The house is dark and quiet upon entry, everyone probably already asleep. After a quick stop in the kitchen to grab a granola bar and a bottle of water, I head to my room, which is right off the kitchen on the first floor. Camden and Elias, my roommates, have bedrooms on the second floor. I pay a little more for rent, so I get the bigger room with the en-suite. Sharing space for me is challenging. It’s honestly a surprise I’ve handled having roommates for as long as I have. They both seem to understand me and what I need as far as space goes, though, which is nice.
Taking a quick shower, I wash Clinton’s touch off my body before stepping out and pulling on a comfortable pair of blue and white plaid sleep shorts—commando, of course. Once I’ve climbed into bed, I pull up my Grindr app. Truthfully, I don’t even know why I’m on here. I never follow through and meet up with any of these guys. I suppose it makes me feel a little more normal, and a little more twenty-two, to flirt with guys my own age who aren’t paying me an absurd amount of money to do whatever they please in bed. The attention is also nice, even if it’s only brief.
The last time I hooked up with someone for fun, who wasn’t paying me, was four months ago. Camden, Elias, and I went to Miami for spring break, and found ourselves at a pretty wild party. We had too much to drink, popped a little too much molly, and I wound up pressed against a straight boy who“never does stuff like this.”It was fun—he was hot, had a tight body and a nice cock. Couldn’t tell you his name with a gun to my head, though.
My eyes flit up to the time. It’s getting late and classes pick back up soon for fall quarter. I’m trying to get on a relatively normal sleep schedule during the week, so I’m not a total zombie when they start. Heaving a sigh, I lock my phone after scrolling through a bunch of dead-end options, setting it beside my pillow and calling it a night.
Chapter Two
Bodhi King
My feet pound heavily across the ground, adrenaline coursing through my veins as a thin sheen of sweat covers the nape of my neck. Keeping my breathing steady, I push harder, faster, the warm, early morning wind whipping all around.Riptideby Beartooth blares in my ears as I drag gulp after gulp into my lungs. My calves burn, heart’s pounding, but I gotta push. Gotta keep moving. It’s just after sunrise, the sky a swirl of pink and purple and orange, the air already sticky and borderline uncomfortable, and I’m on mile nine of ten.
My mind is tired, body aching, but I can’t give up. Rounding the corner, the busy main street is bustling with passing cars and people starting their day—on their way to work, to the gym, taking their kids here or there. They’re nothing but a blur out of the corner of my eyes as I roar past them.
Every time I think of stopping, the same harsh, raucous voice sounds in my mind, reminding me why Ican’tdo that.
“Eat a little bit more, fatty.”
“You’re fucking worthless, disgusting.”
“Such a fucking embarrassment to our family.”
“Why couldn’t you be more like your brother?”
My lungs are screaming at me, limbs begging for reprieve as I push forward. My house comes into view. The neat lawn we pay to have maintained, the three cars in the driveway, even the old fourth of July decorations we were too lazy to take down on the porch. I’m so close.So fucking close.I can do it.
As soon as I’m about twenty yards away, I slow to a speed walk. My chest heaves with ragged, desperate breaths. My mouth’s dry, throat aching with thirst. Once I reach the top step at the house, I glance down at my Apple watch, checking my time—an hour fifteen. Nice. Shaved off ten minutes from last week.
The house is quiet when I step over the threshold, heading to the kitchen. It’s still early, and my roommates typically don’t wake up as early as I do unless for class. Grabbing a water from the fridge, I twist off the cap, bringing it to my lips, and chugging more than half of it in one go. It’s cold and hurts my teeth, but tastes so damn good going down.
After finishing the bottle, I toss it in the trash, grabbing a fresh one from the fridge before heading to my room to do the rest of my morning routine. Each day, I wake before the sun, then drink eight ounces of room temperature water before running ten miles. When I get back, I drink more water—cold—and take my antidepressant before journaling for a half hour. Finally, I take a scalding hot shower before starting the rest of my day. I’ve done this every single morning, without fail, for the last four years.
I don’t even remember why I started or why it stuck, but it’s something I can’t break. It’s a comfort, I guess, and I’m nothing if not a creature of habit. Growing up in the sheer chaos and disparage I did, a person learns to find comfort where they can. Sitting at the black wood desk in the corner of my room, I pull open the drawer, removing the orange bottle of pills and the navy-blue leather journal I keep in there, along with the black BIC pen sitting beside it.
Words of affirmation are always what I start with. So, bringing pen down to paper, I begin. Telling myself the stuff I so desperately need to believe, but most days don’t.
I am perfect and complete just the way I am.
My very existence makes the world a better place.
I am worthy just as I am.
I am beautiful, and kind, and enough.
My body is worthy of love and respect the way it is.
Setting the pen down, I press the heel of my palm into my eye socket, willing the emotion to back off as stars dance beneath my closed lids. There isn’t a single part of me that doesn’t want to believe in the very words I’m writing—that I’m promising—but truth be told, most days I’m lucky if I can even glance at myself in the mirror for more than five seconds. When you grow up being picked apart for every flaw you have, you eventually find it hard to look at yourself and find anything worth looking at.
Eventually, I give up, slamming the book closed and shoving it back in its place in the drawer. Avoiding my own reflection, I shuffle into the bathroom, turning the faucet on to what I know will be a nearly unbearable temperature before shucking my sweat-drenched clothes off and climbing in. The tropical body wash lathers up in my hands as I run them all over my body, my mind a million miles away. My to-do list is daunting, some items more so than others, and I’m running out of time to get them done. Why is it whenever you have so much to do, you just want to crash and complete none of it? Dig your head in the sand and say fuck it all.
After washing my hair, I turn the water off, climbing out. The plush white towel is huge, feeling soft on my skin as I wrap it around my shoulders. When I pull open the door that leads to my room, steam billows around me as the warm, damp air mixes with the cool, air-conditioned air. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I grab my phone off the nightstand, unlocking it, and finally going through my notifications. I don’t allow myself to use my phone for anything other than music in the morning while I’m doing my routine. It’s distracting, and if I let myself indulge, I wouldn’t get any of it done.
My social media accounts are blowing up, but it isn’t those that I check first. It’s the single message from Giselle, the owner of the agency I work for.
Giselle: Mr. Burton has booked you from Thursday until Monday afternoon. He’s taking you to the Maldives for the weekend.
That’s tomorrow. I roll my eyes before another message pushes through.
