But if I could make a plan not to eat, I reckoned, I could make a plan for eating, too. I’d done it before. But not at home. Being home, I told myself, would make the difference.
When Amy came downstairs and got a yogurt, I got a yogurt, too. Protein was important. And calcium.
We ate breakfast together at the kitchen table, and when she set abowl of strawberries between us, I ate three, feeling virtuous and healthy. I would miss her when she was gone. Or would it be a relief when she wasn’t here, appraising me with her eyes? I wanted both the reassurance of her presence and the absence of her judgment.
She was tapping on her phone, commenting, liking, and responding to social media posts.
I still hadn’t heard from Colt about my song. Or anything else.
Eventually, she looked up and smiled. “Did you go running this morning?”
Every morning. I nodded warily. I had developed a lot of bad habits since I’d left home, but running was a good one. I always felt lighter, stronger, when I ran.
She touched my arm. She was always doing that, patting, stroking, comfortable in her body in a way that I was not. “Well, don’t overdo it, okay?”
I didn’t want to be reminded that I’d tried this before. The eating. The not eating. All of it. I didn’t want her to say,Something’s wrong, because it would be true. To ask,What’s the matter?because then I would have to lie.
So I turned her concern back on her. Deflecting. Evading. I was good at that. “You were home early last night. Did you have a nice dinner with Trey?”
“He packed a picnic. Sandwiches and champagne.”
I smiled. “Sounds romantic.” And fattening, but Amy didn’t let things like that bother her.
“It was.” She toyed with her spoon. “And then we had a stupid fight and he brought me home.”
“Oh, Amy,” I said, genuinely dismayed. “What happened?”
“I was hoping for some kind of sign from him, I guess. Like a lovesick teenager. But we’re obviously focusing on different things right now.”
“You’ll make up,” I predicted. “Next time you’re home.”
“Probably.” She sipped her coffee. “The thing is, I was thinking ofsticking around. Now that I have a choice. I’m proud of Baggage, proud of building my own name, my own brand, my own business. But I miss our sisters and Momma and the kids. Even Dad and Aunt Phee. I miss the river and the blue sky. I even miss this town sometimes. I can make it in New York. But it’s not home.”
“Then why go back?”
“I need to be sure I’m making the decision for the right reasons. Iknowthere’s more to life than work,” she said. Like she was continuing an argument, responding to something I hadn’t said. “But work’s important, too.”
I nodded encouragingly. “You’ve always wanted to be successful. And you will be. Wherever you are.”
She shrugged. “How do you define success?”
I stared at her.
“Well.” She drained her coffee cup and left it in the sink. “I have to hit the road. Miss you.”
She held out her arms and we hugged.
“I’ll miss you, too.” A piece of truth that I could give her.
She pulled back and looked in my face. “Take care of yourself.”
“I will,” I promised.
I tried.
But her question stuck with me for days after she left.“How do you define success?”
I had written a Grammy-winning song. My boyfriend was a country star. But I’d never shared my family’s dreams for me. They were too big. Too overwhelming. I’d found myself instead in small, furtive acts of autonomy and rebellion, measuring myself in tiny increments, a bite, a pinch, a number on the scale, a reflection in the mirror.
