None of them understood how dangerous it was to be around food, to wage a constant battle of willpower—and how easy it would be to just surrender and lose oneself completely. No, they were blind, and deaf, and they parroted the latest lines from the latest magazines, all full of promises of health and beauty and attractiveness.
All stuffed with lies.
When James finally spoke, his voice was both soft and hard, quiet and yet terribly firm. "Are you bulimic?"
The question so startled her that she let out a laugh. Her? Bulimic? She couldn't even manage to stick her fingers down her throat. "No, of course not. That's just gross." Yes, that too.
He turned to face her, and she noticed the worry line nestled between his brows. "You promise me? You really just had to puke before because, what, something disagreed with you?"
"Promise." Really, it was sort of sweet how concerned he was. She smiled broadly, and never mind how it hurt her cheeks. "I'm okay. Maybe I'm coming down with something. That's probably why I've been so tired, and now with what just happened at the diner..." Her mind fixed on the ashes on her plate, but she pushed that thought away. "I'm probably getting the flu."
A very long pause before a relieved smile flitted across his lips. "Okay then." But the smile vanished, and he looked unconvinced.
Damn that Suzanne, putting such stupid ideas into his head!
"I'm still up for a movie," she said brightly, trying to convince him that she was still a good girlfriend. "We could even see that new one you've been talking about. You know, the one with all the gore and blood." She hated horror films, hated seeing killers wielding improbable weapons and slicing off people's limbs. But for James, she'd do it.
He shook his head as he started the engine. "Uh-uh. If you've got something that's making you puke, I'm getting you home. You should be in bed."
Deflating, Lisa looked down at her lap. "Sorry."
"Not a big deal," he said as he backed out of their spot.
"It was probably the Chinese food I had with Dad before," she said, feeling lame. "Maybe it was undercooked or something."
"Could be."
They rode back to her house in uncomfortable silence—James obviously wrestling with dark thoughts, and Lisa fretting over the way James was acting. When they pulled into her driveway, she was all but in tears.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice hitching. "I've ruined everything."
He smiled—such a beautiful smile—and reached over to stroke her hair. "Don't be stupid. I just want you healthy." He emphasized the last word, and he caught her gaze, holding it. "You know I love you, right?"
Biting her lip, she nodded. "Love you, too."
"Leese," he said, drinking her in. "If you need anything, you'll tell me, won't you?"
She nodded again.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"Okay then." He leaned over and kissed her brow, making Lisa feel like a little girl. "Go on in and get some rest. I'll call you tomorrow."
"Okay," she said, and then added, "I baked cookies for you. Let me run in and get them."
"No, don't. If you're up for it, I can come by tomorrow and get them, maybe stay for a while. Bring you some chicken soup," he said, grinning.
Chicken soup
, the Thin voice said.
One cup. Two hundred calories. Ninety minutes on the bike.
She tried to smile, but it faltered around the edges. "I'd like that," she lied.
They said their good nights, and Lisa slunk into her house.
A minute after Lisa shut her front door, a very troubled James drove away.
***
"What do you think?" Death asked. "Should I give her five minutes? Let her calm down first? Maybe give her some time to get ready for her big night out? Or should I throw her to the metaphorical wolves?"
The black horse flicked its ears. The pale horse snorted.
"You're right," Death said. "Girls take forever to get ready. I'll go get her."
But he took his time, first stretching out the kinks in his neck and shoulders from hunching over to play his guitar. As he'd said to the White Rider,
All stuffed with lies.
When James finally spoke, his voice was both soft and hard, quiet and yet terribly firm. "Are you bulimic?"
The question so startled her that she let out a laugh. Her? Bulimic? She couldn't even manage to stick her fingers down her throat. "No, of course not. That's just gross." Yes, that too.
He turned to face her, and she noticed the worry line nestled between his brows. "You promise me? You really just had to puke before because, what, something disagreed with you?"
"Promise." Really, it was sort of sweet how concerned he was. She smiled broadly, and never mind how it hurt her cheeks. "I'm okay. Maybe I'm coming down with something. That's probably why I've been so tired, and now with what just happened at the diner..." Her mind fixed on the ashes on her plate, but she pushed that thought away. "I'm probably getting the flu."
A very long pause before a relieved smile flitted across his lips. "Okay then." But the smile vanished, and he looked unconvinced.
Damn that Suzanne, putting such stupid ideas into his head!
"I'm still up for a movie," she said brightly, trying to convince him that she was still a good girlfriend. "We could even see that new one you've been talking about. You know, the one with all the gore and blood." She hated horror films, hated seeing killers wielding improbable weapons and slicing off people's limbs. But for James, she'd do it.
He shook his head as he started the engine. "Uh-uh. If you've got something that's making you puke, I'm getting you home. You should be in bed."
Deflating, Lisa looked down at her lap. "Sorry."
"Not a big deal," he said as he backed out of their spot.
"It was probably the Chinese food I had with Dad before," she said, feeling lame. "Maybe it was undercooked or something."
"Could be."
They rode back to her house in uncomfortable silence—James obviously wrestling with dark thoughts, and Lisa fretting over the way James was acting. When they pulled into her driveway, she was all but in tears.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice hitching. "I've ruined everything."
He smiled—such a beautiful smile—and reached over to stroke her hair. "Don't be stupid. I just want you healthy." He emphasized the last word, and he caught her gaze, holding it. "You know I love you, right?"
Biting her lip, she nodded. "Love you, too."
"Leese," he said, drinking her in. "If you need anything, you'll tell me, won't you?"
She nodded again.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"Okay then." He leaned over and kissed her brow, making Lisa feel like a little girl. "Go on in and get some rest. I'll call you tomorrow."
"Okay," she said, and then added, "I baked cookies for you. Let me run in and get them."
"No, don't. If you're up for it, I can come by tomorrow and get them, maybe stay for a while. Bring you some chicken soup," he said, grinning.
Chicken soup
, the Thin voice said.
One cup. Two hundred calories. Ninety minutes on the bike.
She tried to smile, but it faltered around the edges. "I'd like that," she lied.
They said their good nights, and Lisa slunk into her house.
A minute after Lisa shut her front door, a very troubled James drove away.
***
"What do you think?" Death asked. "Should I give her five minutes? Let her calm down first? Maybe give her some time to get ready for her big night out? Or should I throw her to the metaphorical wolves?"
The black horse flicked its ears. The pale horse snorted.
"You're right," Death said. "Girls take forever to get ready. I'll go get her."
But he took his time, first stretching out the kinks in his neck and shoulders from hunching over to play his guitar. As he'd said to the White Rider,
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