Page 109 of With a Cherry On Top

“You won’t be there to put salt in my lunch, to sneak me extra food, to make my days better, and I’ll just—” Her lips wobble, voice cracking. “I’ll starve. I’ll disappear. I’ll once again be nothing but my body.”

The words cause physical ache, like my ribs are caving in. She’s not just talking about food. She’s talking aboutme. How I make her feel and have her back.

“But you won’t have this on your conscience, right?” She wipes at her face with the back of her hand, even as fresh tears spill over. “So, who cares? Who cares if we never meet again? If you never touch me again?”

Her face crumples, and suddenly, I feel smaller than a coin. Insignificant.

She’s right.

What did I think? That just because I quit, Beatrice would stop? That just because I stepped back, Charlotte would be okay? She won’t. Nothing will change. The only difference is I won’t be there to see it.

“I’m sorry.” I want to reach through the screen, pull her into my arms, and promise her that she’s not alone. That I’ll fix it. That it’ll be better. But all I can do is sit here, helpless. “I won’t quit, okay?” The words rush out, desperate, pleading. “I won’t. I’m not going anywhere.”

A sob wracks through her, and she buries her face in her hands. She looks so small like this, nearly naked, her body so thin I can see the sharp angles of her hip bone, the faint ridges of her ribs.

I need to know something. I need to ask her the one thing that’s gone through my mind since I heard her being sick, since I read her mom’s list. And I really don’t want to do it now, when she’s already so vulnerable, but I’m afraid it can’t wait.

“Charlotte, this morning, did you . . .”

She sniffles. “Did I what?”

“Did you vomit...” I glance at the screen, afraid she’ll end the call on the spot but dragging the words out anyway. “...on purpose?”

Her shoulders stiffen just a tad before she swipes at her cheek. “It’s not a big deal.”

Fuck, it feels like dying. Like she just ran a knife through my heart, and with every quick intake of breath, it causes more blood to spurt out into my chest cavity.

“You—it’s ahugedeal, Charlotte.”

“No, it’s not. I’m not bulimic or anything. It’s just something I do when I’ve eaten a little too much and Beatrice will weigh me. I hadn’t done it in years, but lately, I mean...”

But lately, she’s been eating more. Because of me.

God, this is so fucked up, whichever way you look at it.

“Charlotte, listen to me,” I say, leaning closer to the laptop. “You have to promise me you’ll never do it again.”

“Chef, I?—”

“Promise. If you want me to stay, if you want me to keep feeding you, then you have to swear it’ll never happen again. No matter what.”

“I promise.” She sniffles, then pulls her hair back over one shoulder. “I want to see you, but I’m not allowed to go out...not since I gained that weight.”

I unclench my jaw. “I left something for you today.”

“You did? Where?”

“Behind the baking equipment—figured Beatrice would never touch that. Can you go get it?”

She quickly jumps up, and I wait for the noise of the door opening as she comes back, holding the jar filled with folded pieces of paper. Her eyes shimmer, and her voice is barely a whisper. “You made me a jar of stars?”

“I did,” I say. “I wanted you to have something, just in case. A reminder that there’s so much more to you than your body. That someone sees it. Seesyou.”

“Aaron, I . . .”

“Whenever you need the reminder, just . . . open the jar, okay?”

Her lips wobble, and after pressing a key on her laptop, she says, “I just allowed you to turn your camera on. Can I see you?”

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