5
“IT’S FINE,” MOM SAYS to him. “You’re only about twenty minutes late. We were having fun catching up with Kayla. I don’t see her enough these days.”
Mark is not impressed. “It’s not fine. It’s disrespectful is what it is.”
Matt’s gaze is glued to me. He looks completely confused, like he’s desperately trying to place me. I can’t believe he doesn’t remember me. He only made my life hell for six years, and he doesn’t even have the decency to remember me. I have changed a lot, in his defense. A loss of eighty pounds, makeup and caramel highlights will definitely render a woman unrecognizable.
He offers me his hand, in the exact same manner he did all those years ago. “Matt Moore… I know you…”
He can’t take his eyes off me.
“Kayla Wilson,” I tell him. “We were in junior high and high school together.”
His jaw drops, and his gaze travels slowly down the length of my body, down my little black dress, to my platform heels, and back up again. “Wow… whoa… Kayla Wilson. You changed a lot! I didn’t even recognize you.”
My heart is pounding, and I feel like I might throw up. I should go, but I’m frozen under his stare.
“Yes, Kayla changed a lot. She lost eighty pounds,” Mom announces proudly. “Doesn’t she look amazing?”
“She does,” Matt says, his eyes still glued to me. “God, you look fantastic, Kayla.”
I’m surprised he remembers my name.
“She’s a yoga instructor now,” Mom goes on.
Shut the hell up, Mom,I want to scream.
I’m light-headed, and I grab the edge of the table for support. “I… I’m sorry,” I say, my words weak. “I… I need to go… t-to the washroom.”
I grab my clutch and dash off. My feet are unsteady in my high shoes, my body is stiff. I find it challenging to put one foot in front of the other. I move slowly because an image of me toppling over in front of everyone haunts me. I turn briefly and venture a look at Matt — he’s still watching me.
When I finally round the corner, and reach the safety of the hall leading to the washrooms, away from his sight, I let out a long breath of relief. As soon as I find myself in the ladies’, the bile rises in my throat, and I know exactly where I’ll be in a few seconds.
When I was in high school, it was a usual occurrence — me, hidden away in a washroom stall, one hand wrapped around a twist of my hair, and the other pressed down my throat. I hid my bulimia for almost two years before my mother figured it out. Ever since, I’ve had issues with eating.
I haven’t done this in a long time, and it’s not exactly voluntary at this point. I won’t need to stick my finger down my throat. Occasionally, if I get extremely nervous, the reflex to vomit hits me. I’m much better now. I exercise, eat healthy, and never binge and purge anymore, but my body remembers. It remembers the relief purging gave. It readies itself for it when needed.
The act of it is so familiar, so easy, as I lean over the toilet. Thankfully, this is a high-end restaurant and the washroom is spotless. This is one of the cleanest toilets I’ve ever vomited in. It even smells of lilac in here. I’m also thankful there’s no one else in here. I cry as I vomit.
Matt Moore.
The boy I loved, then hated. The boy who almost destroyed me.
What causes an eating disorder? The question is so often debated. Some say it has something to do with the chemistry in the brain. Some people are just more prone to it; usually perfectionists, people in need of control. Yes, that’s me.
Some say it’s a lack of self-esteem, a rough environment growing up, a lack of support. Check. Check. Check.
Teasing, bullying… yes, yes.
Yes, but for me, it was my dad.
And it was also Matt Moore.
I flush repeatedly, and grab a handful of tissue to wipe my eyes and my mouth. Thankfully, I always keep a small bottle of mouthwash in my purse.
I hear the door swing open and the click of heels on the tiled floor. “Are you in there, Kayla?” my mother asks. “Are you all right?”
My voice cracks. “Y-yes…”
