Back to Yesterday (Bleeding Hearts Book 2)

by Whitney Barbetti

  I wasn’t hungry. In fact, ever since I’d thrown up my ice cream, I’d felt off. I wasn’t sure if it was the lie I was keeping from Jude or the fact that throwing up ice cream was like throwing up any other liquid. But I forced a smile and led him to the dining room before ducking into the kitchen to make him a sandwich.

  “How long’s he in town for?” Maura asked from behind me, startling me enough so that I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  “I don’t know,” I answered. I didn’t think he was here for long. And suddenly, the realization that he wasn’t staying here forever hit me, heavier than the ice cream had been. I held the plate in my hands so hard, I was sure it would crack.

  Miraculously, it didn’t. I brought the sandwich out to Jude and placed it in front of him before sliding in the seat next to him. My instinct was to slide closer to him, but I didn’t. Thoughts of him leaving soon kept me from closing the few inches between us as I watched him pick up his sandwich and take a bite.

  “You’re not eating?”

  I shook my head. “Not hungry.”

  He chewed slowly, as if he was thinking very hard. “Would you take a bite of this for me?”

  Something about the way he asked made my eyes narrow. “Why?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t feel right eating when you’re not.” When I still didn’t lean in, he did. “Please? Just one bite?”

  Tentatively, I nodded and leaned forward so that he brought the sandwich to my lips. It was cheese and ham, on our thickest bread, with mayo. A lot of calories. And that was all I thought about as I chewed it, already wanting to throw it up.

  “Okay?” he asked and I nodded and chewed harder, not wanting him to be suspicious. I didn’t need to deal with him finding out I was bulimic.

  After he finished the sandwich, he took my hand and followed me into the now-empty kitchen and then upstairs.

  It felt like a repeat of the night before, as we stepped into my room and his lips crashed over mine. But something was different this time; his lips seemed almost desperate. So I met him, kiss for kiss, push for push, until he was pressing me into the wall. And that was when I remembered how uncomfortable the sandwich felt in my stomach.

  “Sorry,” I said as I pulled away, running my hands down the front of his shirt. “Can you give me a minute?”

  He didn’t answer me, just looked at me through hooded eyes as I stepped into the bathroom. The urge to vomit was powerful this time, like the bite of sandwich had tripled in size and was growing ever more. As soon as the door was shut, I leaned over the toilet and it came up immediately.

  The scent of vomit was strong in my nostrils and the acid burning my nostrils made me wince as I flushed and looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were red-rimmed, probably from the sheer force of vomiting the sandwich. Quickly, I turned on the faucet and brushed my teeth before Jude called my name from the room.

  I left the bathroom and made sure the smile was on my face as I stepped into Jude’s arms. He leaned down, but before his lips made contact with mine, he asked, “Did you brush your teeth?”

  “Yes.” I curled my fingers into his hair, dragging my nails down the back of his head.

  “Why?”

  “Because I ate that sandwich,” I said, which wasn’t an outright lie, but still an omission of truth.

  “So did I.” His hands came to my wrists, pulling me away from holding him. “But I didn’t brush my teeth.”

  “I just didn’t like the taste in my mouth.”

  There was silence between us for a beat before he spoke. “I think you’re lying to me, Trista.”

  There it was, the soft seeking voice. The one that always made everything else come to a stop as I listened to him. “Why do you think that?”

  “Because I heard you vomiting in the bathroom.”

  I hadn’t thought about that, mostly because I was always in this room alone without anyone to hear. I held my hands to my stomach. “I got sick is all.”

  “Would you—” He shook his head and stood, stepping away from me. “Just—don’t do that. Don’t lie to me.” He pinned me with a stare. “I lied to you last summer. I was wrong. But I didn’t come here so we could keep doing this to one another.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to tell him I was bulimic, but I also didn’t want to keep lying to him. So as a compromise, I kept my mouth shut.

  “I had a feeling, you know.” He rubbed his jaw as he stalked away from me. “When I saw you, I knew something wasn’t right.” He held up his hands between us, his fingers curved as he stared at them. “When I held you, I felt your ribs under my hand. I’ve never held you and felt like I could break you.” There was a burn growing behind his eyes as he looked at me, like I was hurting him somehow.

  “I just lost some weight, Jude. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Just stop.” His eyes were angry. Angry Jude I could deal with, so I did. “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not. I wanted to lose weight, so I did.”

  “Yeah? How’d you do that? Going to the gym? Eating salads?”

  I narrowed my eyes at his tone. “What are you insinuating?”

  “I saw how much you ate at dinner. Someone who is on a restrictive diet would’ve stopped sooner. And at the ice cream parlor, you came back with your eyes red-rimmed. You brushed your teeth then. Just like you did now. I didn’t know for sure, until you just confirmed it.”

  I moved to step around him, ready to book him in his own hotel room, but he stopped me with a hand on the wall.

  “I don’t understand you. You weren’t yourself before dinner yesterday. But then during dinner, you were so warm and friendly.”

  He vigorously rubbed at his head before slumping in a chair. I watched him trying to gather his words, his hands moving in his lap like he was handpicking each word carefully. When he raised his head, his voice was calmer than before. “Because I was watching you eat, Trista.” He pointed to my body. “You look like you’re starved. Remember when I told you I was pulled to you because I saw you were so hungry, and I wanted to feed you? I got to do that in the literal sense. But knowing what I know—knowing about what you’re doing—makes me want to throw something.”

  “You don’t know what I’m doing. You’re just guessing.”

  “Is that right?” The ice was back in his voice.

  “Tell me then, if you think you know.”

  “You’re vomiting your meals. Your skin doesn’t look right. Your energy is lower than it was last year. You look ill, and if you’re actually bulimic, then you’re definitely ill.”

  I ached to deny it. Even though it was true—all of it—I still wanted to feel like I had some power in this exchange. But when I opened my mouth, his eyes looked at me so sadly that I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bring myself to lie to him. An angry Jude was one thing. But a sad Jude was like a punch straight to my heart.

  “It was hard, after I left Colorado.” It was an excuse, a pathetic one, but it was all I had. “I didn’t start doing this until Christmas.”

  “I don’t care when you started, Trista. I just want you to stop.”

  I’d felt a divide beginning to grow between us the moment I’d brought him that sandwich. But now, it felt like we’d stepped up to the tide, but only one of us had stopped. I was walking deeper and deeper into the water, while Jude waited on the shore. I closed my eyes and sucked in a breath before saying, “No.”

  “What?” he asked, leaning forward. “You’re not going to stop? You’re just going to keep vomiting up your meals . . . until what?”

  “Until I’m happy.” It was weak and foolish; rationally I knew these things. But what I was doing was the smallest way I could have control over myself. It’d been nearly a year since Doug had hit me, but the effects of his mark upon my skin were long-lasting. Jude could touch me, he could love me, but he couldn’t erase the way I felt about myself. Doug hitting me had almost felt like I’d had it coming, after years of seeing myself as less than everyth
ing. My injuries at Doug’s hands had felt like a physical reflection of how I’d felt about myself. I’d hated myself, but bulimia had given me some semblance of control over that self-loathing.

  “Come to Colorado,” he said, and I could tell in a small way it hurt him to say it. Knowing he was asking me to abandon my mission to figure myself out. “I’ll take you wherever you want. I just don’t want to see you doing this to yourself.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I’ve got a handle on it.”

  He jumped to his feet and shook his head. I was watching him come apart at the seams. “You don’t have a handle on it. You’re wasting away. Do you remember how upset you were when you found out about my heart condition, after I’d taken you down the trail that had been too much for me? I’d put my life at risk. I’d known it. You’re doing the exact same thing and you’re too close to see what it’s doing to you.” His voice was loud again, as if he didn’t think I could hear him if he spoke at a lower volume.

  “I need to figure my life out,” I told him even though it sounded hollow to me. We both knew I wasn’t figuring my life out. But something kept holding me back from taking the leap Jude was asking of me, even though his arms were outstretched and steady.

  “And I need you. I need you whole.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and I was. I was deeply, profoundly sorry that he was disappointed in the decisions I’d made and that I was stubbornly resolute on staying in Maine even though it meant constantly yearning for him. I’d have to live with that, knowing that he’d asked me to follow him and I’d turned him down.

  “I can’t watch you waste away.”

  “I know.” There were tears in my throat as I said it. I closed my eyes and wished for a stillness in the water that pooled in my eyes before I opened them again.

  “I want to force you to eat, but I know I can’t force anything on you. I can just. . .” He dropped his head into his hands and was quiet for a moment. “I can only hope. That you’ll change your mind. That you’ll find happiness in a healthy way.” He lifted his head, met my eyes. “You don’t know how desperate I am to carry you away from this, to stop this destructive path.”

  “I do know,” I said calmly, my hands reaching to hold him but staying still.

  “You cannot possibly know.” The anger was still in his voice and he pressed his palms to his temples as he looked around. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked. But he wasn’t looking at me. He closed his eyes, and the pain in his face reflected back within me. I felt horrible, watching him hurt. Knowing I was the reason. He turned to me. “How do I help you?”

  “You already tried.”

  As soon as I said those three words, I felt their weight like all the other weights in my life, sitting heavy on my shoulders. Jude’s eyes burned with hurt and anger.

  “I don’t know how you can stand there so calmly right now.”

  I didn’t feel calm. I felt my blood boiling, but powerless to go along with him.

  “You’re tearing me apart,” he said. “I don’t want to walk away from you. You’re sick. You need help.”

  “And you can’t help me,” I reminded him, thinking it’d be easier to say. It wasn’t. “You should leave.” That was even harder.

  “You don’t want me to leave. And I don’t want to leave.”

  I didn’t look at him, I turned to the window, feeling so cold all of a sudden. “I can get you another room if you want to stay.” I closed my eyes and swallowed back the lump in my throat. “But I’m not ready, Jude. As much as you want me to be—clearly I’m not.”

  “So this is it? You’re just done. All because I want you to get help?”

  “I’m not ready,” I repeated, my voice a little louder this time.

  “You don’t have to be ready, Trista. You just have to be. We can figure it out, you and me, together.”

  I needed him to leave immediately. I felt like purging again, such was the heaviness of this moment. So I turned to him and said in my loudest voice. “I’m not ready, Jude! I’m just not.” I felt the emotion thunder in my heart and I hated myself for feeling weak at that moment. He stood and made his way to me but I shook my head hard. “Don’t. Don’t touch me. Please.” My voice broke on the last word and he stopped, staring at me across the room.

  “I don’t want to leave,” he repeated.

  “Please,” I repeated, it coming out more like a hiss in the hoarseness of my throat.

  He debated before slowly grabbing the backpack he’d brought with him. I watched him sliding it onto his shoulders with a mixture of despair and an acknowledgment that maybe this was for the best.

  Just before he walked past me out the door, he stopped and looked at me sideways. “But I’m ready for you, still. And I’ll wait.”

  And then he was gone.

  I wish I could write

  the things you say about me

  on my body so that

  when I look in the mirror

  I don’t see

  FAT,

  WORTHLESS,

  I just see your words,

  the ones that come

  from the purest place

  I know that exists:

  in your heart.

  Chapter Fourteen

  June 2013

  I often had bad dreams in Maine. I’d dream of being back in my mom’s trailer, and being hit by Doug, and when I woke I swore I could still feel the blows he’d delivered to my face. But when I awoke in Jude’s bed, I’d felt so safe that it was almost unnerving. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this safe, completely secure in where I was.

  In the middle of the night, after I’d stared too long at the ceiling, I got up from the bed and stepped out into the hallway. It was pitch black, and because I was unfamiliar with the room and my surroundings, I tiptoed down the hallway to the kitchen.

  As I poured myself a glass of water, I looked over to where the long leather couch sat in the middle of the room. There was light music playing from the speakers, but otherwise the room was completely silent. I saw Jude’s feet hanging off one end of the sofa as I approached it and peeked over the back to see him lying down on his back, his hands folded over his chest. His eyes were closed and his chest moved gently up and down to the rhythm of his breaths. I just watched him for a moment, thinking how much I wished we were together in different circumstances, and that I could ask him to come to his bed and just hold me. But it wasn’t my right to ask that of him, so I backed away slowly, my sock-covered feet silently padding along the floor.

  Just before I reached the door to his bedroom, I heard him call out, “Do you need me?”

  I held my breath until my chest burned. “Yes.”

  Wordlessly, he moved from the couch and walked toward me. The entire time, I felt that burn grow larger.

  He met me in the hallway under the cloak of the dark and placed a hand on my shoulder. “I can hold you.” It wasn’t a question, but I nodded anyway, not sure I could say yes and stay calm. He followed me into the bedroom and I climbed into the bed, waiting for him to join me. When he climbed into the bed, I rolled onto my side away from him.

  He didn’t dawdle, no. He scooted right across the bed, so close that I could feel the mattress give under his weight as he came closer and closer until I felt his heat at my back. Without saying anything, he put an arm around my waist and pulled me flush against his chest. Warmth surrounded me, and I closed my eyes, feeling so suddenly sleepy just at his touch.

  His head rested on the pillow beside mine, but I knew he was still very close before I could feel his warm breath against my ear. He didn’t hold me in a way that was sexually intimate, but instead he held me in a way that was emotionally investing. Like he knew, deep down, that I needed this from him.

  “Goodnight,” he murmured into my hair, and the burn that had taken over my throat raged. I wanted to roll over and face him, to trace the lines of his face with my fingertips. But this, with him spooned up against my back and the weight of his arm
keeping me close, was more than I deserved. So I let myself be grateful for small mercies as my body surrendered to sleep.

  I fell asleep, for the first time in a year, with Jude holding me. And even as my heart was cracking in half, other cracks were closing.

  I awoke alone, the sounds from the kitchen filtering in from the open door. It took me a second to wrap my head around what had happened. Rolling onto my back, I took in the empty space beside me in the bed. He’d made the side of the bed he’d slept in, and there was a clear indentation on the pillow where he’d laid. I dropped my palm to it, running it over the still-warm fabric, before I curled my fingers into a fist and held on to the moment a little longer.

  Today was a new day, a new beginning to an end.

  After changing into jeans and brushing my teeth and hair, I joined Jude in the kitchen where he was flipping bacon. It brought me back to the first time I’d seen him, in a situation so similar to this one that it made my heart hurt a little bit. Once again, he was shirtless, offering me a chance to view the ink that spread across his arms and spilled over his back. I didn’t see any new pieces, so I climbed onto a stool just outside the kitchen at the little glass table.

  The smell of bacon was so ingrained in me from all the times I’d smelled it at the inn, but I’d never eaten it—not in years. But smelling it then made me wish things were different. Made me wish we could go back to who we were two years earlier before it all went to shit. Even one year before, I could’ve fixed us, could have fixed myself.

  “Want bacon?” he asked, turning around. He looked a little bit hopeful then, but I realized that could have been my own yearning, seeing that in him.

  A part of me really wanted the bacon. The part of me who was still left over from the girl Jude had loved two years ago. But who I was now was someone completely different, so I shook my head and tried not to feel too much regret when his face fell.