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I stare at him blankly.

“You’re been a zombie, Riley. You haven’t been eating or sleeping or talking. Please…what can I do to make things right?”

I continue staring at him.

“I can’t change my decision,” Logan whispers, steering his eyes to the bedspread. “All I can do is say I’m sorry over and over until you believe me. In the meantime…please eat.”

He strides out of the room without waiting for a response. Probably because he knows I don’t have one for him.

I pass out again two days later in the backyard. Dad sees it through the kitchen window overlooking the lawn. Normally, I’d be embarrassed for being such a pathetic damsel, but I don’t care enough to be annoyed with myself. Any annoyance I do feel stems from recognition of the fact that I truly am a doormat, because I’m less upset with Aaron than I should be. Maybe it’ll come in full force later when the numbness leaves, but I know myself. The longer it takes my emotions to return, the clearer I start to think, and the less intense they’ll be when it’s time to really feel.

It seems so anticlimactic. It should come to a boil where I scream and cry and fight his grip as he tries to wrap me in his arms, like in a typical rom-dram movie. I should be seething and sobbing in my room for days. Then I should be approaching a slow realization that I don’t need a man to feel fulfilled—that I’ve grown so much over the course of these weeks that I’m fully confident in myself.

But all I can do is follow my schedule.

I open my eyes and find that Dad has carried me to the couch. He texts the family group chat about the incident, and Logan comes home looking gray and ill.

“Why aren’t you being cautious?” he asks desperately while I’m whisking things together in the kitchen, whatever they may be. “What if you faint on the staircase or something and split your head?”

I stare at him wearily until he sighs and leaves.

I try to find the energy to get my supplements when my alarm goes off, on occasions when I hear it. I try getting ahead of the food issue by preparing myself lunch every morning, but sometimes I forget I’ve made something. Sometimes I don’t have the strength to divert attention away from whatever I’m doing to take a break and eat. When I stop moving, it starts to hurt.

So I’ll just keep moving.

25

I faint for the third time in a couple of weeks. I can’t run errands because I’m recovering from a gluten incident on top of my recent lightheadedness. I don’t know what I did wrong—my days are all one jumbled mass. All I know is that I wake one morning racked with chills, nausea, joint pain, and tingly discomfort.

I’m standing from the table after lunch when it happens, and I crash heavily onto the wooden floor. I slide in and out of consciousness for a few minutes while my parents kneel over me and support my head, asking if I’m hurt. It’s so ridiculous I could laugh. Can’t I be emotionally stunted for a little while without physically falling apart?

When I next come into focus, I’m in bed again, and I’m freezing cold. My fingers are stiff and throbbing. My eyes are unbearably heavy. I’m alone.

I can’t stand the AC, so I shove the blankets back and wobble toward the window to let the scorching hot day sear into my room. I toss the curtain aside and grab the window frame to hoist it up.

Logan and Aaron are in the driveway.

I blink in puzzlement. They’re talking. Arguing, I think, but their body language is more agitated than aggressive. Aaron is wearing a white T-shirt under a black jean vest and pants. His hair has a naturally tousled look to it, but now it’s particularly unruly, his curled black tips flying every which way.

I lift the window quietly so they won’t notice me eavesdropping above.

“…know I’ve treated you like shit,” Logan is saying, his knuckles kneading his temples. “Look, I was a horrible kid. I still am. I know I need to work on it, but I’m asking you for this solid.”

“I’d do it if I could,” Aaron snaps, leaning against his pickup. “Not for you, but for him. But I can’t force him not to be angry.”

“The problem is that he’s not angry!” Logan says desperately. “He’s not anything, Aaron. He’s barely functional. He’s not eating, sleeping, taking his medications. It’s like he’s completely tuned out. He’s been fainting again, and I’m worried something will happen when he’s alone. My family works through the week, and we can’t…we can’t…”

Logan lowers his face, shivering hard enough that I can see it from here.

“We can’t take care of him,” he chokes out.

“Obviously not,” Aaron says coldly. “But I can’t just break his window and force myself in.”

“It’s a matter of safety! What if he passes out with a knife in his hand and falls on it, or hits his head against something? He’s barely recovered from the accident.” Logan slides a hand through his hair, clutching it with frustration. “I don’t understand. Is this revenge? If he’s trying to make us worry, it’s working.”

Aaron barks with unfriendly laughter. “You still don’t know a single fucking thing about Riley, do you?” he snarls.

Logan’s face contorts with anger, but it quickly vanishes. “I’ll let you in,” he insists. “Maybe if you talk to him, he’ll realize what he’s doing—”