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I DON’T EAT ANY OF THESE FOODS.
Hawthorn
You do now. EAT!!!
I know I should ignore him. How dare he text demands to me after he left? But even if he’d stayed, he has no right to tell me what to do—except when we’re having sex, because his growly authoritarian voice makes me liquefy into a puddle of mush, and the way he orders me around is the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.
Resolved not to touch the food, my stomach growls, and I try to think back to the last time I ate. I’ve had my usual green smoothie each morning, but I don’t remember what else I’ve eaten.
I stopped craving food years ago. I barely even recognize the feeling of hunger anymore, but as the scent of garlic and bacon and chocolate fills the room, I find myself tiptoeing cautiously over to the silver dome-covered plates. Tentatively, I lift the lid on the first plate, then immediately drop it down again. My mom isn’t even in the country, but I can still hear her telling me over and over that she’d rather be dead than fat and that no matter how much money I had, I’d have to pay someone to marry me if I gained even a pound. I’ve lived by her rules for so long now that even after she’s abandoned me, I still don’t seem to be able to rebel against them.
My cell beeps, and I shuffle toward the bed and grab it, using it as an excuse to turn my back on the food.
Hawthorn
Penelope, EAT THE GODDAMN FOOD. Send me a picture of you eating, and for every plate you empty, I’ll give you an orgasm.
Sucking in a shuddering breath, I crawl onto the bed and cover my face with my hands. Even though it’s only words on a screen, I can hear the demand in his text, and my head pulses as I try to figure out what to do. Part of me wants to do what he says, but I know I can’t eat anything on those plates.
After what might be a minute, or an hour, I roll off the bed and tiptoe over to the food. Picking up a fork, I lift the lid on one of the plates and inhale deeply when the scent of rich garlic fills my nose.
Pasta. It’s been years since I’ve been allowed near anything that smelled this good, and the creamy pasta looks delicious. Carefully, I spear a single piece, then dart a look over my shoulder like I’m expecting my mom to jump out of the closet and yell at me.
Lifting it, I part my lips and slip the fork into my mouth. The moment the creamy sauce hits my tongue, I groan with pleasure. I savor the taste, but lower the lid back over the plate before I move to the next dome. Lifting the lid, I drop my fork, then pick the enormous burger up and take a small bite. The meat is rich and greasy, the bacon is crunchy, the cheese is melted and delicious, and the bread is thick and soft. Placing it back on the plate, I pick up a single fry and slip it into my mouth, closing my eyes as the hot, salty potato dances across my tastebuds. Covering the burger, I pause before I lift a different lid, groaning at the sight of the decadent dark chocolate brownie and the pile of whipped cream sitting beside it.
My hand shakes as I pick up a spoon, and it takes me three tries before I manage to actually break off a sliver of the brownie. Inhaling sharply, I lift up my free hand and flip my middle finger into the air. “Fuck you, Mom,” I cry, before I slide the spoon into my mouth.
The moan that falls from my lips sounds pornographic as the chocolate and cream coat my mouth, making my knees weak as I roll the tiny sliver of cake around my tongue, trying to prolong the taste for as long as possible.
Once I’ve sucked every trace of chocolate from the spoon, I re-cover the brownie and place the rest of the food on the floor in the hallway, only keeping the bottle of water and the glass filled with ice. Maybe someday I’ll be able to eat an entire brownie without hearing her voice in my head, but not today.
I don’t text Hawthorn again, and he doesn’t text me. No matter what he said about wanting to save me, I need to learn to save myself, and staying away from him is the first step to doing it.
* * *
My cell beeps to let me know that my car has arrived, and I sigh wistfully at the bed, wishing that I could just stay here and sleep, but knowing that I can’t keep missing school if I want to actually graduate this year. Because I’ve spent most of the last four years forcing my sister to take my classes for me, my GPA is a perfect 4.0. There’s no way I’ll be able to keep it that high when I’m the one taking the tests and writing the assignments, but I still have to maintain reasonable attendance to be able to graduate.
Unlike yesterday, I don’t bother trying to time my arrival to avoid the hordes of kids that congregate on the school steps before the bell rings. The constant barely-concealed gossip and amused glances I received yesterday made it pretty clear that the news of my newly disinherited state has spread like wildfire, so there’s no point trying to hide from it.
The moment my car slows to a stop, I pull in a long, slow breath, fortifying myself for the day ahead. I don’t want to be here, but I have nowhere else to go either.
Sick of my own self-indulgent thoughts, I lift my head up and stride purposefully into the school, smiling sweetly at anyone who stares at me as I walk past. It’s time to remember that I’m not some pathetic little girl who needs to be protected. I owned these halls until I gave it up to save me and my sister from a future ruled by money and greed. I need to stop cowering and remember who I am.
Bolstered by my internal pep talk, my stride becomes more purposeful, and I make it to my locker without anyone else looking at me.
“Penelope,” my sister calls, rushing toward me.
Sighing, I open my locker and pull my bag that I left here yesterday free before turning to face her. As usual now, she’s not alone. Gulliver is at her heel, with Kip, Davis, and Hawthorn all circling around her like her security detail.
Refusing to even glance at Hawthorn, I look at my sister, not bothering to speak, as I rest my back against my locker and wait for her to say whatever it is she wants to say. Izabella is nothing if not tenacious in her pursuit of a relationship with me.
“Have you heard from Mom and Dad?” she asks after a second.
“The last time I spoke to either of them was at your engagement party when I gave you your gift. Both of their cell phone numbers have been disconnected, and according to their new housekeeper, they’re out of the country,” I say, trying to hide my hurt.
Izabella jolts back, clearly shocked, and I try not to hate her when the guys all close in around her like they want to share her pain.
“They just left?” she asks, and I can hear the slight catch in her voice.
