Page 19 of The Comedown

“Online courses mostly. I graduated with my associate’s degree right before I had Holter.”

“With Bodee.” Back to another statement. A statement that’s not entirely accurate though. Bodee is Holter’s father, but I didn’t have Holter with him. Not exactly. I had Holter on my own. But Bodee’s more famous than both Julian and I put together, and unfortunately, so was our relationship, so everybody thinks they know all about it, down to every last detail—the details Bodee wants them to have.

“Hey, I thought you were gonna eat.”

“I am.”

“You haven’t taken a single bite.”

Julian waits, his half-eaten torta sitting idle on his plate, so I lift my taco to my mouth, taking a small bite. I give him a tight smile, pretending to chew as I let the food weigh down my tongue. The flavors are just how I remember—amazing—and I contemplate swallowing, but don’t. As soon as Julian takes his own bite, I quickly unscrew the cap to my water bottle, and spit the bite out completely, acting like I’m getting a drink.

“Anyway, what’d Bodee do?” Julian asks, and I wipe at my lips, covering the bottle with the cap again.

“What do you mean?”

“What’d he do to make you leave him?”

“He filed for the annulment, not me,” I say carefully.

“So? I know he did something to fuck that up. What was it?”

I study him, asking, “Why would you think that? Nobody else does.”

Rumors regarding the instantaneous collapse of my and Bodee’s marriage swirled faster than an F5 tornado. So fast they almost uprooted my entire career. Almost because I didn’t let them. I held my head high and kept working, booking gigs wherever I could, right up until the night my water broke. I wasn’t guilty, so I had no reason to act like it. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t treated like it though. Bodee knew what he was doing when he filed for that annulment first. Bodee always knows what he’s doing.

“Because that guy’s a fucking bum.”

Buying myself time, I repeat the same process of spitting out my next bite after savoring the flavor of the greasy corn tortilla holding the expertly seasoned, chewy carne. I didn’t bother with onions, radishes, or cilantro. They’re harder to get rid of without making a mess.

When I’m finished getting the meat and tortilla mixture into the empty water bottle, my tone comes out as smooth as room-temp butter. “Are we talking about the same person? Bodee Keys?”

Julian pins me with a hard stare, saying, “Bodee fucking Keys, the punk-ass that almost bit my ear off last year when we got into it in the bathroom at The Americana’s. Yeah, that Bodee Keys.”

What?

That’s…unbelievable actually. I can’t even imagine it. I try though as I lift a tortilla chip to my mouth, licking the salt off every surface. Julian’s glowering face as he pushes into Bodee’s. His lean muscles tensed.

I drop the now-damp chip to my plate before taking another drink from my Jarritos, letting the liquid soothe my raw tongue.

Bodee being challenged for once, probably all red-faced and stunned.

“The fuck? Did you just suck off that chip?”

I blink, reality coming back into focus.

“What? No.” I try to laugh it off. “I just wanted a taste without actually filling up.”

That is the truth, just not to the extent I’m making it seem, but Julian’s frown doesn’t soften a bit.

“Taste…” His eyes shift from mine to the metal bottle on the table.

We both reach for it at the same time, but he gets a better hold of the cylinder first, wrestling it from my grip.

“Don’t,” I warn.

He only shakes it next to his ear, saying, “Doesn’t sound like any liquid in here to me, so why were you pretending to sip off it?”

I narrow my eyes on him. “Do you even realize the pressure I’m under? What’s expected of every woman in the public eye? Every fucking day, no matter what I do, I get comments, fucking headlines, entire articles, about my looks, about my weight. And they don’t stop there, they attack my character, my whole existence. I go to the gym regularly and I’ve got an exercise addiction. I skip a week and I’m letting myself go. A rib sticks out and I’m on the verge of hospitalization. One dimple of cellulite and I’m plus-size. I can never just be ‘healthy’ because the definition for it shifts faster than the wind.”