chimes, I burrow deep under the covers. If it’s Mick, I don’t have the strength for round two. Then I hear the metal scratch and the door opening. There are only two people to whom I’ve given a spare key in case of emergency: Lexie and Jordyn.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” Lexie says in a singsong. “We have Pilates.”

I groan, having forgotten they were picking me up for our 8:30 class.

“Holy shit!”

Judging from Jordyn’s reaction, she must have come upon the mess littering my kitchen. No one has ever witnessed evidence of my
problem
. Even as a child, I was careful to keep my binges secret—hiding the wrappers in my pockets, or drawers, or the bottom of the trash bin. So getting caught, even by my closest friends, besieges me with shame and embarrassment. As much as they love me, they can’t understand this. No one can.

Their hurried footsteps bring them to my bedroom.

“Dee?” Jordyn jerks on the blanket, uncovering my face, and takes one hard look at me.

Her green eyes flare with wrath. “What did that bastard do to you?”

I LIE IN BED, THE taunt of morning at my window. All night I fought to steal patches of sleep, desperate for relief from the images stamped on my brain.

After stalking out of Dee’s place, I soaked up the sorrow in her eyes and bathed in her anguish. I let it nurse my old wounds and satisfy my long-held desire to punish her for ripping herself away from me and leaving a gaping hole.

Yet somewhere along the way, my conscience rebelled. The taste for revenge turned sour. I’d done exactly what Dee accused me of. I seduced her. Thinking that would mend my pride and work her out of my system. I couldn’t have been more deluded. Dee’s wedged in there so tightly, a grenade couldn’t shake her lose.

Last night, I didn’t want to reclaim just her body. I wanted to reclaim her heart. So hearing Dee say, “Don’t touch me!” while I was weaving fantasies of second chances scraped me raw. And in return I was cruel. I was a heartless bastard. To tell her about Papa T that way. To leave her hurt and grieving alone. Cayo must be cursing me from his grave.

I lean across the bed to get my cell phone and scroll to her home number. After three rings, I hear her recorded voice flow over me like warm honey. I start to leave a message, but that seems inadequate. I try her mobile number with no luck.

I haul myself to the bathroom. Each step feels as if my feet are weighted with lead. I glance in the mirror while I brush my teeth, and my haggard reflection confirms how shitty I feel.

After a quick shower, I throw on jeans and a black Henley shirt. By eight thirty, I’m heading to Brockville. Traffic is light and that, coupled with a heavy foot on the gas, means I make the trip in less than twenty minutes. I’m due at Mama T’s for Sunday brunch in a few hours, but I have to see Dee now, to try to make this right.

I park my Porsche at the curb and give the area a visual sweep. The precaution is second nature. Once satisfied I haven’t been trailed by photographers, I alight from the car and follow the walkway past the large red-leafed maple, where I spot her Acura in the driveway and a white sporty Mercedes behind it. A girly car. That tells me at least one friend is here, and my chances of seeing Dee plummet. With a female, possibly two, standing guard, I know I have a better shot at getting into Fort Knox than I do of getting past Dee’s front door.

I climb the porch steps to her bungalow and ring the bell. To my surprise, the door swings open. But the woman who answers is wearing a battle-ready scowl, and the brunette tagging at her heels looks at me as if she were smelling week-old garbage. This isn’t good.

“You’ve got some nerve showing up here,” the shorter of the two says, her green eyes shooting daggers. Jordyn, I recall. She might have the appearance of a red-haired Tinker Bell, but her demeanor is pure pit bull.

“May I speak with Dee?”

“No. You’re not getting anywhere near her after what you did. Do you have any idea what you put her through by dropping a bomb like that?”

“I—”

“Save it,” she says with her hand pushed up toward my face. “You bulldozed your way back into her life without a care for anyone but yourself. She was doing fine. Better than fine. And now she’s not.”

“Jordyn, I understand where you’re coming from, but I really need to see Dee.”

“You don’t understand shit.” She brazenly pokes my chest. “And how the hell do you know my name?”

“Dee mentioned you and Lexie last night.”

“Which tells you she believed you’d come here with good intentions,” Lexie interjects calmly but with derision. “Otherwise, she wouldn’t have let you in or shared anything personal. I’m sure you’re well aware of that and schemed to have her play straight into your hands.”

I can’t defend myself when she’s right. “I’d like to see Dee and explain.”

“
Pfft!
” Jordyn blows out a contemptuous breath. “That’s not gonna happen.”

“Did Dee tell you she doesn’t want to see me?”

“You’re kidding, right? Do you think she has to tell me that?”

“I think you should at least ask her.”

“I don’t give a damn what you think. I only opened the door to tell you to go fuck yourself.”

Jordyn starts to close the door, but I slap my palm on the wood, stalling her attempt.

“What’s going on?”

Jordyn and Lexie whirl around at the sound of Dee’s voice vibrating across the short foyer. Seizing the opportunity, I shoulder past them to Jordyn’s irate shriek: “Hey, you can’t just barge in here like that!”

I reach Dee in two long strides. Fresh from a shower, her curls hang in damp disarray to her shoulders. Grief and sadness saturate her face, and her posture sags with exhaustion, beaten down because of me. “Dee, we need to talk.”