by Nicky James
I didn’t know what Phoenix was trying to prove with his story but the sheer animosity with which he told it grated my nerves. Although I’d never say it to his face, he sounded like a disgruntled child who was jealous that a sibling got more attention from a parent than he got. If I didn’t know Phoenix went out of his way to stay under his parents’ radar, I might have disregarded his assessment. However…
“Get to the point, Phoenix.”
“I’m saying, if he agreed to dinner, one of two things will happen. He will either eat what you make, which proves the last six years have been nothing more than a grand production for my parents’ attention or he will lie to you as well and give you some outrageous excuse why he can’t eat—and I’d be curious to know what he goes with this time.”
“Or,” I cut in, leveling Phoenix with my own irritated glare. “He’ll tell me the truth that maybe he is anorexic and eating food is hard for him. Has he been treated? Did that therapist who diagnosed him follow through with therapy or educate anyone in your family about the nature of the disease? Anorexia is very serious, and your brother is shockingly underweight. Concerningly underweight, Phoenix. It makes sense, though. He’s working in fashion design. If he has some future interest in modeling on the side, the industry sets standards that become obsessive to young minds who are trying to reach them. Why are you so sure he’s playing games?”
“Because it fits my brother’s personality. Even my parents are starting to be wise to it. Or at least some days, I think they are. At the moment, I believe they are back on the ‘don’t show him attention’ phase. Nonchalance. Don’t feed his petulant behavior. Pray for him because he is obviously being guided astray.” Phoenix pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “The only person Arden cares about is Arden. Iggy, your heart is too soft for that kid, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Noted. I appreciate your warning, but I think in this situation, I’m going to make my own judgment. And if I crash and burn, you can reserve the right to say I told you so.”
“Fucking right.”
“But you won’t.”
Phoenix laughed, and the smile that remained afterward was the first true sign of him releasing his anger. “No, I’ll take care of your heartbroken ass like I always do.”
Chapter Eight
Arden
Ignoring my disturbing reflection, I wrapped a towel around my waist and escaped to my room still dripping from my shower. Teeth chattering, I flipped through clothing options, aiming for something warm that had a higher chance of disguising my gaunt figure.
Of course, if the night proceeded how I wanted, Iggy would see enough to know the truth anyhow.
I cringed.
Would that disgust him? Would he change his mind?
Choosing a pair of loose-fitting jeans and a few layers to go under a thick wool sweater, I deemed myself suitable for my date.
My dinner date.
An inevitable chill tickled the hairs to life along my arms and up my nape. No amount of warm clothing would dispel that taunting burst of anxiety when it arose. It rooted in my core, clinging relentlessly with razor-sharp claws.
How was I ever going to make it through this date?
Over the years, I’d become craftier with my methods, learned the motives behind my counselor’s and parents’ attempts at guiding me toward “a healthier lifestyle,” and actively knew how to “play the game” so they believed whatever they wanted to believe on any given day. With a strong front and prickly personality, no one would see the truth.
However, Iggy wasn’t someone I wished to deceive. Lying to him turned my stomach to ash. I’d wanted this for too many years. How could I hide from him? But the truth was my burden to bear. My horrible, embarrassing secret. My weakness. Mine and mine alone.
Since I didn’t need Mom or Dad knowing I had a date, I’d told them I’d been called into work. Not unheard of, and my little lie successfully earned me car privileges.
I ate a few crackers smeared in peanut butter before leaving, knowing I’d be hard pressed to eat anything at Iggy’s house. I still wasn’t sure how I’d handle avoiding dinner.
My phone pinged when I finished brushing my teeth, and I checked it, thinking it might be Iggy.
Phoenix: He’s a good guy. Don’t hurt him.
I guess they’d talked. Not responding, I slipped my phone into my pocket and double checked my hair before leaving. It had fallen flat again, and I growled as I fluffed it.
I parked on the road out front of Iggy’s apartment complex and fiddled with the collar on my sweater. A hundred different diversions zipped through my mind for when it came time to eat. None of them were suitable. Iggy wouldn’t be swayed by flirtations for long. He’d made that clear from the get-go. Claiming I’d already eaten was rude. Severe allergies could work but might hurt his feelings because I hadn’t been upfront about them. An upset stomach was the best option. Believable and it might earn me some sympathy but could also destroy any potential other activities.
Or, I could get the fuck over myself, force-choke whatever he’d made down, pray I didn’t vomit on him, then spend the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours in a state of paralyzing fear while I decided if I’d committed unintentional suicide.
I knew before I left my vehicle that last option was a no-go. In six years, I’d moved past being able to force-eat anything. Managing the handful of safe items in my repertoire was an exhausting enough process that left me debilitated.
Iggy answered the door before I finished knocking, a gentle smile lighting up his face and creasing beside his amber eyes.
“You found me.”
“I did. Am I late?”
“No, no. Come on in.”
Iggy shuffled out of the way and pivoted on his feet, shoving his hands in his pockets while I removed my shoes. He seemed nervous.
“Dinner isn’t quite ready. I made some last minute adjustments to the menu, so I had to hit the grocery store. The fundraiser ran late, and now I’m falling behind.” He chuckled and waved a hand, inviting me in.
His apartment was small but cozy, nicely decorated with warm colors and simple furniture. The living room and dining room were joined, and a huge balcony window overlooked downtown. A hall led into another section of the apartment, and Iggy headed toward a second doorway which I assume went to the kitchen.
Dreading the answer, I braced myself and asked, “So what’s for dinner?”
He popped his head around the corner and tipped his chin, inviting me into the kitchen. “You know my mama taught me to cook all kinds of traditional Colombian meals, so I thought I’d make one of my favorites. It’s a Chipotle-style burrito bowl. This one I made with shredded pork. The seasoning is Mama’s top secret mix.”
Before I reached the kitchen, I could already smell the spice mixture hanging in the air. I swallowed a few times, working the reactive hardening of my glands down to something tolerable before I joined him.
When the mere idea of putting pork into my system jolted a shot of adrenaline through my blood, I tore my thoughts away from eating altogether and focused on keeping calm.
Some food smells hit me harder than others. Mostly, if I concentrated hard, I could work through the nausea and be okay. Mind over matter. Other times, it was “escape immediately or vomit.”
Breathing through my mouth, I talked my curdled stomach down from its position on high alert and scanned the countertops while Iggy’s back was turned. An icy cold shiver made me tremble inside.
There was a bowl containing mashed avocado, another with a chopped green herb of some kind, one with a salsa-looking something or other, and on the stove was a pan with mashed beans. A final pot sat covered on the back element, its contents unknown.
Iggy lifted the lid on the slow cooker and glanced over his shoulder, concern marring his brow. Only then did I realize I hadn’t made any comment about his meal and had shrunk back in the doorway.
“Sounds great,” I lied, my voice border
ing on quaking.
It probably was great for anyone who wasn’t me.
Iggy’s smile returned, and he flipped back around to stir the contents of the cooker before pointing at each item and talking me through his creation.
“So we have avocado, homemade pico de gallo which is a traditional salsa in a sense, cilantro, refried beans—again, those are my own creation and not from a can, spiced to perfection—rice in the pot there, and this,” he spun and waved a hand at the uncovered slow cooker, “is Mama’s recipe for seasoned pulled pork. It’s been on all day. Basically, you can wrap all this up in a warm tortilla with rice on the side, or you can eat it over the rice. Your choice. Was one of my favorites as a kid.”
I wanted to cry and run out the door. Iggy had gone to a lot of hard work preparing for this date, and he spoke with pride. Even entertaining the idea of trying any of it turned my insides to liquid. My layers weren’t doing me any favors. A sheen of sweat coated my entire body as I considered what the fuck I was going to do.
“Great,” I choked.
Not great! So not great!
“Can I get you something to drink? We don’t have to eat right away. It can wait, and we can just relax. Talk.”
“Um…” What drinks did he have on hand, and how rude was it to ask for liquor, straight up?
Iggy spun and opened the fridge. “I have beer, ginger ale, juice… Um… coffee—”
“Tea?” I asked hopefully.
Iggy thought for a beat then hopped over to a cupboard and shuffled a few things around before pulling out a box. “Yes,” he said reading it. “Green tea. Is that okay?”
I wanted to jump for joy because it was probably the only thing I would manage to accept from Iggy all evening. I didn’t. Instead, I settled for ducking my head and hiding a smile. “Perfect. Thank you.”
Iggy tipped my chin up and peered down from his much taller height. The amber of his eyes stole my breath. “Don’t hide. It won’t bother me or make you any less gorgeous in my eyes.”
He stroked a thumb over my affected cheek, and I fought the urge to tear away. I hated people knowing about that imperfection. Hated more for anyone to see it. He said he wouldn’t care, but I’d spent years as a spectacle in my own family before it became an acceptable part of me and everyone stopped staring.
Six years later and I still cursed my reflection when I tried to get those muscles to comply.
Instead of arguing, I stayed quiet and let Iggy touch me as I studied him, enjoying the close proximity. His warm olive skin tone—many degrees darker than my milky white complexion—his dark brows, the straight bridge of his perfect nose and the faint crinkles beside his eyes.
I remembered Iggy was never without a smile back when I knew him before. He was the calm to Phoenix’s crazy. Easy going and happy. Soft-spoken and courteous. He’d shaved for our date, and I mourned the loss of the dark stubble that had graced his face just yesterday.
His hands. They were big and gentle, cradling my face just so, warming and secure.
His thumb moved in a gentle rhythm along my jaw, and he watched the movement, his lips parting in awe and his breathing deep and even. There were areas on the left side of my face that were numb, and when his thumb ghosted them, the sensation was bizarre. No one ever touched me there but me. Allowing Iggy that right was more personal than he knew.
His gaze fell to my mouth, and his tongue swept his upper lip. When I was sure he was going to kiss me, he cleared his throat and backed up a step, dropping his hands.
“I’ll um… boil some water.”
We settled on the couch in the living room, both folding our knees up and sitting sideways so we faced one another. With a mug of tea cradled in my hands, I relaxed by degrees and enjoyed the view.
“So what was this fundraiser you had to do today?”
“It was to raise money for the neonatal intensive care unit at the hospital. They want to upgrade some of their equipment. They did a huge BBQ with games and a live band down at the waterfront. There was a silent auction as well. I think they did well. I hope so. I got the honor of flipping burgers all day.” Iggy chuckled and shrugged. “A nurse I know helped organize it. They were short bodies, so he begged me to help out.”
“You were always like that. I remember when you were in high school, you and Phoenix volunteered with my school’s reading program. Phoenix bitched endlessly about it and said it was all your idea. I remember cursing my perfectly adequate reading level because they wouldn’t let me be part of the program. It was only for kids who were reading below their grade level.”
My cheeks heated as I considered how silly that sounded and how young it made me look.
Iggy smiled but ducked his head. “I remember that. We used to go to the elementary school a lot to help out. I helped coach soccer there too.”
He turned thoughtful, and I wondered if our age difference bothered him. Maybe I shouldn’t bring up stories that so blatantly pointed it out. It was kind of weird, but I wasn’t that ten-year-old kid anymore. Life had forced me to grow up fast, and some days, I felt as old as Iggy.
“I still have a habit of agreeing to too many extracurricular activities. Makes me busy and I seldom have time for myself.”
“Yeah, I don’t know what free time looks like either. School and my job keep me pretty busy. Especially now that it’s wedding season. Spring and summer are intense. I work almost every day now that classes are over.”
We chatted some more about school and work and random memories from years ago. Iggy shared stories about some crazy things he and Phoenix got up to that I was sure my brother would hate that I knew. Especially since it destroyed any façade he liked to wear about being the responsible child.
“Should we eat?” Iggy asked after my tea was gone.
A flood of adrenaline swamped my veins and kicked up my heart rate. “S-sure.”
Cursing my stammer, I reluctantly stood when Iggy stood and sat at the dining room table when he instructed me to wait while he organized it all and brought it out.
I broke out in a cold sweat and fidgeted as my stomach tied itself in knots. Was there anything about this meal I could eat? The tortilla maybe? It was like bread—except it wasn’t the trusted brand I bought nor had I researched it to the point of exhaustion.
As Iggy set individual dishes on the table, my mind went on a rampage listing all the possible ugly things lurking where no human eye could see. Bacteria, parasites, viruses, toxins… Salmonellosis, clostridium perfringens, cryptosporidiosis, giardia, listeria, E.coli, Staphylococcus aureus, and my personal favorite, botulism.
Those and many, many more.
It didn’t matter how rare the infection, I’d studied every single method of attaining food poisoning, what foods they were associated with, their symptoms, incubation periods, and mortality rate. For a person with a weakened immune system, they were all potentially fatal. Nothing was safe. Even the five foods in my arsenal were potentially threatening.
Yeah, dinner was a bad idea.
I clenched my jaw, hoping Iggy wouldn’t notice my teeth chattering. He settled on the seat across from me and waved a hand over the table. “I personally like making tacos, but you can eat it however you’d like. Help yourself.”
I scanned each dish, squeezing my hands into fists on my lap under the table. Iggy didn’t start, and his gaze weighed a ton as he waited for me to make the first move.
Seconds stretched to minutes as I tried to talk myself into scooping food onto my plate. My chest tightened, and each breath fought harder to reach my lungs. It was like sucking air through a straw.
“Arden?”
Iggy’s soft-spoken concern broke through my turmoil. I jerked my head up and rattled it even as my vision dimmed.
“Sorry, was just lost in my thoughts.”
I reached for the serving spoon in the rice and scooped a tiny mound into the center of my plate. Tiny spores of Bacillus cereus could be lurking inside just waiting to cut me down. I swore I c
ould see them, hear them, smell them…
A high pitched ringing sang through my ears as I struggled for control. Adding an insignificant amount of each additional item to the mound of rice, my hand shook as fact upon fact raped my brain. I couldn’t hide the violent tremors with all the willpower in the world. In fact, I was about ten seconds from collapsing or vomiting or screaming.
Or crying—which was a thousand times worse than all of it.
I wouldn’t be weak. I wouldn’t let Iggy see me as some fragile little boy.
When I replaced the spoon in the pico de gallo, Iggy took my hand, drawing my attention from the deep murky pool where I sank lower and lower. He clutched a firm grip, securely enough I couldn’t pull away.
“Is something the matter? Arden, you’re pale and shaking.”
“I…” His thumb caressed the top of my hand. Panic pressed in from all sides when no reasonable response came to mind. “I… I don’t feel so well. Bathroom?”
I yanked my hand free and shoved back from the table, scrambling and hoping I didn’t trip on my feet. Worry filled Iggy’s face, and he pushed back as well, indicating toward the hallway.
“Are you okay?”
Without responding, I raced down the hall, seeking the right room. When I found it, I slammed the door behind me and locked it before sinking to the ground and hiking my knees up so I could lay my head on them.
Everything spun as I focused all my energy on not throwing up and ensuring I sucked in enough oxygen I didn’t pass out.
What a clusterfucked mess. I knew agreeing to dinner was a terrible idea, but I was so thrilled Iggy was willing to do anything with me, I couldn’t say no. Now he’d probably peg me as spastic and would never want to do this again.