One Week in Paris

by Roya Carmen

  Matt Moore.

  The boy I loved, then hated. The boy who almost destroyed me.

  What causes an eating disorder? The question is so often debated. Some say it has something to do with the chemistry in the brain. Some people are just more prone to it; usually perfectionists, people in need of control. Yes, that’s me.

  Some say it’s a lack of self-esteem, a rough environment growing up, a lack of support. Check. Check. Check.

  Teasing, bullying… yes, yes.

  Yes, but for me, it was my dad.

  And it was also Matt Moore.

  I flush repeatedly, and grab a handful of tissue to wipe my eyes and my mouth. Thankfully, I always keep a small bottle of mouthwash in my purse.

  I hear the door swing open and the click of heels on the tiled floor. “Are you in there, Kayla?” my mother asks. “Are you all right?”

  My voice cracks. “Y-yes…”

  “No, you’re not,” she scolds. “Get out here.”

  I know my mother, and I know she’s not going anywhere. I reluctantly unlock the stall door, and slowly make my way out.

  Her face falls when she catches sight of me. “Oh… Kayla. What happened?”

  She’s completely confused, with reason. She takes me in her arms, and I sob on her shoulder, all over her black dress.

  “It’s him,” I manage to say between sobs. “It’s… Matt Moore.”

  She pulls swiftly from me. “What? What do you mean?” She doesn’t clue in right away, but I see the realization sweep over her. Her eyes grow wide. “Matt Moore…” she whispers, and her face crumples. “Oh, I had no idea, Kayla. I’m so sorry.”

  Yes, my mother knows all about Matt Moore. She was the only one I could confide in at the time — I had no friends. She was the only one who was there for me.

  She presses a hand to her mouth, horrified. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course,” I scoff. “It’s him, Mom.”

  “Oh, if only I’d known, I would have never…”

  “I know, Mom. It’s not your fault. It’s just a cruel twist of fate.”

  “What do we do now?” she asks. “I can’t possibly marry the man now.”

  I shake my head. My mother’s finally found happiness, after all these years. She deserves it, and I’m not about to stand in her way. “It’s fine, Mom. That was years ago, and I’m a different person now. We won’t have to interact that much. I’ll just stay away from him.”

  She hugs me again, but quickly pulls away. “Let’s clean you up, sweetie.” She reaches for a tissue in her purse. “Did you want to stay… you don’t have to. I can make up an excuse.”

  I’m mortified. “Like what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know… I’ll tell them you had an allergic reaction. The shrimp cocktail must have come in contact with nuts.”

  “But I’m not allergic to nuts,” I point out.

  She smiles. “They don’t know that.”

  We’re both quiet for a long beat.

  “I know what that boy put you through, Kayla. The last thing I want to make you do right now is sit next to him, and make idle chit-chat.”

  “Thanks. Mom,” I say. “I’ll be fine next time. I was just completely caught off guard tonight. I wasn’t prepared, but I’ll be fine at the wedding, I promise.”

  “I’m sure you will.” She fishes out a container of mints and offers me one, almost as if she knows what I’ve just done.

  The door swings open, and an elderly lady smiles at us. My mother grins politely. I can’t muster the courage.

  “Let’s go,” I say, and as soon as we’re out of the washroom, I give her one last hug. “I’ll call you.”

  6

  IT’S BEEN TWO DAYS since the ill-fated dinner, and I’m still shaken.

  All I wanted to do when I left the restaurant was run to the nearest donut shop and buy a whole box. Instead, I ran to the gym. It’s my happy place, it’s where I work, where I’m surrounded by true friends. At the gym, I’m not Whaley Wilson, I’m Kayla.

  Whaley Wilson is what Matt used to call me. It’s what everyone used to call me, but Matt came up with it. I don’t know why he did it. I thought we were friends. But I suppose, he wanted the laughs and the attention. He was the class clown, and he needed a punchline. I, unfortunately, was his punchline.

  He’d gotten a few good laughs when he stuck a photo of a whale on my locker, when he’d left a whale stuffie on my desk seat, and that time he’d left a basket of fish treats by my locker on my sixteenth birthday. I’d told him that he was an idiot, that whales aren’t fish.

  “So you’re not a fish,” he’d said. “Good to know, Whaley Wilson.” Everyone had cracked up. I’d never felt so low. I wanted to crawl under a rock and die. That night, my mom and my sister did their best to cheer me up. I ate a slice of my birthday cake and feigned a smile as I opened my presents; pretty notebooks, costume jewelry, fun socks, a scarf, and a pair of boots. But no clothing or candy. By then, Dad was already gone, and I was glad he wasn’t there to see me. In recent years, I’d only gotten bigger. Later, after Mom and Sarah went to bed, I snuck into the kitchen and ate the whole cake. Then I purged it. It was the start of something horrible.

  The next day, I told my mom that I had thrown out the cake, that I didn’t want the temptation. She hugged me and told me she was proud of me.

  My best friends don’t even know my secret. I don’t know why I’ve never told them. I suppose I just want to be the person they see every day. I don’t want them to know who I was before. They think I’m perfect… ethereal even. Corrie says I’m a knockout, and that she’d kill to have my body. She’s always complaining about her small boobs and lack of curves. Maeve and Gabbie also think I’m beautiful. When I look in the mirror, I don’t always see what they see. Occasionally, I see the old me, and it scares me a little. I don’t know why. I was the same person back then as I am now. I hate that I feel this way. I hate that I can’t love myself with a few extra pounds. Matt Moore did this to me. Before he came along, I was okay with the extra weight. I didn’t love it, but I accepted it. I still liked myself. But after he came along, I started to hate myself, and became obsessed with transforming myself into something he might approve of.

  The women in my classes are not yogis, they are all shapes and sizes. They are all beautiful to me; tall, short, the small slender ones, and the curvier ones. They are healthy and love their bodies, and that’s what’s important. But for me, that’s not good enough. I need to have a certain BMI, and I need to fit into my favorite skinny jeans to be happy.

  Bullying

  Courage is fire, and bullying is smoke. — Benjamin Disraeli

  A world without bullying. Wouldn’t that be something? Bullying has been in the news a lot lately, but unfortunately, it’s nothing new. It’s been around for ages. Back in my day, no one talked about it. At least now people are talking about it, which is an improvement. But it’s still happening.

  And now kids have to deal with cyber-bullying too, which might just be one of the worst forms of bullying. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. Not so, my friends. Words have the power to hurt as much as punches. If I could have chosen to be slapped in the face once a day instead of being teased mercilessly, I would have done it.

  The anonymity of the internet and the freedom to type anything you want without having to fear consequences is a lethal combination.

  There will always be dominant people out there, those who feel the need to belittle others to make themselves feel bigger. Bullies are usually the ones with issues, bigger issues than those of their victims. When one thinks of a bully, one pictures a big kid kicking a smaller kid to the ground. But unfortunately, bullying encompasses so much more than that, and its effects are long lasting — I speak from experience. Intimidation, manipulation, coercion, alienation, verbal abuse, and mocking are all tools of the skilled bully.

  Small wars are rampant on our schoolyards, and parents are often powerless to stop them
. Unfortunately, bullying doesn’t just happen on the playground. It happens in workplaces, universities, and groups, anywhere where there are dominants eager to strike.

  And the lasting effects of bullying can be devastating: low self-esteem, depression, and even suicide. How many therapist hours have been devoted to memories of bullying? I should probably still see a therapist… I have in the past. Matt Moore’s words and actions will forever be branded on my heart.

  Bullying’s mark is not a stamp, it does not fade. It is a brand. A tattoo. Irreversible and permanent.

  I’m fucked up.

  And no one knows that more than Oscar Cohen.

  I desperately want to call him. I hate it when we fight.

  He knows the whole Whaley Wilson story. He’s one of the few people in my life who do.

  I couldn’t hide it from him — he’s always snooping around my stuff. The man seriously has no boundaries. He fell upon an old yearbook of mine once. Another time, he found my old photo albums. He claimed he was looking for my hidden stash of sweets. He has a sweet tooth like me, and he knows I have a small stash that I keep out of sight, out of temptation.

  As he flipped through the pages of my old photo album, slack-jawed, I fell into sobs. I couldn’t help myself. I told him the whole sordid story right there. He gave me the longest hug known to man, and kissed my cheeks, and my nose, and my forehead, and told me I was the most beautiful person he’d ever met, and that he’d love me no matter how small or big I was.

  “You were super cute in high school,” he said. “I would have totally had a stiffie for you.”

  And I laughed.

  I wonder if Oscar’s socks have arrived. I haven’t been to get my mail in ages. I wash my face, slip on my Uggs and make the trek downstairs to the lobby to retrieve my mail — the usual: junk mail mostly, a magazine, a few bills and yes, a parcel.

  Suddenly, I’m in a better mood. I’ve read somewhere that receiving a gift or a package gives you a shot of dopamine. I guess it’s the excitement of opening and discovering something. Despite the fact that I already know what’s in the box, I’m giddy as I dash back upstairs.

  I tear into the package. The new yoga mat bag I ordered is gorgeous, and Oscar’s socks are just as expected. I dig through my holiday drawer for some ribbon, and wrap it around the socks. I don’t waste any time in delivering them. I don’t even need to slip on a jacket because Oscar lives right next to me. We met at an annual barbecue thrown by the landlord for the tenants — it was my first year here.

  I quietly leave the socks right in front of his door, and ring his bell. I dash off before he gets to the door. Yes, I’m a coward.

  I’m watching a lame romantic comedy on Netflix and eating some stale popcorn when my phone rings — it’s Oscar.

  My heart bounces against my ribcage as I answer. “Hello.”

  There’s a brief pause before he says, “Thanks for the socks.”

  It feels so good to hear his voice. “I thought you’d like them.”

  “Well, I dig ice cream, and I dig socks, so what’s not to like.”

  I laugh. “Who says dig anymore.”

  “Me,” he says. “I dig things.”

  I laugh again. It’s hard to believe that about five minutes ago, I wanted to hide under my bedspread and stay there for the rest of my days.

  “I dig coffee. I dig music. I dig boxing. I dig my cat,” he goes on. “I dig you.”

  I smile. “I dig you too, Oscar.”

  “I hate it when we fight. I missed you, Kayla.”

  My heart swells. “I missed you too.”

  “So what’s new?” he asks.

  I taste the bile rise in my throat just at the thought of Matt Moore. Oscar is not going to believe this.

  “Well, I had dinner with my mom and Mark on Friday, and I finally met Mark’s son.”

  “Uh-huh, what’s he like? As stiff as his dad?” he jokes.

  “Stiffer,” I say, not a single whisper of humor in my tone.

  “Jerk-off?”

  “Yep… you—” a crack in my voice catches me by surprise, and my throat tightens. I can’t speak another word.

  “What is it, Kayla?” Oscar asks, and I can hear that familiar concern in his voice. He’s always worried about me, looking out for his girl. He’s like the dad I never had.

  I fall into sobs. It doesn’t take much when I think about my youth, especially when Oscar’s soothing voice beckons me to let it all out.

  “What happened?” he asks. Now, he’s really getting worried.

  “You… you’ll never believe this,” I finally manage to speak. “Mark’s son is Matt. Matt Moore.”

  A long silence fills the line, and finally… “No fucking way,” Oscar says. “The bully who made your life hell?”

  I wipe my cheek with the sleeve of my sweater. “The very one.”

  “What the… your mom can’t marry his dad.”

  I shake my head. “My mom is finally happy, Oscar. Mark seems nice enough. He seems to really like her. I don’t want to ruin it for her. I’ll probably never have to see Matt after the wedding. My mom said that she’ll be careful to keep me away from him.”

  Oscar has no words.

  Neither do I.

  “I’m coming over,” he finally says.

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I want to.”

  Less than a minute later, he’s at my door. As soon as I let him in, he takes me into his large arms — I feel so safe there. “Why couldn’t you have been there when I was in high school?” I ask him.

  He squeezes me harder. “I would have kicked the guy’s ass.”

  “I would have loved to see that.”

  “He would have ended up in the hospital.”

  I reluctantly pull from his arms. “Can I get you coffee?”

  “No, I’m just here for you. I just want to make sure you’re all right.”

  I take his hand and lead him to my sofa. “Thank you. You’re sweet.”

  He shoots me a panty-melting smile. “Not that sweet.”

  He sits next to me and I waste no time in climbing on top of him. I’ve missed him, and it’s been forever. As Corrie would say, I’m horny as shit.

  He grabs my ass. “I’m really glad I came over.”

  “Me too,” I say, the words lost against his mouth. “You make me feel sexy.”

  He tears the scrunchie out of my hair — it hurts but I love it. My long hair is tangled around the both of us. “You are sexy.”

  “I feel ugly,” I confess. I do. I’d felt so sexy in my little black number and heels, until the moment I opened my eyes and saw Matt Moore standing in front of me. With a single look, I was brought back to all those old feelings, and instantly hated myself.

  Oscar tears his mouth from mine, and grabs my face in both his hands, hard. My face is pressed against his, and I’ve never seen him like this. He’s always so happy-go-lucky, not-a-care-in-the-world kind of man. But there’s rage in him now. His big brown eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them. They’re not so puppy dog now. They’re vicious. My heart skips a beat.

  “Don’t ever say that again. Don’t give him that power. Don’t let him tell you how you should feel about yourself. Don’t let him make you hate yourself. You’re stronger than that, Kayla.”

  Holy hell, who knew Oscar had that in him. He’s fucking hot when he’s really angry. “Okay, Sir,” I say in my best flirty voice. Enough of this talk, I want him. I reach for the fly of his jeans.

  He grabs my ass again. “Tell me you’re beautiful,” he scoffs.

  I smile but don’t say a word.

  “Say it,” he snaps.

  I sigh. “Okay, okay… I’m beautiful.”

  He slaps my ass playfully. “Say it like you mean it.”

  I laugh. “I’m fucking hot. I’ve got a killer bod, and fabulous hair.”

  He finally smiles, and I melt a little. “You do,” he agrees. “And you also have the most pretty eyes I’ve ever seen, and
a smile I can’t resist.”

  “I have boring brown eyes,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “Brown eyes are the best.”

  “Yours are.” I’ve always loved his eyes… they’re like melted milk chocolate, the sweetest kind.

  He presses a finger against my lips. “Enough talking.”

  7

  I CLOSE MY EYES and get lost in the sensation as he brings his hot mouth to the crook of my neck and softly kisses me there. I rake my hands in his messy hair. He smells like coffee again — I love his scent.

  When his hand finds its way under my sweater and cups my bare breast, my core melts, and my sex throbs. I want him inside me, but he’s slow tonight, taking his time, savoring me. Make-up sex is always like this. Sometimes I wonder if I cause fights because I love this so much. I love it soft and slow occasionally, even if we’re just friends. I crave that closeness.

  I dig into his pants and wrap my hand around him. He lets out a moan. I love the sound of me bringing him pleasure.

  He completely takes me by surprise when he grabs my ass again and flips me over on the sofa. He pulls the band of my sweats and panties roughly over my hips and knees. “I hate that fucking guy. I want to bash his head in.”

  I sneak a peek at him as he rips off my sweats. His eyes are dark again.

  He travels back up and bites my shoulder. “I want to meet this guy.”

  I’m hot under his weight. My sweater is smothering me. I want him to tear it off. “No, you don’t.”

  “I’d love to give him a piece of my mind,” he mutters against my clammy skin, and as if he can read my thoughts, pulls the knitted fabric of my sweater over my head. My breasts are exposed and begging to be touched. He wraps his warm mouth around one, and I melt into him.

  I slide the palm of my hand against the soft hot skin of his torso, and pull up the fabric. A second later, he rips off his shirt. He’s shirtless and glorious, and shoots me a wink, fully knowing what effect he has on me.