Oh, and guess what? Your favorite person won’t return my texts. By favorite person I mean Lauren, the very nice and pretty girl who lives clementines and has a dirty mouth for daysssss and it doesn’t make sense that you don’t like her. that’s why I need you home for Christmas but I think shes over me anyway.
It’s probably my fault cuz I told her I wanted drinks but she’s always disappearing. But I always find her and that sounds sooo creepy. #muststopcreeping
I like her. A lot. Like a crazy a lot and it sucks that she disappears.
But I still have her pussy necklace so that’s got to count for something, yeah?
What country are you in now? Just pick up the phone. It isn’t that hard to talk. Tell me how to sort this out.
Ok well bye, erin ailise. Don’t swim in volcanoes.
M
From: Erin Walsh
To: Matthew Walsh
Date: October 13 at 10:03 CEST
Subject: Step back from the ledge…
Holy drunk rambles, kid.
If you need to call me, call me. It’s morning here. You don’t need permission. I have bad reception most of the time but don’t get drunk and hate the world alone. And I’m still in Europe. No plans to visit the Galapagos or turtles anytime soon.
And I never said I didn’t like Lauren. It just seemed like you did everything backward with her, and that can be awesome or disastrous, but I don’t want you getting hurt.
Chapter Seventeen
LAUREN
Idecided along time ago that I was finished with diets, and I was going to eat what I wanted by keeping my treats in balance and doing it without guilt. The birthing hips I inherited from my mother meant I tried on at least thirty pairs of jeans before I found a decent one, but they were me, and I was going to love my shape regardless of whether I had to search high and low for the perfect fit.
The decision came after Amanda, Steph, and I all agreed to a pact one semester. We got fired up about bikini season and went low carb—slightly psychotic, by-the-book low carb—and it fell apart one morning before finals when Amanda slapped Steph over her secret cache of English muffins. There was some hair pulling and screaming involved, and when it was over, we sat on the floor of our college apartment, nursing our split lips and scratches.
Unhappy didn’t even begin to describe that semester. My hip measurements didn’t budge, and any pounds lost came from my boobs, and that was terribly unfair. I never reached that healthy Zen place where I didn’t feel starved and awful, and at a certain point I not only hated the existence of bread, I started hating people who ate bread.
I learned two essential things that semester. First, my friends were much too disciplined and competitive for any shared activity. Second, everything was acceptable in moderation. Eliminating any one thing—carbs, sweets, alcohol, meat, diet soda, whatever the fads demanded—wasn’t the answer. It would lead to unhinged deprivation and a small slap-fight over English muffins.
I didn’t know what surfaced that memory, but gazing at the blank page on my screen, I released the breath I didn’t know I was holding. Everything felt wrong—more wrong than carb deprivation—and nothing was making it right. Each day was like swimming through pudding, slow and tedious, and I couldn’t snap out of it. Shoes, clothes, cakes—none of it helped, and I couldn’t sit here pretending I was all right any longer when everything had been so wrong for the past two weeks.
I bolted from my seat in the back corner of the classroom and tried to collect my bag and laptop without causing a major disruption. As with all things requiring me to be graceful under pressure, I knocked over two diminutive chairs and every child turned to watch me exit the classroom. I mouthed “sorry” to the teacher as I charged for the door.
Initially, I had attributed my restlessness to all the travel.
Living out of a suitcase, sleeping in different cities every few days, eating most of my meals at Starbucks: not for me. I never wanted to see another yogurt, fruit, and granola cup again, and it wasn’t looking good for the frosted lemon loaf, either.
I also made the mistake of streaming the entire first season ofAmerican Horror Storyfrom Netflix on my first night in California because I napped through the six-hour flight and couldn’t get to sleep. Now every creak and noise was keeping me awake, and I kept expecting someone in a latex bodysuit to jump out of the closet.
Then I realized I was completely overwhelmed from the conferences and school visits, and while my meetings were incredibly helpful, they served to highlight the demanding work ahead. I spent most nights trudging through my action plan to keep my head above water.
My flats were soundless in the hallway filled with children’s artwork and large class photos, and I was happy to simply escape for a moment. I dropped my things in the small meeting space the school designated for the day’s visitors and absently picked at a smashed Lärabar I discovered in the bottom of my tote bag while scanning my messages.
As I thought about the unopened texts from Matthew glaring back at me, I couldn’t help but wonder whether putting him in the Off Limits column was at least part of the reason for my misery. I glanced at my phone as pouty, self-centered tears rolled down my face. His texts were funny and sometimes suggestive, and though I wanted to delete them automatically, I read every single one. And then I read them again.
06:52 Matthew:good morning.
06:55 Matthew:im sure you have a busy day. call me whenever.
