But instead I see words likehas-been, jealous, old, washed-up, serves her right.
“Fuck!” I shout, startling Andrew awake.
“What’s going on?” he asks groggily.
“Did you know about this?” I hold out his phone. He blinks, taking in the article. “It says the statement was released days ago.”
Andrew shrugs. “I figured you agreed to it.”
He’s acting like it’s no big deal. Isn’t he supposed to be afan? Doesn’t he know I would never apologize?
I’d like to see Joni Jewell live my life for two goddamn minutes without getting angry. That goody-two-shoes pop star accused me of stealing her boyfriend and wrote a song about it, a song that only became a hit because the public knew it was aboutme.
A person can’tstealanother person’s boyfriend.
Something that’s stolen has no agency—a necklace, a ring, a wallet.
“I would never have agreed to that,” I spit.
“It’s not likePeoplejust invented your statement,” Andrew points out.
“Callie,” I say shortly. She must have submitted the statement to the magazine in my name.
This can’t continue. I’ve got to salvage what’s left of my career before my so-called manager completely wrecks my reputation as the sort of person who never sayssorry. My anger is a reasonable reaction to this fucked-up world. Callie’s the one acting like a madwoman who needs to be locked away in a tower.
Fuck!I never should’ve let her talk me into coming here, never should’ve let them take my phone. I’d use Andrew’s phone to log on to social media right now and refute the statement, but of course I don’t know any of my passwords. Callie set all that up for me.
How could I have let her take over so much?
I guess that’s my MO, isn’t it? I let my mother take over raising my kid, after all.
I feel it bubbling in my belly, the same sort of rage that made me attack Joni. I get to my feet and stumble to the kitchen, so hungry that I think I’ll never be full.
I’m halfway through a carton of ice cream when I come up with a plan.
I don’t need Callie anymore, not now that I have a new song to set the world on fire.
My stomach settles, and I put the spoon down.
I know exactly what to do.
45Amelia Blue
“There’s something we need to discuss.”
I wish I had the data on precisely how many times that particular sentence has been uttered, so I could calculate what percentage of the time it was followed by something good versus something neutral versus something bad versus something catastrophic. Then I would know, statistically speaking, what to expect from Dr. Mackenzie right now.
From the solemn look on her face, I don’t imagine it’s anything particularly good. Then again, I don’t think I’ve seen her smile since I’ve been here. Sure, I’ve seen plenty of that therapist half smile that’s supposed to make you feel like you’re confiding in a friend, but not onerealsmile, the kind that reaches the eyes or precedes a laugh. Someone should tell therapists that their half smiles and nonresponses make them seem less than real, as though you’re pouring your heart out to a simulation rather than an actual person. (Not that I’ve poured my heart out to Dr. Mackenzie.)
“What?” I sound like a sulky teen. It’s midafternoon, and milky winter sunlight streams in through the glass walls. I feel strangely hungover, as though my body is having trouble metabolizing the fight Edward and I had last night. A nurse was here earlier, to check my vitals, run an EKG. Maybe Dr. Mackenzie wants to discuss the results of my tests. I shiver from my spot on the couch, wondering what secrets my bloodwork revealed. I never asked exactly what they’re testing.
There’s a fire in the fireplace, filling the cottage with a warm, smoky scent that somehow reminds me of summertime, someone grilling hot dogs and hamburgers in their backyard, family dinners, children running through sprinklers. I move one of the couch cushions to my lap, covering my (empty) stomach, imagining it round and full.
“I think we should talk about your bingeing and purging.”
I glance at the kitchen: Are there hidden cameras after all? At once, I’m on my feet, looking up at the canned lights above the marble island.
“Amelia?” Dr. Mackenzie prompts, following me to the kitchen.
