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One, two, thr?—

Everything comes up.

My throat burns, eyes watering, but it’s better than the alternative. Better than carrying the weight of everything inside.

I grip the toilet bowl harder, willing my hands to stop shaking. One more time. Just to make sure it’s all gone.

The cinnamon still lingers, mixing with the acrid taste in my mouth. Mom knew what she was doing. She always knows. Just like—I heave again, but nothing comes up except bile.

A knock at the door. “Cupcake?”

ELEVEN

NAOMI

Shit. I spit bile, my stomach clenching.

What is so hard about ‘don’t follow me into bathrooms’?

“Go away.”

“Open the door.”

“Fuck off.” Another heave.

“I’ll kick it down.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” He would. He absolutely would.

“Try me.”

“Just…” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and flush the toilet. The water swirls, taking evidence of my shame with it. “Give me a minute.”

“You’ve had ten.”

Has it been that long? The faucet runs full blast. I rinse my mouth and splash water on my face. My reflection stares back, mascara smeared, lipstick gone, eyes hollow.

“Go away.” I meant it to sound harsh, but it comes out more like a plea. “Please.” Pathetic.

“Not happening.” His voice is closer, as if he’s pressed right up against the door. “Not until you open up and talk to me.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I’m trying to be better.” He sighs, and I can almost feel the weight of it through the door.

“I don’t need your help.”

“Tough shit,” he says, “because you’re getting it anyway.”

I hear him settling on the floor.

He’s not leaving. Is he?

He’s going to sit there and wait me out like some stubborn, infuriating guardian angel.

It makes me want to scream. It also makes me want to open the door and fall into his arms, but I can’t let him see me like this, broken and weak and so fucking pathetic.

So, instead, I sit on my side of the door. “You’re an asshole.”

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