Page 38 of Pieces of Us

My fingernails bite into the flesh of his skin, leaving moon indentations. He lets go of my hand at the sudden sharpness.

‘I can’t talk anymore today. It’s already too much.’

Without a second to spare, he pulls my body towards him and wraps his strong arms behind my back. He feels familiar, yet entirely different. The contours of our bodies still fit seamlessly but it’s weird, like we don’t know if the puzzle pieces still fit anymore.

He’s hard all over, and he’s taller than I remember.

Feeling his lips on my temple, I hold my breath. I haven’t felt his lips on me since the last time they were on mine.

‘Promise me we’ll talk again?’ he asks me breathlessly.

I swallow what feels like a fur ball before shaking my head solemnly. He gave me the best explanation he could. He apologised.

‘There’s nothing else left to say.’

‘Yes, there is, Hart. So much more.’

As I stagger away, I’m relieved that Billie is nowhere in sight.

Chapter 18

Fighting Myself

Amity

Acidic nausea worms its way up my throat. Holding my hand to my mouth, I sprint to the ladies’ room. I crash down on the sterile tiles, roughing up my knees in the process, lift the lid and drop my head down the abyss. Gagging over the putrescent toilet smells, it takes less than ten seconds for me to vomit my guts up. The sour remnants of breakfast this morning burn my throat. Chunks of cut up fruit regurgitate from my mouth until nothing is left in my stomach.

Spitting the last of the foul stomach juices, I slump back on the equally cold tiled wall, ashamed that the first instinct my body has is to resort to unhealthy coping mechanisms.

Vomiting wasn’t my usual go-to method to lose weight. Weight loss medication was my addiction, but with eating disorders, body dysmorphia, depression, anxiety and triggering situations, you’d be surprised by the cocktail of ways in which your body responds.

I know immediately that I’ll need to tell Dad and Mum about this episode, as well as my therapist. When I feel well enough, I rise, flushing the toilet before leaving the cubicle to wash my hands and face.

Feeling not in control of my body, my vices, my mind and my reactions make me feel weak. I’m disappointed that I let myself get sick over Lincoln, Billie and our whole history. Again.

Leaving the bathroom, I am petrified that Lincoln is around or Billie has returned. Lucky for me, neither of them are in sight. In fact, the entire office seems to have cleared out but Ella, who provides me with a gentle and empathetic smile. Handing me a bottle of water and packet of tissues, no words are exchanged, which I’m grateful for.

I hastily exit the firm, resisting every urge to run ten kilometres home in this sticky weather. I don’t need to indulge in any more risky behaviours this afternoon.

‘Princess?’ Dad’s quizzical voice calls out when I click the door shut.

‘Yeah?’ I croak. If my voice doesn’t betray me, my swollen red eyes do when Dad turns his gaze to me from the couch as I attempt to scuttle past the living room where he’s resting his leg.

‘What happened?’ he grits out, already knowing it has to do with Lincoln.

I slump down next to him, unable to escape how he scrutinises me.

‘Let’s call Mum, yeah?’ At that, he envelopes me in a warm, comfortable embrace as I sniffle in his shirt.

He presses Mum’s number, and after a few rings, she thankfully picks up.

‘Hey, Mark. What’s up?’

He grinds out one unimpressed word. ‘Lincoln.’

Immediately, Mum murmurs a few curse words.

‘Tell us what happened.’ She tries to inject calmness back into her usually cool demeanour, but I can tell she’s seething at the thought of me unravelling.

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