Page 50 of When We Are Complete

Everyone is eatingwhen Jake’s mom and sister arrive a short time later. Lucy has her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, and sayshibefore sitting down next to Blake. The Tidal Tavern must be opening a bit late today.

Jake’s mom is still the same woman I remember from all those years ago, but with a few more lines around her eyes and a silver streak in her dark brown hair. She’s had a hard life, but her eyes are soft, the same deep brown as Jake’s, and when they land on me, her face lights up.

“Kelly!” She weaves around the tables on the deck to get closer to me.

I stand to say hello, but before I can speak, she’s wrapping me in a hug.

“It’s been too long. You look amazing, sweetheart. Absolutely amazing.”

“Hi, Mrs. Tanner,” I say, laughing as she squeezes me. “It’s good to see you.”

“Please, call me Donna. None of this Mrs. Tanner nonsense. Not now you’re all grown up.” She pulls back, holding me by the shoulders and giving me a once-over. She’s genuinely happy to see me. “Jake mentioned you’d be here, and I just had to bring you something special.” She reaches into the bag slung over her shoulder and pulls out a container. “I made gluten-free cupcakes for you. Jake told me you were gluten-free, now.”

My stomach twists, my expression freezing in place. Of course Jake would say something like that, not knowing the truth. I glance at the container, heart pounding a little. “Oh, wow. That’s so sweet of you, Donna.”

“Well, I wasn’t sure what flavor you preferred, so I made a few options. Chocolate, vanilla, and lemon. I hope one of those hits the mark.”

I plaster on my best neutral expression. “They all sound delicious.”

As Donna puts the container back in her bag, Jake walks over. He looks at his mom before asking, “Is Dad on his way?”

Donna’s smile falters just a little, the corners of her mouth tightening. “He couldn’t make it, honey. Something came up with work, you know how it is.”

I catch the brief flicker of disappointment in Jake’s eyes. “Yeah. I get it.”

But I can tell he doesn’t. He’s hurt, even if he won’t admit it. I’d offer to talk about it if his mom wasn’t standing right there, but I stay quiet, pretending I don’t notice the shift in his mood. This is family stuff—old wounds that have been there for as long as I’ve known Jake. He’s never been close to his dad.

Donna doesn’t miss a beat, though. She bustles around the party, chatting with everyone, setting up Adele’s cake. Soon we’re all singingHappy Birthdayand Adele is blowing out the candles.

Jake starts serving out the cake, while my eyes keep darting to the cupcakes Donna’s arranged on a plate beside the main birthday cake. They’re sitting there, waiting for me, and the pressure to eat one is starting to build. I have to—there’s no way around it without looking rude, not after the kindness Donna showed by making them.

Donna approaches me again, holding a small paper plate with a single chocolate cupcake. “Here you go. I hope you enjoy it.”

“Thank you.” I stare at the cupcake for a moment. Then, carefully, I break off a small piece and pop it into my mouth. I chew slowly, focusing on making it look natural, not like I’m mentally measuring the size of the bite.

“How is it?” Donna asks.

“Delicious. Thank you so much.”

Relief floods her expression, and she gives me a pleased look before wandering off to chat with someone else. I exhale and push the plate aside.

As the party continues, I find myself watching Adele and her friends, who are still hanging out on the deck. She’s got her phone, snapping selfies with her friends in front of a new round light that Jake got for her, and she’s having fun. But then I notice she keeps adjusting her posture, sucking in her stomach every time she strikes a pose. She angles herself in ways that make her look thinner, glancing at the screen with a critical eye after each photo.

A pang of recognition hits me. I’ve been there. I know that feeling, that compulsion to manipulate your body in photos to make yourself lookbetter. Memories of my own struggles with body image, the disordered eating that took over for so long until my Mom forced me to get help, bubble to the surface, and I swallow hard.

Even now, years later, I still talk to my therapist once a month—just to check in. I’m fine. I’m recovered. I have to be. But there’s a reason I don’t mention the food rules I still live by, the little restrictions I’ve convinced myself are normal.

Gluten-free, carb-free, sugar-free... the list goes on, and I stick to it like it’s gospel unless I’m in a situation where the only real choice is to bend the rules or people would start to worry. Therapy ice cream. Birthday cake. Those kinds of situations.

But it’s not a problem, not really. I have it all under control. Besides, I’m a Charleston. And Charleston women don’t break. They don’t stumble. They don’t relapse.

As Nora and Liam start bickering about some decades old sibling rivalry, my gaze returns to Adele, and my unease grows. The girls have taken their seats to eat some cake and dessert, and Adele is picking at her slice. She takes one tiny bite, her expression not betraying a thing, before casually wrapping the rest in a napkin when she thinks no one’s paying attention.

I wince. I’ve done that move—pretend you’re eating just enough so no one asks questions, all while planning to discard the rest.

It’s probably nothing. She’s a teenager. It’s normal, right? She’s just watching her weight like everyone does. I glance away, pretending I didn’t see it. It’s a little too confronting, even though I’m fine. Of course I’m fine. I’mrecovered. I repeat the word: a mantra.

But then I look back at Adele, and the recognition is too strong to ignore. I know what this is. And it’snotnothing. It would be wrong of me not to say something.

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