Cravings of the Heart (Trials of Fear Book 5)

by Nicky James

  And go…

  “I fell down the stairs at school and lost consciousness. They called an ambulance and took me to the emergency. I’m fine.”

  She crossed herself and mumbled a few words of prayer to the heavens. “You were unbalanced, weren’t you? Lightheaded.”

  Pressing my molars together, I shook my head. “No. Got knocked from behind. It was an accident.”

  There was an element of disbelief in her heavy, analytical gaze. Lying was a huge no-no in the McMillan house. The problem was, I lied so often no one noticed the difference. Telling the truth at this point would have probably stood out more.

  How are you feeling? Fine.

  Did you eat? Yes.

  Did you say your prayers? Of course.

  How was your study date with Malcolm? Great!

  Lies. Lies. Lies, and I didn’t have a study date with Malcolm, I hooked up with a guy at school, and he sucked me off in the back seat of his Fiesta. Oops. Yup, still gay. I guess the good Lord hasn’t cured me yet.

  Mom peered over my shoulder at Bryn. “You’re staying for dinner?”

  “Sure.” Bryn nudged the small of my back to get me moving.

  I squeezed past Mom and entered the house. A waft of something rich and savory hit my nose, and I instantly gagged. Bile climbed my gorge, and I swallowed a few times to get rid of it as I ducked my head and slinked toward the basement stairs and my apartment to get away from it.

  “Not so fast,” Mom called, stopping me in my tracks. “Kitchen. You’ll be eating dinner as well. You’re pale and shaky. My guess is you didn’t eat the lunch I sent again.”

  Breathing shallowly as saliva pooled in my mouth, I turned back, shaking my head vehemently, wielding the nurse's words from earlier.

  “I have a concussion. I’m really nauseous. I need to lie down.”

  There was that heavy, doubt-filled glare again. Bryn took pity on me and shrugged. “It’s true, Mom.”

  “Crackers then. Go.” She raised a perfectly sculpted brow and pointed toward the kitchen.

  Crackers I could handle provided I didn’t have to keep smelling whatever she was cooking. Although I wasn’t exactly forced to eat the food she prepared for the family, Mom refused to allow me to skip meals and monitored me closely.

  I hurried to the kitchen, breathing as little as possible, holding my breath once I crossed the threshold and darted to the cabinets. There were multiple boxes of Christie’s Premium Plus saltine crackers—the only kind I ate. I dug a sleeve from an opened box and was ready to escape when my youngest brother, Forest, who was only eight, flew into the room and wrapped himself around my waist. He was a clingy kid.

  “You’re home. Wanna play Mario Kart 8 with me? Mom said I can have one hour of games cuz I did good at my test today.”

  I ruffled his fire engine red hair and peeled myself out of his grasp. “Not tonight, bud. I’m not feeling too good. Gonna go lie down.”

  “Are you pukin’ again?”

  “Nah, just bumped my head. See.” I bent down and showed him my stitches.

  “Eww, gross. Did your guts fall out?”

  “Forest, we don’t talk like that. Out of the kitchen until I call you for dinner,” Mom admonished.

  He huffed and stomped out of the room.

  “Sit at the table and eat them,” Mom instructed. “You can at least socialize with your family.”

  She didn’t care if I socialized with family. That was a lie—an acceptable, Mother McMillan lie and one the good Lord would forgive. What she really meant was, sit at the table so I can monitor how much you eat because I know you’ve avoided it all day.

  I weighed my options. It could have been worse. It had only been a year since she’d given up forcing me to eat her homecooked meals. When that used to happen, I’d choke whatever it was down and be up all night with the cold dread that followed, convinced I was going to die. More times than not, it led to me vomiting regardless. Sometimes immediately after leaving the table.

  Dad hated that.

  How many crackers would satisfy her tonight? Could I manage without gagging on the kitchen smells? If she’d let me escape to my room, there was a higher chance of keeping them down.

  But, I’d built this bridge…

  I dropped onto a chair at our long dining room table in the joining room and sat as far from the wretched smell as possible before tearing open the wrapper. Bryn sat beside me and snuck a few crackers, popping one into her mouth, crunching nonchalantly.

  I watched her enviously.

  Taking a single cracker from the package, I turned it over in my hand and studied its surface, looking for unusual marks, dark spots, hints of mold, anything abnormal, the most minute imperfection. When I was satisfied, I sniffed it before taking a small bite and chewing reluctantly.

  The glands in my throat remained hard, and my mouth swarmed with saliva, but I forced the bite down and breathed long shallow breaths before taking another. Eating was a grueling task. A process I’d learned to hate. Nothing was safe, and it was an ongoing battle with my mind to keep enough food down so I wouldn’t die.

  What everyone saw as picky and selective eating was truly an ingrained fear I couldn’t escape or admit to.

  “Wanna tea?” Bryn asked as she snagged another cracker, shoving it whole into her mouth.

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  Of all my siblings, Bryn was the most sympathetic to my problems, but even she didn’t know the truth.

  No one did.

  When she returned with a steaming mug of green tea, I’d managed to eat four crackers.

  My younger siblings, Mya who was thirteen and Luca who was fifteen, arrived home from their after-school programs with Dad in tow, and the house went from quiet to its usual explosion of energy.

  Mya planted herself at the piano in the front room and banged away, practicing for her upcoming recital. Baxter, my eleven-year-old brother, hearing Luca was home, raced into the kitchen with some science magazine he’d been obsessing over, and the two rambled—not quietly—about his spring science fair project.

  Forest cranked the volume on his game in the front room, competing with the piano, and my head took that opportunity to develop a real headache. Probably punishment for the lies I’d been spewing all day.

  Mom lifted the lid on the crockpot, and the rich scent of beef gravy permeated the air. My throat clamped shut, my eyes watered, sweat pierced my skin, and I fought the immediate clenching in my stomach. Darting my gaze around the kitchen at the bustle of activity, I decided it was busy enough I could probably escape unseen. Mom was occupied, and I knew she wouldn’t hunt me down once I was gone.

  Barely allowing myself to breathe, I glanced at Bryn who watched me knowingly.

  “Go. I’ll cover for you.”

  Hoping I managed to look grateful since I wouldn’t dare open my mouth to speak, I clutched the crackers in one hand and raced for the stairs just off the kitchen which led to my basement apartment.

  Not for the first time, I considered checking my savings to see if I could afford my own place. Living at home under the constant scrutiny of my parents was tiresome. I hated it. If I could get out and be on my own, it would eliminate so much unneeded stress. Maybe then I could get a handle on myself.

  The basement was divided into a smaller laundry room, a large rec room—which doubled as my bedroom—and a full bathroom. Oldest child at home privileges dictated the downstairs was mine. It was the closest thing to living on my own as I could get at this stage of my life.

  I closed the door to my bedroom, dropped the package of crackers on my bed, and beelined it to the washroom. My stomach spasmed as I dropped to my knees in front of the toilet. Pinching my eyes closed, I used every force of willpower known to mankind to keep myself from throwing up. Shallow breaths through my mouth, limiting my movements and wiping all thoughts of that dinner in the crockpot from my mind.

  The fine hairs on my arms stood at attention. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead. I swall
owed the extra saliva pooling in my mouth as things settled.

  Contrary to popular belief, I never made myself throw up. In fact, I hated it. It was the last thing I wanted. But it was easier to let people believe the illusion that I was either bulimic or anorexic. I never implanted that idea. They came up with it themselves. I just didn’t bother disputing it. It was an answer they could understand. The truth was too humiliating. I wouldn’t be seen as weak. Never again.

  Lies empowered me.

  The truth sucked me dry.

  Once I was certain my stomach had settled, I returned to my room and sat in the middle of my bed. Cautiously, I sniffed the air. When I was convinced the aroma of dinner hadn’t traveled this far, I relaxed a degree and fished another cracker from the package.

  I flicked on my bedside light so I could continue the ritual of food checking. If I could get through at least half a package of crackers, hopefully, I would be able to sleep tonight.

  Chapter Three

  Arden

  A light rap sounded on my bedroom door. I swung my head around just as Bryn peeked inside.

  “You forgot your tea.” She held it through the crack to show me. “Can I come in?”

  “Sure.”

  Closing the door behind her, she set my tea on the bedside table and joined me on the bed as she drew an apple and a paring knife from the front pocket of her hoodie.

  “Thought you might want something more to eat, too.”

  She set the apple beside my drink; apples being one of the other foods I could mostly manage.

  “Thanks.”

  Leaning against the headboard, Bryn kicked her feet up and nosed through a pile of sketchbooks stacked on the bed. She set one on her lap and turned the pages, admiring the countless designs I’d drawn. Fashion design wasn’t just my major, it was a passion. Specifically, I loved designing wedding attire which was one of the reasons I’d acquired a part-time job at a wedding store downtown.

  “How’s school?”

  I squinted at another cracker before nibbling its corner. “It’s going okay. Finals are coming up. It will be nice to be done for the summer. I need a break. Besides, business is picking up at Ever After and Matilda wants to schedule me in for more hours.”

  Bryn dashed her gaze from the sketchbook she’d been admiring. It was one filled with wedding dress designs. “I love what you do for a living. When I get married, you can design my gown and all my bridesmaids’ dresses, too.”

  Ducking my head, hiding the hints of a smile her comment surfaced, I shrugged. “Yeah, maybe. That would be cool.”

  “Something like this. I adore this neckline.”

  She dropped the sketchbook between us and traced a finger over the deep V of the headless woman’s body I’d drawn and the gown she wore. I considered Bryn’s body and the picture before flipping a few pages and stopping on a different design.

  “You’d look better with the high neckline like this one. It’s more modest and Victorian in style. The V carries too much sex appeal. It doesn’t suit you.”

  She studied the picture and shrugged. “Maybe. I can be sexy.”

  “I don’t want to envision that, thanks.”

  She didn’t respond and continued to admire the lace detailing before flipping to another page.

  “Do you know what kind of dress Carrie got?” she asked.

  Carrie was our brother Phoenix’s bride-to-be. Despite my job working in a wedding store—not designing dresses but doing fittings and alterations—they’d decided on a different company to take care of their wedding needs. It was a thorn in my side, but one I hadn’t voiced to anyone but Bryn.

  “Not a clue. Why would I be privy to such information? Phoenix would rather die than allow Carrie to ask my opinion on dress selections. I’m an embarrassment.”

  “Rude.”

  “Yeah, well, are you shocked?”

  “I guess not. Are you… allowed to attend the ceremony?”

  Phoenix’s wedding was taking place mid-May—a month away. Mom and Dad had spent the past year convinced I’d turn a corner and change my mind about my sexuality. Last month, when they realized my position on the matter was solid and unwavering, they’d met with Father Hammond to discuss my presence at mass.

  The ceremony was taking place at my parents’ church—a place I was no longer welcomed to attend provided I decided to live in sin—and a huge reception was to follow at the local Cappella Club downtown.

  “I am. Apparently, Jesus reserves the right to make exceptions to the rules and has decided I’m allowed to attend the service. Just this once. I expect to be fully smothered in prayers from people trying to save my soul. I will play it safe and wear my flame retardant suit, just in case I burst into flames. You never can be too cautious.”

  Bryn rolled her eyes and laughed. “They say I’m a drama queen. How can you even deliver that speech with a straight face?”

  “I didn’t. I delivered it with as much gay as possible. There is nothing straight about this face.”

  “You’re a turd. Eat your crackers.”

  I fought another smile, masking it by rubbing a hand across my cheek before reaching for the apple she’d brought me. I jumped off the bed and ran to the washroom to give it a thorough washing—with soap—three times—before returning and plopping back on the bed.

  Carefully peeling it so no skin remained, I then sliced off thin wedges and smelled each before testing them on my tongue, looking for any unusual qualities. Eating was a chore. An exhausting chore. Once satisfied, I nibbled a few bites as my mind drifted to a certain paramedic who’d rescued me from school earlier that day.

  “Did you know Phoenix is still friends with Iggy Rojas?”

  “Really? I don’t think so. I haven’t seen him or heard Phoenix talk about him since high school,” Bryn said, stealing another cracker.

  “No, they are. He’s a paramedic now. He was one of the guys who took me to the hospital today. I didn’t recognize him at first. He looks… a lot older.” And a lot hotter.

  “Duh, he is older. He’s the same age as Phoenix. Twenty-nine.”

  “I know. I’m just saying. He said they were still friends.”

  Bryn shrugged. “Okay. So?”

  “So… Do you think he’ll be at the wedding?”

  Bryn tipped her chin up and stared into a thought for a minute before shaking her head. “No. I saw the guest list because Mom and I were in charge of table arrangements. He wasn’t on it. Matty is Phoenix’s best man and all his other buddies we clumped together at one table. Iggy wasn’t one of them.”

  Matty being best man was another Phoenix-dig. I pushed the irritation aside. “Why do you think he didn’t invite him?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe they aren’t that close anymore.”

  I frowned as I cut another sliver of apple. “It didn’t sound that way. He said they talk every week and hang out as often as they can.”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “It doesn’t. Just curious.”

  I nibbled through a second piece of apple in silence and cut a third. The tender flesh was beginning to brown, so I handed it to Bryn who narrowed her eyes.

  “You didn’t even eat half.”

  “Nauseous,” I lied. “Concussion.”

  Bryn sighed and just before she opened her mouth to retort, Dad called from upstairs, “Bryn, dinner is on the table.”

  “Coming!” She set the apple back on the napkin and pinned me with a hard look. “Try to eat more. You’re beautiful, Arden. I don’t know why you can’t see it.”

  No, I wasn’t. But again, her comment was built off my deception. Everyone thought they knew the reason, everyone was wrong.

  Yes, I hated the way I looked and wished every day I could change my body into something more attractive and healthy, but it wasn’t because I thought I was too fat. I wasn’t some starving model who couldn’t see themselves wasting away. I’d seen my reflection enough times in the mirror. I knew I was too skinny—disgustingl
y skinny—and I hated it. I’d have given anything to put weight on.

  * * *

  I pounded with a closed fist on the solid door to my brother’s townhouse. It was early Sunday morning—pre-church early—so I knew Phoenix would be home. The chill in the air bit at the sensitive shells of my ears. I flipped the collar on my woolen coat and scrunched my shoulders against the wind as I waited.

  When the door flew open, Carrie greeted me in nothing more than a bathrobe. Her auburn locks, frizzy and disheveled, her hazel eyes carrying hints of sleep.

  My eyebrows met my hairline.

  Oh, my dearest, perfect brother, what have we here?

  “Arden? Good… morning?” She peered over her shoulder and caught her lip in her teeth before turning back, a flush tinting her pale cheeks.

  “Is Phoenix home?”

  “Yeah. Come on in.”

  Holding the flaps on her robe closed, she opened the door wider so I could enter. As I crossed the threshold, Phoenix rounded a corner looking no more awake or dressed than his fiancée.

  “Fuck’s sake. What are you doing here?” He scrubbed a hand over his unshaven jaw and dashed a glance at his girl, a hint of nerves flicking over his face.

  If I didn’t hate smiling, I would have taken this opportunity to glow. Instead, I quirked a brow and trailed my gaze after Carrie as she slipped past Phoenix and disappeared back toward the bedrooms.

  “Such a good little Catholic boy. Swearing and fucking before you’re married. And here I thought I was the only McMillan living in sin. I feel much better now.”

  “What. Do. You. Want?”

  “Well…” I unbuttoned my coat and hung it by the door, inviting myself in since Phoenix wasn’t about to offer. “I was hoping we could have a little chat.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “I see that.”

  “You could have called.”

  “I could have, but it’s been so long since we caught up.” I dropped on the couch and kicked my feet onto his coffee table. “Did you want to get dressed first or should we talk while you’re like this?” I waved a hand at his undress which included only a simple pair of boxers—which were on backward and inside out, but I wasn’t about to draw attention to it.