Page 20 of The Comedown

After a long pause, he says, “This definitely ain’t healthy,” then puts the water bottle on the bench he’s sitting on, out of my view, and I purse my lips. I need that.

It’s easy for him to buck a system that isn’t rigged against him. It’s so much easier for the men. Their bodies don’t do the talking for them like women’s do. That’s the first thing we’re judged on—our appearance—and it doesn’t stop there. It only gets worse. So much worse. Nobody’s keeping track of Julian’s diet, or his workout schedule, but mine? Mine is ridiculed on a regular basis.

“I… I only do it when I’m on tour.”

“Yeah? And how often are you on tour?”

My eyes fall to the table between us. I’m always on tour, but I don’t have to tell Julian that. He’s obviously done his homework on me.

I taste food, tricking my brain into thinking I’m eating it, then I spit it out before it can actually affect my body in any way. It’s exhausting and I wish I didn’t have to, but sacrifices must be made to keep a certain appearance. A certain image. Julian should be able to understand that if he was willing to tour with me, a pop singer, just to improve his.

“Personally, I think it’d be sexy as fuck if you finished that taco.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I wanna watch you eat that taco.”

“I don’t care what you want.”

He shrugs. “But you do care about getting back to those interviews…”

“And?”

“And eat up and we’ll leave. I’ll even carry you, how ’bout that?”

My chest expands on an inhale as I pick up the rest of the taco, taking my first real bite today, then chew, actually chew. The flavors burst not only on my tongue but around it, making my mouth salivate for more. My eyes close as I swallow, my stomach calming significantly from the food making its way down my throat. Damn, that’s good.

I finish the taco in only three more bites, then the Jarritos is next as I drain the rest of the yellow soft drink. It’s not much, probably nothing to a lot of people, but this is the fullest I’ve felt in a while. And as much as I keep expecting the guilt to come from eating one stupid taco and soda, it never does.

Julian’s watchful gaze pierces mine as he leans forward to say, “You’re fucking perfect, Collette. Exactly as you are.”

I search his eyes. They don’t have an ounce of red right now, revealing amber flecks among the teal. Flecks like stepping-stones into a forbidden garden. The kind I could lose myself following. One, two, three, four…

Just below his jawline, I find the spot where I can make out his heartbeat. I wonder what his pulse feels like right now. Fast and frenzied? Or slow and stable? My hand is raised and moving for the nearly visible vein before I realize what I’m doing.

Right as I’m about to make contact, Julian says, “What? Do I got food on me or something?”

I pull my hand back and tuck it under my thigh, shaking my head.

“Perfection is a myth.”

“I used to think the same thing.”

“Until?”

“Until…”

When he doesn’t elaborate, I say, “Now you,” and his eyebrows plummet.

“You should eat, too.”

“I’ll fucking destroy this thing. I’m not the one with an eating disorder.”

My gaze flits around us. Christ’s sake, did he have to say that out loud? Julian may not have…an issue with food, but it’s clear he doesn’t take care of himself properly.

I remove the key to the McLaren from my clutch, holding it up for him to see. I don’t need Julian in order to leave. I ate the taco, not because he bribed me, but because I wanted to. I can be like him—I can buck the same system—I just haven’t had to for a while. Being finely tuned to how I’m perceived, and molding myself to fit a better narrative, has been my second profession since my ex beat me to filing that annulment first. I wanted out, not him. But he knew how it would look, he knew how I would look, if he filed it first, so he did.

“Eat up and I’ll let you watch me drive your sweet ride out of here.”