Page 81 of Claim to Fame

Micah appeared at their side. “What do you want to do?”

“What are my options?” she asked.

“We can ignore it, though I suspect he’s already got some kind of source confirming your treatment or he wouldn’t have brought it up. His information is too specific.”

“So ignoring it’s out. What else?” she asked.

“We can ask for privacy and for the press to respect your right to keep your medical information out of the public eye.”

Hannah scoffed. “Like that’s ever worked.”

Micah nodded gravely. “We make a statement. Confirm Johnny’s speculation on your own terms.”

“It’s nobody’s goddamn business,” Ethan snapped. His muscles screamed for him to get them out of there, to take her away from this insanity where any jackass on the street could shout out the most private details of their lives for all the world to hear.

“You’re right, but maybe it’s time I stopped trying to hide this part of myself. Maybe if more people talked about it, it would have been easier for me to ask for help sooner.” She turned back to Micah. “But I’m not giving the story to Johnny Blue. Get me anybody else.”

Micah nodded. “On it,” he said, before disappearing back into the crowd.

“Are you sure?” Ethan asked, drawing her into his arms, focusing on the feel of her, solid and strong, beneath his hands as some of the tension left him.

“No,” she said with a laugh, reaching up to smooth her palm over his beard. “But I’m done being afraid.”

∞∞∞

Hannah’s skin buzzed as she looked into Ethan’s eyes. There was so much she wanted to tell him, about the way he made her feel like she could be someone new, about how she never wanted to be apart, but this didn’t seem like the time.

He had kissed her on the red carpet.

Well, her shoulder. But still. It counted. Lips had made contact with skin.

He’d kissed her in front of all the photographers.

“Ms. Matthews?”

She tore her eyes away from Ethan and refocused on the older woman seated across from her in the tiny theater office. Elizabeth? Ellen? She couldn’t remember. Micah had ushered her into the cramped space and made introductions so quickly, she’d hardly had a chance to thank him before he was gone. But not Ethan. He’d insisted on staying—with her permission, of course—and had taken up a position leaning against the corner, though he hardly fit in the space, like some kind of bodyguard. The idea made a giggle bubble up her throat, but she covered it with a cough.

“I’m sorry. You were saying?” she asked.

Elizabeth-Ellen smiled indulgently. “You wanted to make a statement about the accusations made by Johnny Blue on the red carpet,” she prompted.

Hannah clasped her hands in her lap, the distant staticky hum in the back of her mind reciting Ben & Jerry’s flavors, but she pushed the sound away. She didn’t need a pint of New York Super Fudge Chunk. Her eyes flashed to Ethan again, to the careful way he watched her, the worry line between his brows.

“Yes,” Hannah said, turning her attention back to the reporter. She inclined her head towards the small recording device the woman had placed on the desk. “Are you ready?”

“Ready when you are,” Elizabeth-Ellen said. “Hannah, did you receive treatment for an eating disorder at an outpatient clinic in Massachusetts?”

“I did.” As soon as she said the words, she felt lighter, the noise in her head quieting. “About a year ago, I was diagnosed with an eating disorder. The official diagnosis was ‘eating disorder not otherwise specified,’ which basically means it didn’t fit easily into the current available classifications. My disorder presented as a mix of behaviors usually associated with anorexia, exercise bulimia, and binge eating disorder. While I wasn’t diagnosed until a year ago, I have lived with some form of an eating disorder since I was a teenager, but back then, according to the wisdom of women’s magazines, I was just ‘dieting.’”

Elizabeth-Ellen smiled kindly. “And when did you enter treatment?”

“I began seeing a therapist and a dietitian pretty much right away. I was actively performing inBridget Jones’ Musicalat the time, so more intensive treatment was difficult to fit in the schedule and I did not want to take time off from the production. But by the time the show closed, it was clear to me I needed more help. Jackson had friends who sought treatment in the Berkshires—”

“Your co-star, Jackson Hayes?” the reporter clarified.

“That’s right."

The more she talked, the easier it became. She carefully sidestepped the details of her relationship with Jackson, playing coy, but made sure he was given credit for coming to her rescue financially. If she was going to tell them about her disorder, at least her friend could get some good publicity out of it, and she could shine a light on the financial inaccessibility of quality mental health care.

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