Page 103 of Habits

I can’t deny her. Not when she’s like this. When she says the words that belong to us.

Reluctantly, I open my eyes.

“You’ll be okay. I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t know for a fact that you’ll be okay. We have to do right by ourselves, Andrew. We have to.”

“You know the shit that’s haunting me, but what’s haunting you? What’s so fucked up you think I can’t help you get through it?”

This time she’s the one who closes her eyes.

Just for a few seconds, she shuts me off. I can see her throat bobble as she swallows hard. I can see the wheels turning in her head as she tries to figure out what to say, how to say it.

Her fingers grip mine tighter.

She’s scared. I can feel her fear like it’s my own, and it scares me. Because I know, whatever she tells me, it won’t be good.

I open my mouth to stop her, but she’s faster.

“I have anorexia,” she whispers, opening her eyes and looking straight into mine. “Anorexia combined with slight body dysmorphic disorder.”

“What?!”

I’m so stunned I don’t know what to say. Jeanette has anorexia? My eyes scan her body looking for a clue as my mind does a rewind of all the months we spent together.

Did she avoid food? Did I see her sneak into the bathroom after eating? Did she seem worried as she ate, as if she’s counting all the calories she’s consuming?

“Some things happened back in freshman year, back in California. Things that made me question the way I look, things that lead me to start excessively exercising and skipping meals. At the beginning it was just dinners, but suddenly it was eating altogether. I didn’t even realize it because the image in the mirror, it just became worse and worse. My parents were hardly around and Max was busy with hockey, his friends and other …things. So nobody paid attention, until it escalated and I ended up in hospital.”

“But you’re better now?”

I can’t stop staring at her, looking for clues that something is off. Her clothes fit her body perfectly, and although she looks thin, she doesn’t seem overly so.

“I was, or I thought I was, but it never really goes away. The distorted reflection in the mirror, avoiding food, overthinking everything I put in my mouth. It didn’t get to the point where I’m back where I was three years ago, but I can notice it. Max sees it, and I can’t …” She stops, taking a deep breath in. “I can’t put him through that again. I can’t and don’t want to put myself through it again, either.”

“Jeanette I don’t know …”

“You don’t have to say anything,” she interrupts. “I didn’t tell you to gain your sympathy or because I think it’s somehow your fault. It isn’t. All the fears and insecurities, they’re all on me. They’re my problem and I have to learn how to deal with it, how to get it under control. That’s why I started therapy again. I want to get better. I want to find a way to heal. You showed me how good it can be to feel whole again. Now I have to do it on my own.”

There is a light in her eyes, determination that I haven’t seen before.

“What if I can’t do it? What if I can’t face my demons? Can’t face her?”

Jeanette brushes her thumb over my cheekbone, and then I feel it. One lone tear that rolled down, but she didn’t let it fall. One lone tear of the little boy who’s scared to lose somebody he cares about.

“You can, and you will.”

Her lips brush against mine in the most tender of kisses. I pull her closer, my hands wrapping around her shoulders.

“I know you can, because I know you, Andrew Hill. Strong, but stubborn. Self-centered, yet gentle. Full of yourself, occasionally mean, but underneath it all … underneath it all is a good heart that only a few can see. It’s that heart that’s making me fall for you. Even when they told me I shouldn’t. Even when I knew if I opened up, you could completely break me. Even when I was supposed to stop my bad habits, you—the worst habit of all, I couldn’t give up. I don’t want to give you up, Andrew. But for now, that's what's best for me. And this time … this time I come first.”

Jeanette

“How are you today?”

I want to roll my eyes at the woman sitting on the other side of the big mahogany table, but I keep it under control. She’s just doing her job, after all. And apparently she’s good at it, the best in this part of the state.

Dr. Allison Mitchell is in her mid-thirties, not that anybody would give her that much. Her pale-blond, almost white hair is pulled into a messy bun at the nape of her neck. Big brown eyes are surrounded by long eyelashes barely covered in a layer of mascara and hidden behind big, nerdy glasses. They’re light pink and match the lipgloss she always wears.

To be completely honest, the first time I entered her office I wasn’t sure this would work. She looks my age. Ripped jeans, Chucks and T-shirts with smart-ass comments don’t give the most professional first impressions.

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