Page 17 of here

It’s suffocating. The food, the attention, the way my dress suddenly feels two sizes too small. I need air. I need space. I need?—

“Bathroom.” I spin around. “Be right back.”

I don’t wait for his response, marching with single-minded determination to the one place that can rid me of the taste.

I burst into the restroom and barricade myself inside a stall, collapsing against the door while struggling to steady my breathing.

The cinnamon lingers on my tongue, mixing with—I lurch forward, holding my hair in a ponytail, retching.

I need it gone. I need to be empty, clean, perfect.

My fingers are down my throat before I can stop myself, triggering the gag reflex with practiced ease. The ravioli comes up in chunks, burning my throat.

But it’s not enough. It’s never enough. Not until there’s nothing left but bile and self-loathing. Until I’m hollow and aching and so fucking tired of fighting this battle every single day.

I don’t want this anymore.

The cold tile bites into my knees, my hands shake, and mascara-stained tears drop on the white toilet seat.

I’m sorry.

A knock on the stall door makes me freeze.

Shit. Was I too loud?

“Naomi?” Brandon’s voice sends a fresh wave of panic through me. “You in there?”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

I wipe my mouth with toilet paper, willing my hands to stop shaking.

The handle rattles. “Open the fucking door.”

He knows. He fucking knows. Brandon Milton might play the drunk fool, but he notices everything. “Just… give me a minute.”

My hands tremble as I fumble through my clutch, pushing aside lipstick and keys. Where the fuck is it? There has to be a mint in here somewhere.

“You’ve been in there for fifteen.” The stall door is the only thing between us, his voice just beyond it. “Open the door.”

“Fuck off.”

“Not happening.” A soft thud. His forehead against the door? “Either you open it, or I’m coming in. Your choice.”

I glance up. The stall walls are not that high, and the door doesn’t seem that stable. Brandon’s tall. Athletic. He’d do it, the asshole.

“You wouldn’t dare.” But my fingers move faster, more frantic. Shit. My house key skitters across the floor.

“Try me.” His shoes appear under the gap. “Three.”

I finally find the tin of mints buried at the bottom, but the lid refuses to open, and my sweaty fingers slip. “This is the women’s restroom.”

“Two.”

The tin pops open, and I shove two in my mouth. The sharp peppermint barely masks the acid burn in my throat. “Can’t a girl?—”

“One.”

“Alright!” I yank the door open, nearly hitting him.

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