Addicted

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by Amelia Betts


  Chapter Nine

  There was a note on the kitchen counter when I came in the next morning—Gone to campus early. See you at my office!—but I wasn’t alone. Cecile was seated on a stool in her swimsuit, completely transfixed by something on her phone.

  “Don’t you have swim practice?” I asked, rooting through the refrigerator for the leftover juice from yesterday’s batch.

  “I’m leaving in a sec.” Her voice was the distracted drone of a child sucked into a video game, and I realized she was probably lining up rows of candy or catapulting little birds at evil green pigs. I heard my own phone vibrating where I’d left it on the edge of the counter but ignored the buzz as I foraged for other snacks.

  “Your phone,” she said.

  “I know.”

  Hoping she wouldn’t notice, I turned my back to Cecile as I served myself some Greek yogurt from a large container that wasn’t mine. I was waiting for her to ask me to give her some, too, but instead I heard her hop down from the stool and felt relieved that she was leaving.

  “Droolian Poundwell?” I heard Cecile mutter, almost too softly for me to hear.

  I whipped around and saw her clutching my phone, jaw agape, as my mind caught up to what was happening. Oh Lord. “Cecile, put that down!”

  “Says Gracie: ‘How goes it with our favorite lover, Dr. Droolian Poundwell?’” She leveled her eyes at me. “Is that some stupid nickname for my dad?”

  I shook my head and hurried around the island, snatching my phone back from her loose grip. Cecile’s expression morphed from one of disgust to a sick smile. “It’s my friend’s weird sense of humor,” I said. “It’s nothing.”

  “Oh, I understand. You want to have sex with my dad is what that means. You’re blushing, by the way.”

  Instinctively, my hand found my cheek and confirmed the accusation. Only a taunting teenage girl could make me feel nervous over something as pointless as a misinterpreted text. “Cecile, believe me, your dad is not my type. My friend on the other hand… Gracie had a crush on him, okay? But she doesn’t even live here anymore—”

  “Oh, this is too good,” she said, continuing to reel over her discovery. “You’re freaking out right now.”

  “No, I’m not!” I stomped my foot, losing my cool. Even though she was completely off base, I knew Cecile thought I was lying, and I really didn’t have the energy to convince her otherwise. “Please, just don’t—”

  “Don’t tell my dad? Is that what you’re gonna say?” She crossed her arms in a way that made me want to crawl into a hole.

  “There’s nothing to tell. Just please don’t make this into something it’s not,” I said.

  “You’re way too young for him! And you’re not his type at all. He likes thin. Like, model thin.”

  Letting her barb sink in, I glanced down at my phone and saw Gracie’s text on the lock screen. If only I could go back in time and get to it before Cecile. But no, I had been too busy stealing Greek yogurt. “Listen, I wouldn’t lie to you. I have a crush on someone but it’s not your dad.”

  “Then who is it?” She dropped her arms and locked eyes with me.

  “Remember the chef? From last night?”

  “Ew, that guy’s your cousin!”

  I shook my head. “No, he’s not actually.”

  Her One Direction ringtone interrupted. Cecile picked up the phone. “Hey, yeah, I’m coming. One second.” She leveled her eyes at me. “You’re lying. I can tell. Obviously this is a two-part episode, to be continued!”

  With that, she disappeared into the hallway and out the front door, leaving me annoyed and even hungrier than before. I headed straight for the pantry and started raiding it like a dog in the trash, hoping that the right mix of foods might help me forget the nonsense that had just happened. Careful not to make too large a dent in any one thing, I pinched a couple of granola bites, a handful of cranberry nut mix, sesame sticks, Cecile’s favorite chocolate chip cookies, the kettle-fried potato chips in jalapeno and barbeque flavor that I’d noticed Julien snacking on before dinner. There was also a bag of marshmallows I dared to open, then removed from the pantry entirely, thinking it was better to steal it outright than to leave the evidence. Only after I’d had enough to make my stomach hurt did I feel relieved enough to respond to Gracie, telling her what had happened with Cecile.

  “Oh my God,” Gracie greeted me when she called, sounding slightly panicked. “Do you want to kill me?”

  “No! Are you kidding? She’s just being a stupid teenager. She has this love-hate thing with me. It’s really starting to get old. Anyway, I think I might just tell him, as a preventative measure.” I had retreated back to the guesthouse and was pacing the short length of it. “Would you mind if I outed you?”

  “Not at all. Plus, my heart has moved on.”

  “I just hope he believes me; otherwise it’ll be awkward, and I really don’t need that. Maybe I shouldn’t even bring it up. It might sound weird.”

  “You worry too much, boo. Calm down! Breathe!”

  I followed her orders, taking in air through my nostrils like I had learned in the one and only yoga class I’d ever forced myself to endure. “It’s just this Liam stuff has got me so wound up.”

  “I know, getting laid is really complicated sometimes. Listen, regarding that, I have to tell you something,” she said. “Remember the junior senator I told you about?”

  “Who?”

  “Junior… from… island!! I told you… Richard?… Dreamy?” Gracie’s voice cut in and out, finally coming back. “We struck up an e-mail friendship after a particularly fated charity brunch?”

  “Okay, yeah,” I answered.

  “Well don’t get overexcited, but me and said junior senator had—drum roll, please—a platonic sleepover last night!” Her raised voice and subsequent pause signaled that it was my time to respond.

  “That’s good. I mean, no, that’s great!” I said. “How old is he?”

  “Thirty-six. Which is like twenty-two in D.C. years. Anyway, listen, I know what you’re thinking when you hear platonic sleepover: friend zone. But let me tell you, this sleepover was like no other sleepover I have ever experienced. First of all: same bed. Second of all: I wore his pajamas. Third of all, and this is the most important of the alls: middle-of-the-night spooning! I pretended I didn’t wake up when he did it, but I did. And he was clearly awake; I could hear his breathing change. Anyway, it was like electric spooning. I could hardly sleep after that. We didn’t wake up that way, though. Do you think if we didn’t wake up that way, that he was like trying to erase that it had happened? Or do you think it’s just because people move in their sleep?”

  I had been trying to listen and knew from Gracie’s rising inflection that she had just asked a question. However, I had been distracted by the menacing text I’d just received from Cecile: How much is my silence worth to you?

  “Mischa?” Gracie prompted.

  “What?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Uh… about what?”

  “About the spooning!”

  “Oh, I think it’s great.”

  “Did you hear my question, though? What are you doing right now?”

  “Sorry.” I collapsed onto the bed. “I’m having a hard time thinking straight, between the Liam thing and Cecile now threatening me over text…”

  “Right.”

  “Oh my God!” I flipped onto my back, remembering the big news from last night. “I didn’t even tell you—we had dinner at Liam’s restaurant! And guess what? He’s a rock star. Can you even believe?”

  “Uh-huh.” Gracie’s voice dropped. “I’m gonna go.” She sounded angry, which surprised me because I knew from personal experience that it took a lot to make my best friend angry.

  “Oh no, wait!” I said. “Ask me your question again! I’m all ears.”

  “No, you know what? This is what happens when you have a guy anywhere near your orbit.”

  “That’s not true!”

/>   “Mischa… you obsess to the point of absolute ridiculousness. I mean, we talked about Bradley for like two years straight.”

  “Shh, don’t say that.”

  “Bradley, Bradley, Bradley, Bradley! I’ll say it whenever I want! You dated the guy for three months!”

  “Three and a half.”

  “Whatever! My point is, you’re a much better person when there’s no guy, because you’re crazy when there is and there’s no room for anything else. Or anyone else! You can’t even listen to one story about my life.”

  My heart plummeted, knowing that her accusation was, in fact, more than a little true. I defended myself nonetheless. “Gracie, of course I can. Please, tell me.”

  “No, Mischa. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Gracie, wait! I’m sorry!” But my final pleas were met with a dial tone. She had already hung up. I texted her another I’m sorry and pounded Julien’s old mattress in frustration.

  * * *

  When I showed up at his office thirty minutes later, Julien didn’t seem fazed by my tardiness. In fact, he seemed mildly amused when handing over two more books for photocopying. A ridiculously unfounded fear made its way into my head: Does he have a nanny cam trained on the pantry? Did he see me eat all his food?

  “Thanks again for last night’s dinner,” I said, pausing at the doorway as I contemplated whether or not to mention the “Droolian Poundwell” text so that the non-news wouldn’t come from Cecile.

  A wry smile came over Julien’s face. “Hey, was that guy really your cousin?”

  “Pardon me?” I’d heard exactly what he said. What was I supposed to tell him?

  “The chef from the restaurant? Is he really your cousin?”

  “Oh… umm…” I shifted uncomfortably. I couldn’t very well lie to Julien’s face, especially since he already seemed to know the truth. “No,” I admitted. “I don’t know why I didn’t say anything after we left. I felt bad that he lied to you.”

  Julien chuckled, and I relaxed a little. “That’s okay,” he said. “I don’t expect you to share the details of your personal life with me. I just had a hunch. Wanted to make sure my bullshit radar still works.”

  “Well, he’s not my boyfriend, either,” I told him with an exaggerated roll of the eyes, unintentionally revealing my insecurities around Liam.

  “Mmm-hmm, one of those.” Julien lowered his laptop screen and leaned on the edge of the desk. “Not that you’re looking for my advice, but ever since I had a daughter, I started looking at guys a whole new way, and he seems like one of those I would ban from my house.”

  I nodded, thinking, You don’t know the half of it.

  “You’re a smart girl to be single at this age, Mischa,” he said, making the false assumption that I had loads of options. “I got married young, but if I hadn’t found the exact right person at such a young age, I would have waited longer. A lot longer. And you’ve got so much ahead of you. Grad school. Possibly a PhD if you decide to go that route—”

  I tried to hide the look of confusion on my face as Julien described this future for me. I had never thought of myself as a potential PhD candidate, although I found it flattering that he could envision it.

  “And then your fate is entirely dependent on which school hires you, and believe me, relationships are mostly doomed when it comes to that. But I digress.” He sat back in his chair, folding his hands across his chest. “I just think you’re better off if that guy’s not your boyfriend. He’s got that sparkle in his eye, and it’s not the right kind of sparkle.”

  I nodded, taking in Julien’s fatherly advice like a spoonful of sour milk. He was right of course, but it was painful to hear Liam described as the guy with the wrong kind of sparkle. It only confirmed my fear that I’d imagined the underlying connection I’d felt with him. That Liam had duped me, the way he must dupe every girl.

  “All right, well these books aren’t gonna copy themselves!” My voice broke a little as I turned to leave.

  “All right, Mischa,” said Julien, and flipped his laptop screen back up.

  I gave a quick wave and trudged out into the empty hallway, where I got out my phone and started to call Gracie before I remembered how our last conversation had ended.

  * * *

  All the copy machines were taken when I got to the library, even the one hidden behind the fourth-floor study carrels, so I decided to wait it out for a while in the drab, windowless computer lab, where e-mail and Facebook checking quickly devolved into shameless googling of Liam Harrison. As much as I wanted to take Julien’s advice to heart, I hadn’t been able to get Liam off my mind, and now that I knew his full name, not to mention the name of his famous band, I couldn’t resist the Internet vortex that was calling my name.

  First came an image search, which sent me to various obsessive fan sites with a seemingly endless supply of concert pics. Then there was the band’s website, which taught me what kind of guitar Liam learned to play on (a Dove acoustic), his absolute favorite electric (Gibson Les Paul Junior), and his Beatles-inspired middle name (George). Then there were the album reviews, which pointed out Liam’s songwriting contributions, including the fact that he’d written the music and the lyrics for “Ginger Snap,” meaning he’d probably made a good chunk of money off that one song alone.

  Who cares? The angel on my shoulder tried to talk sense into me as I scrolled down to yet another music magazine profile of Liam’s old band. Gracie had been right, and the more links I clicked, the more I was proving her point. My obsessiveness was my Achilles’ heel. As I typed Liam’s name into the Google search box one more time, I could feel it in my bones: Self-destruction was imminent.

  * * *

  Tuesday, June…?: Oceanside Rec Center Meeting

  Topic of discussion: “Falling off the Wagon”

  Calories imbibed: ??? (no attention span = no idea)

  I hadn’t seen Liam in almost a week when I showed up to my regular meeting on Tuesday night. Needless to say, I had spent the entire weekend dreaming up ways of running into him and rewarding myself with snacks whenever I actively refrained from calling the restaurant. I could think of nothing but Liam, actually, and was therefore newly grateful that my job entailed little more than flattening books against a glass surface and pressing a copy button one hundred thousand times per day. Because otherwise, I would have been completely and utterly useless. When not copying, I was eating and avoiding scales at all costs, but my ill-fitting wardrobe indicated I had gained at least five or ten pounds. I was also avoiding mirrors. The only clothes that looked halfway decent were my tentlike maxi dresses that made me look like an inflated bowling pin roaming around in search of its natural habitat, and if I so much as caught myself in the reflection of a window, it was enough to send me right back to the trough.

  Yes, I felt like a literal and figurative pig. Which is why the day’s topic of discussion, “Falling off the Wagon,” hit a little too close to home. I contemplated leaving, but I didn’t even have the willpower to manage that. When it came time for the “main share,” a regular contributor named Meghan took the stage.

  “How much time would you like, dear?” Sherrill, the moderator, said as she leaned forward from her perch on the side of the stage, glancing over her bifocals at Meghan while fumbling in an NPR tote bag for the stopwatch.

  “Eight minutes, please.” Impressively cool and collected, Meghan sat down on the chair that she’d brought up to the stage and crossed her legs. She was around my age, although I didn’t recognize her from campus, and she had the accent of a local. Despite being a little overweight, she always looked put together at the meetings and knew how to dress for her shape (she was an apple, like me), which I admired. Somehow I never seemed to achieve the most flattering look, even in my skinnier phases; everything was either a little too tight (aspirational would be a kind word for it) or a little too frumpy (defeatist).

  “Hello everyone. I’m Meghan, and I’m an overeater.”

  “Hi, Meghan
,” the group chanted in unison.

  “I’m happy today’s topic is about falling off the wagon, because it’s something I’m very familiar with. In the past year, I’d say it’s happened to me four or five times.”

  Oh please. I wanted to roll my eyes and stomp on the floor and shout, “I fall off the wagon four or five times a day!” But that would have been terrible, and of course I didn’t do it.

  “The last time was just this past week. I’ve been dealing with a really hard breakup, and it was on a night when my ex had been calling and texting, trying to get me to come over and sleep with him. The first few months after the breakup, I would answer his booty calls because I felt so lonely. I missed him all the time. But I knew he didn’t want me beyond the sex and it made me feel terrible afterward. Now that I think of it, probably every binge this past year has come after one of our hookups.”

  Food and men, men and food. In so many of our stories, they were two interchangeable entities. One would replace the need for the other, and vice versa. Right now, I was battling the urge to eat everything in the state of Florida to fill the gargantuan void that I so desperately wanted Liam to occupy.

  “It’s funny,” Meghan continued, “the best relationship I’ve ever had was with my high school boyfriend. He was also a binge eater. And a football player, one of the big guys on defense, and we would just eat and eat and eat together—that was our favorite thing to do. I mean, I know that’s not healthy or whatever, and it’s not what I want for my future, but in terms of, I guess, mutual respect and understanding… I just felt like we were in the same boat, he and I.”

 

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