by Vivian Wood
Sean went silent. The idea of having Harper around as a sign of anything rubbed him the wrong way. It was just dinner, and suddenly Connor thinks he has a read on him? He doesn’t know shit.
“Hello?” Connor asked.
“Yeah, I’m here.” Sean drowned out whatever it was Connor went on about. And he thinks he knows Harper? Sean degrades her when they’re together, and she likes it. Begs for it, practically. What kind of girl does that? He was instantly hit with guilt. She deserves so much better than that—and no amount of doting afterwards can make up for it.
“—asking is that you give it an honest consideration,” Sean said.
“Yeah, yeah,” Sean said, anything to shut him up.
“It’s good to see you happy, little brother,” Connor said. “I … well, I worry about you. We both do.”
“We?”
“Sam and I.”
Sam really doesn’t know me. Whatever the two of them think, Harper will figure out she’s slumming it eventually. I just hope I don’t fuck her up permanently.
“Well … I guess I’ll let you go,” Connor said.
“Okay, enjoy the A-list treatment.”
“Sam will. She’s got salon appointments booked almost every day. I’ll get in touch soon, okay? Try and have a better idea of what you want to do then?”
“Yeah, whatever,” Sean said. “Talk later.” He hung up before he could tell Connor what he really thought. That job’s too good for me, and Harper sure as hell’s too good for me.
Sean stirred with restless energy. He scrolled through his phone and hovered on Harper’s name. He knew all it would take was a text, and she’d come running. It would feel good, that sexual release. And even the affection that came afterwards. But he needed to wean himself off it, at least a bit.
He realized it had been days since he’d craved alcohol. Joon-Ki would be thrilled, at least until he figured out Sean had swapped one addiction for another. Transferring your addiction, that’s what they called it in AA. For a lot of alcoholics, it was cigarettes. Others went full orthorexia, though that was a new term for Sean. “An obsession with clean eating or healthy living.” Apparently it wasn’t an eating disorder yet, but it was close. And alcoholics were a demographic especially prone to it.
“Yeah, I don’t need to worry about that,” Sean said aloud. Instead, he texted Joon-Ki. “Going to the meeting in an hour?” he asked.
“Absolutely! Do you want to go for coffee after?”
“Sure. I can’t imagine the meeting coffee has improved much.”
Nothing registered for Sean at the meeting. He chewed through one of the stale doughnuts without tasting it. When the group circled around to him, he opted out of sharing. “Don’t you at least want to share how long you’ve been sober?” Koon-Ji asked, quietly but just loud enough to garner the attention of the group.
“Uh … almost six months,” he said. Was it really that long?
“Your anniversary’s coming up on the fourteenth, right?” Joon-Ki prompted.
“Yeah. I guess so.”
A flurry of congratulations came his way, but he felt undeserving. Sean didn’t know why—it’s not like it was a lie. It’s just that it had been so easy recently to stay sober that it didn’t feel like an accomplishment.
After the meeting, Joon-Ki let him lead them immediately to their go-to café around the block. The French press cost enough here that they usually didn’t run into any fellow AA-ers. Stop stereotyping, he thought to himself. Since when are all drunks poor?
“So,” Joon-Ki said as they settled into their booth. “Large Americano, shot in the dark? I’ll buy.”
“Thanks, man,” Sean said.
“You want anything else? A pastry?” Joon-Ki fawned over him sometimes like a goddamned parent. Sean hated himself for how he pushed him away, how he used him and only called when he needed something. But he couldn’t help it. It was like Joon-Ki allowed him to be selfish.
He shook his head. “I’m good.”
As always, Joon-Ki waited until their order arrived to start probing. “Tell me what’s new,” he said. “You didn’t seem too pleased about your six months coming up.”
“No, it’s not that,” Sean said. “It’s just … I don’t know, it didn’t really register. It hasn’t been hard lately, you know?”
Joon-Ki nodded. “That can happen. The cravings, they ebb and flow. It’s not constant, and it’s not a constant decrease in cravings either. Remember, you’ll always be an addict. These easy times, they can fool you into slipping.”
“Yeah. I know,” Sean said. He sipped the coffee even though it was too hot. The thickness of a burned tongue always appealed to him.
“Anything else?” He could tell Joon-Ki wanted to ask about Harper. The rebellious kid in him delighted in drawing it out.
“My brother’s in town. With his fiancée.”
“Really?” Joon-Ki perked up. “Are you going to meet up?”
“We already did. Went to dinner. His fiancee’s really pregnant though, so not much socializing during this trip.”
“What are they here for then, if she’s due soon?”
“Uh … they’re thinking of moving out here. Starting their own security business and clean up with all the celebrities in town.”
“Makes sense.”
“And … well, Connor really wants me to come on board.”
“Really. That’s a generous offer. What are your thoughts on it?”
Sean sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Obviously, it would be great. An added bonus would be repairing our relationship. Or building it, I guess I should say.”
“It’s a lot of responsibility, though. A lot of pressure,” Joon-Ki said. “Are you worried the stress might tempt you to start drinking?”
“I don’t know about that,” Sean said. “No. It’s … I’m such a fuck up, you know? I don’t think I’ll start drinking again, but …”
“You feel like you don’t deserve it.” It sounded so easy, coming from his sponsor.
“Maybe.”
“Sean, you can’t punish yourself indefinitely. What will passing on an opportunity like this do for anyone? You’re not just turning away a great job, but also the chance to have a real relationship with your brother.”
“Harper thinks it’s a good idea.”
“Oh. She’s … still in the picture.”
“Well, yeah. She came to dinner with us.”
“I see. I’m impressed, I have to say I worried this might be a crash and burn. How are things going with her?”
“They’re … good,” Sean said. There was no way in hell he was going to tell Joon-Ki about what he and Harper had going.
“Good, that’s good,” Joon-Ki said. “I don’t know if I ever told you this, but I met my wife not long after I stopped drinking.”
“No,” Sean said. Honestly, he didn’t even realize Joon-Ki was married. He didn’t wearing a wedding band and hadn’t mentioned a wife in any of the meetings.
Joon-Ki laughed. “Estelle. I guess I never told you her name. Yeah, we were doomed, everyone told me. But she had a father who was an alcoholic. Everything in her told her to run, but I guess you just can’t fight it when you know it’s right,” he shrugged.
“So, if you met her when you stopped drinking, that was—”
“Ten years ago, married for eight,” he said.
“And it’s still … good? I mean, you two …”
“Oh, yeah. I mean, we have our ups and downs just like any couple. Would I have preferred it if we’d met later? Sometimes I think so. But then again, I would have been a different person. I don’t want to say my wife was vital in my recovery, because you can’t depend on a romantic relationship for that. I definitely don’t want to say she saved me. But, then again, there are times …”
Sean nodded as Joon-Ki looked deep into his coffee. “So, why don’t you wear a wedding ring?” he asked bluntly.
Joon-Ki l
ooked down at his hand. “Never occurred to me. Koreans don’t do the whole wedding band thing—well, I guess some do now, but just because the country’s become so westernized. And Estelle’s Nepalese, and they don’t do bands either. Who says you need to abide by society’s rules for what’s right? Go with your heart, screw everyone else.”
Sean smiled. He’d never heard Joon-Ki come close to swearing before.
“Just … still take it slow. Alcohol, it’s bound to ruin whatever good things you have going.”
Sean nodded. Joon-Ki was right, but he still couldn’t get the idea that he was going to ruin it one way or another out of his head.
23
Harper
Twelve hours. In twelve hours she must have consumed 10,000 calories. She’d stopped counting once she’d breached 2,000. That number alone was unacceptable, twice of her normal daily allotment. Alfie was right, she thought as she purged the last of the chicken sandwich.
Bread was rough. It always seems like carbs are worth it going down. But coming up …
It was a bad day, one of her worst. After the incident with Alfie, with Sean in the car, it had satiated her for awhile. But Sean worked that night, and when he’d dropped her off at home she’d fallen asleep before the sun went down.
Awake at three in the morning, her housemates in deep sleep, she was free to raid the fridge. Items that required measurement or weighing to calculate the caloric intake were the most dangerous. It had started innocently enough. She’d found half-eaten pack of parmesan crisps in the pantry from Whole Foods.
The entire box was just under 500 calories, but there were virtually no carbs. Plus, the richness and saltiness was moderately satisfying. This looks like half the pack, right? So, what, 250 calories? Let’s call it 300 just in case.
After that, it was an entire box of sugar-free fudge bars. Forty calories each, and six in the unopened box. Still not too bad.
The special Joseph’s low-carb pita bread she ordered stared at her from the shelf. Six pitas at 50 calories each, with maybe 200 calories of the PB2 high-protein, low-sugar faux peanut butter, a thin layer on each. And the sugar-free jam. Ten calories for two tablespoons. If that’s right, how can they fit so many servings in these little jars?
She hadn’t stopped at the pack of pita bread and peanut butter. Harper was on a rampage like never before, and kicked herself for thinking she had control. When she’d started with the crisps, she didn’t see a binge coming. But nighttime eating disorder, that goddamned NES, had a way of twisting things.
By the time she’d heated up the pizza in the microwave, carefully watching the timer so it didn’t ding and wake someone, she didn’t care that she didn’t have her usual Cheeto foundation. The parmesan crisps were kind of orange. Surely they’ll show up.
Harper spit up nothing but bile by the time the first of the housemates awoke. She’d left the shower running on cold to drown out the sound of her retching. Normally, she was impressively skilled at purging quietly, but nothing was coming up now.
Molly knocked on the door. “Who’s in there? You’re going to use all the hot water!”
“One minute,” she replied. She didn’t recognize her own voice. Harper could sense Molly, uncertain, on the other side of the door before she padded away.
“You’re fucking weak,” she told herself, though she tried one last time to see if there was anything left.
There was a strength in anorexia, in starvation. “I’d love to have your willpower,” a flight attendant had told her once on a flight to London for a shoot. She’d passed up every single treat, meal and snack offered. The airplane seats hurt her ass, and she spent most of the flight using her hands as a buffer. But it was worth it. Harper glanced at her fellow passengers, heads hunched over their trays like pigs at a trough, and could easily see she had more room in her seat than anyone else.
But purging? That was straight shameful. If you can’t stop yourself from eating, you should live with the consequences, she’d told herself countless times. But she couldn’t help it. Usually, she balanced both. Heavy restriction at no more than 1,000 calories a day, combined with the occasional purging just in case she messed up a calculation or the restaurant didn’t hold the mayo, cheese, ranch or whatever else was loaded with calories. Purging in those circumstances, that’s not my fault. They tricked me, she told herself.
If she were just anoretic, that might be okay. Hell, everybody was in Los Angeles, whether they called it that or clean eating. Go low-carb, and cut out a bunch of food. Add in veganism, and there’s even less. Organic, seasonal, local, Paleo, gluten-free, sugar-free because you’re prone to diabetes? You’ve got yourself a doctor-approved eating disorder.
She waited until she didn’t hear any commotion in the hallway and slipped into her bedroom where she clicked the lock as quietly as possible. If Sean ever finds out about my messed up eating, he’ll dump me for sure, she thought. Especially the bulimia.
But what was the alternative? Get fat? Nobody would want her then, either. It was a catch-22 no matter how she turned it over.
Her phone flashed an incessant red eye at her. “You busy, sweetheart?” Sean had texted while she’d erased the night’s binge.
“Don’t feel too well,” she replied. “Tired, maybe getting a cold.”
“Want me to come over?”
Her reflection in the mirror mimicked just how exhausted and miserable she felt. “Meeting a friend for a gym date,” she said. That was a lie. She hated going to the gym with anyone except P because he never kept track of how long she was on the machine. And he wasn’t competition, just a welcome distraction.
She stripped out of her pajamas that smelled faintly of vomit and pulled on the cleanest pair of Lulus. Drive or walk? Walk, fatass, she told herself. She didn’t believe those recent stories on how walking burned just as many calories as running. That couldn’t be right. But it still burned more calories than doing nothing. I’d run if I could, she thought. The dizziness was just too much to bear. On the way back. I’ll run home.
P texted her on the way to the gym, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she put the phone on airplane mode. The last thing she needed was anything getting in the way of her time on the elliptical.
She slipped on her ear buds and shuffled her workout playlist. Kanye’s “Black Skinhead” filled her head and she drifted into the meditative rhythm of the machine.
After two hours and four minutes, when the elliptical numbers are at a nice, clean 2,000 calories burned, Harper felt somewhat redeemed.
As she’d promised herself, she jogged home. Earbuds still in, she pulled off her shoes as she entered her room and let out a shriek when she saw Sean on her bed.
“What—what are you doing here?” she asked as she ripped out the headphones. “How’d you get in?”
“Some weird, old eastern European woman let me in,” he said. “Why are you working out if you don’t feel well? And why didn’t you answer my texts?”
“Phone died,” she lied. She was nervous as she stood before him. Like she was on trial. “And if you must know, I’m exercising so I don’t get fat. It’s kind of my job.”
He raised a brow. “You’re crazy,” he said. “You can’t exercise when you don’t feel well.”
“Doctors actually say as long as you don’t have a fever, it’s fine to—”
“Get in bed,” he said. “Take those sweaty clothes off and put on pajamas.”
“I don’t sweat,” she protested, though she did as he said. For a second, she thought it was a ploy to get her naked, but there was zero sexual interest in his eyes.
Harper pulled on a clean pair of old, threadbare boxers and her softest tee-shirt. “Do you want some soup?”
God, no. That’s like up to 500 calories. “No, I’m okay,” she said. “I’m never hungry after I work out. But … I’d like it if you stayed awhile.”
He sucked in his breath and puckered his brow, but nodded. Sean settled into the little chair in front of the vanit
y and looked around her room. Exhaustion really did start to tug at her in a way she couldn’t remember. Harper couldn’t recall the last time she’d slept more than four hours at a stretch. The insomnia always poked at her.
“How about I read to you?” Sean asked. “It’s kind of strange, just sitting here.”
“Sure,” she said.
He looked around the room. “Not many books—oh, here we go.”
She nearly jumped out of bed to grab the book out of his hands. Marya Hornbacher’s Wasted was dog-eared well, but it wasn’t the copy she’d highlighted nearly every sentence of. That one was tucked into the old shoebox in the back of her closet along with a handful of other precious items. Her dad’s wedding ring that her mom had shrugged at, indifferent, when she’d asked if she could keep it. The photo of her best friends from camp during their last year. A wristband from her first runway show afterparty.
As Sean started to read from the beginning, she closed her eyes. She’d read the book so many times, the words came to her almost before he spoke them. Harper wondered what he would think of her having such a book, but was too tired to make up an excuse. You can always say it’s Molly’s.
If Sean had qualms about the content, it didn’t show. He read smooth and steady, just like he did everything else. As Harper slipped into sleep, there was a moment of lucidity where she was halfway between the two worlds. For once, that halfway point wasn’t punctuated with thoughts of what she could—or couldn’t—eat when she woke up. She didn’t do her normal bodily checks to see if she could still see as much light through her fingertips when she pressed them together, or if her hip bones jutted out the same distance.
She let Sean usher her into a peaceful, sound sleep for the first time in years.
24
Sean
He’d never struggled to focus at work before. This time, an eight hour day felt like it was torture. “Yo, Sean?” Josh said from over his shoulder. “Day dreaming? We got two walk-ins.”