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“I am,” he says, “but I’m your asshole.”

My asshole.

Isn’t that just the kicker? Because as much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. He is mine, in this twisted, fucked-up way that I can’t quite explain. And maybe, just maybe, that means I’m his too.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know it had cinnamon in it.”

“Pretty sure it’s in the name. Cinnam?—”

“I don’t mean today.” A pause. “I meant the ravioli.”

The event. It was the first time he confronted me in the bathroom. Showed me that he knows.

“How long?” I finally ask. “How long have you known?”

“College.”

College? That’s like ages ago. My fingers clench against the cold tile floor. I was always so careful. Meticulous, even. I thought no one knew. Except for Blake, no one could know. Always had an excuse ready. Always timed it perfectly.

But of course, Brandon fucking Milton would be the one to figure it out.

The word scrapes my raw throat. “How?”

“You really want to know?”

No. “Yes.” Maybe.

He shifts against the door. “Remember that Christmas party at Sigma Chi? The one with the cinnamon liquor shots?”

I do. But what I remember most isn’t the party, it’s what happened earlier that day. Anne had shown me an old photo of her mother, Clara, smiling at the camera. The same smile I see on Anne’s face sometimes. The same smile that died in our garage that night. And then it had to be Christmas. And what do you serve on Christmas? Fucking cinnamon li?—

“You disappeared for like an hour,” he continues. “At first, I thought maybe you just couldn’t hold your liquor. Or maybe you had a thing against cinnamon.”

Can’t I disappear, melt into the wood, and cease to exist?

“But the thing was. You didn’t have one sip.” His words come softer, heavier, sinking into my skin. “Started noticing other things. You always picked at your food, moving it around your plate instead of eating. You bought tons of snacks, but I never saw you eat them. You’d check your phone exactly forty-five minutes into every dinner. You’d disappear during or after meals and come back with mints on your breath. And later, the only thing you ate?—”

“You don’t know anything.” I feel tears prickling behind my eyelids.

“I know enough.” His voice is softer, almost gentle. “I’ve known you long enough.”

“You’re more observant than you look.”

“And you’re not as subtle as you think, cupcake.”

I want to throw something at him through the door. “Don’t call me that right now.”

“Why? Because it makes you think about food?”

“Fuck you.”

“Again. I offered you long ago, but you?—”

“Why did you never say anything?”

“Because I wanted you to tell me yourself. When you felt ready…”

Silence stretches between us, thick with things we’re not saying. ThingsIcan’t say.

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