I look toward my kitchen to find Mark buried up to his shoulders in my fridge, Pete right next to him rummaging through my freezer, and almost all of the cupboards and drawers pulled open.
“You have nothing in here, Sweets. Like, literally nothing. No wonder why you—" Mark yelps as Pete jabs his elbow into the side of his neck. “Hey, fuck you, man,” he shouts, shoving Pete into the counter behind him.
“No,fuck you,” Pete yells before shoving Mark down into my fridge.Literallyinto my refrigerator. His ass is in my crisper drawers. “Well look at that, now Leo’s fridge is full of ham.”
They both start laughing while they exchange remarks back and forth before Norman walks over to help Pete extract Mark from the drawers, and I wrap my arms around myself and force another smile.
I know I’m thinner than the boys have ever seen me, and that includes the years we were all on a steady diet of booze, coke, and anything else that was put in front of us.
This is a different kind of thin, though.
It’s the kind of thin you get when you’ve given up, when you don’t care enough to make sure you’re eating or taking care of yourself. The kind that fear and anxiety create when they don’t allow you to think about anything else.
I never wanted them to see me like this.
My frame was built for curves and to bear more than the one-thirty-five it currently supports opposed to my normal one-sixty. I don’t know what Mark was going to say but I do know it wasn’t going to be hurtful, and for all I know he wasn’t even going tocomment on my weight at all—he’s not like that and three years won’t change it—but Pete drawing attention to it by trying to cut off Mark’s potential foot in mouth, it gives volume to the voices constantly picking me apart in my head.
My boys aren’t like that, but I am.
I tug my loose tank top down and try to hide my bones that are a little more noticeable than they should be, seriously wishing I hadn’t just freaked out in the parking lot instead of changing into something a lot baggier before they got here.
“There’s a fifty in the dishwasher, maybe another seventy-five in the ice trays. Figure out what you guys want to eat and make sure it’ll feed more than just Mark and Pete. I’m going to shower. I came straight from the mansion to the parking lot, and I haven’t had time to scrub the smell of chemicals off of me yet.”
Excuses.
I start up my spiral staircase and try not to run. “Maybe see if you guys can get the TV hooked up?” I need to shower, but I need to disappear and cry even more, and I need them preoccupied while I do it.
“Did she say there’s money in the dishwasher?” I hear Mark’s puzzled tone behind me, the three of them going back and forth about money and food, ribbing each other in the process.
Despite how normal this all feels, I still need to get away. It breaks my heart that they had to see me as the thin, sickly zombie I’ve become.
The whole climb up my stairs I can feel Lucky’s eyes on me. He hasn’t taken them off of me since my little freak out over their spring cleaning, and as I reach the top, I hear him say something then follow quickly behind me.
I rush through my bedroom, grabbing clean clothes then beeline into the bathroom where I lock the door and take a deep breath before turning on the shower. Which is where I stay while I completely break down.
Again.
My skin stings as I sit on the floor and let the water rain down on me, as I let it wash away my fear and sadness, the profound loneliness that has consumed my existence these last three years.
I lose track of time as usual and finally decide that I’m going to have to get out and face Lucky at some point. I know damn well he’s been sitting outside the bathroom door, most likely cleaning or rearranging my bedroom the whole time I’ve been locked in here.
Popping a couple more pills in my mouth, I take a deep breath and open the door slowly then peer out into my room.
Lucky’s long legs are hanging off the side of my bed, the man lying on his back, his hands behind his head, and eyes closed. His shoes are kicked off and neatly positioned in front of the bedside table where his keys, wallet and phone sit in a perfectly straight line a few inches from the edge. He’s opened my curtains, everything is dust free, my clothes are all put away, my bed is made and I’m pretty sure he even fluffed my damn pillows.
A few years ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated to climb onto the bed next to him. I’d jump in and wiggle around until I was comfortable then meet those gunmetal gray eyes head-on while we talked.
Lucky and I spent many, many nights that way whether we were talking, writing music, reading, sleeping, or justbeingin his bed or mine. He’s always made me feel different, made me feel less like a freak. Lucky and the boys made me feel like I was worth something, and hopping into bed with any of them was second nature. Everything has always been easy with them, at least it used to be, anyway.
But now, standing in the doorway of my bathroom staring at Lucky totally at home in my bed, I am absolutely terrified.
They all paid on some level for being associated with me, but Lucky has a very permanent physical reminder staring back at him every day.
“Are you going to come sit down, or is this some new thing you do? Hang out in the bathroom for hours crying then watch everything happen from the doorway?” He doesn’t move, doesn’t open his eyes but continues because he knows I’m listening. “Leonor, seriously.”
“We should probably go down and check on the boys. If they didn’t figure out food there’s a good chance Mark will start tenderizing Pete and Norm.”
Lucky sighs long and low, rubs his eyes then sits up. “Ok, Leo. But at some point, you and I have a lot to talk about.”
