There were times when I relished that sound, when it made me feel sated. Being hungry was an art form, one I perfected. I was sick. So sick.
There are still days I want to go to the bathroom, kneel in front of the toilet, and heave it all up. You wouldn’t understand if you never struggled with an eating disorder, but there is a power in it. A control aspect that fills you with this … morbid satisfaction.
I’ve been recovered for years now, more years than I was ever actively bulimic, but there are still days. As with all addictions, it’s a part of me now, a thorn in my side that bleeds from time to time.
Since learning of my pregnancy, though, I’ve been extra careful to be grateful when it comes to food. To give my body whatever it wants, to feed my baby both the healthy stuff and the indulgent. I feel my body working in the most wondrous way possible, and I get emotional sometimes thinking that this miracle happened.
It is a miracle, one I questioned ever getting to do. One of the side effects of sustained, long-term bulimia, or any eating disorder, is infertility. It’s a slim chance, but I’d convinced myself I probably wouldn’t be able to have a baby because of what I’d done to my body.
I rub my bump as I steer the car toward home.
“Let’s go savor some bacon and pasta and cheese, little man.”
24
Frankie
Finally, after two weeks of deliberating, procrastinating, and overthinking every decision, I reach out to Sinclair.
I ask him to meet me at Packton’s local coffee shop, Buzz Coffee & Tea, to discuss everything over a cup of coffee. Or, in my case, decaffeinated tea with honey since I already drank my one cup of bean juice for the day.
We agree on two p.m., but I show up earlier, wanting to be the first one at the table. That way, I give myself a few minutes to breathe deeply, to harness my calm so that I don’t fly off the handle because I’m still so pissed about all the lying.
I’m seated at one of the quaint little wood tables with mismatched red chairs when Sinclair walks through the door.
“Heya, Joe,” he says to the owner as the bell jingles upon his entrance to the coffee shop.
“Sin! Good to see you. The regular?” Joe asks.
Sinclair nods, and my heart aches a little. I used to be a regular back in Fort Myers. I miss my usual spots, the people who knew me, and my orders. It gave me a sense of home. Here, in Packton, I know I can get to that level with locals. But I’m not there yet, and watching people be so friendly and familiar makes me ache for a sense of belonging in this community.
I quickly forget about that, though, when Sinclair walks over to the table and pulls out the chair.
“Is it okay if I sit?” he asks.
Looking at him, I gulp. It’s just … looking at him is like looking at the sun. He’s too damn beautiful. How is his skin still a warm olive tone, even though it’s October? Those eyes, I forgot how blue they are and seem to see to the depths of my soul. Since I saw him last, he’s grown a good amount of stubble, on the verge of a beard. I almost want to reach out and touch it, run my hands over his strong jaw and sharp cheekbones.
I nod and Sinclair shrugs off his jacket, and I get a good long look at his strong biceps encased in a tight gray thermal. My body physically aches at the memory of him holding me in those bare arms.
God, I need to get laid. My hormones have been on overdrive since getting pregnant, and clearly, I’m going insane because I kind of want to jump Sinclair’s bones right in this coffee shop.
“Of course, I asked you here after all.”
He joins me at the table, and we don’t start talking until Joe comes over to set his coffee down in front of him.
“You look beautiful. I didn’t get to, uh, tell you that the couple times I saw you.” His gaze roams over me, landing on my belly.
“Thank you.” I feel my cheeks heat with a blush.
“How are you feeling? Has it been hard? Were you sick?” Did he get these typical questions from some baby book?
My head shakes, my red curls bouncing around the periphery of my eyes. “No, not sick at all. I just haven’t really wanted to eat meat; the smell gets to me. And I had some high blood pressure, but it cleared itself up.”
“Good, good.” Sinclair peers down at his coffee, then takes a drink.
An awkward silence descends, and I’m tired of skating around why we’re actually here.
“I want to know why you lied about who you are. And you want to know why I didn’t call you about the baby. Let’s just do it, no anger or fighting.”
Because we keep blowing up at each other and getting nowhere.
“Fair enough.” Sinclair’s voice is quiet. “I lied because I’ve been a Callahan my entire life. The expectation, the judgment, the assumptions everyone makes. And then I met you, and you didn’t know. It was a breath of fresh air. I’m the black sheep, the bad apple of the family. For three months, at least with you, I got a clean slate. I could be the person I’d always wanted to be. I could be good in your eyes, worthy. So I lied. I’m so sorry, Francesca. It was unfair, so unfair to do to you. I should have come clean, and I didn’t. Even though you won’t believe me, I wish you’d give me the benefit of the doubt. I might have faked a name, but I never faked who I was with you. That was me, to my core.”
My throat is so tight with emotion I can barely breathe. Despite my resolve to be unaffected, to rebuke any attempt he makes at making me believe him … I do believe him. Swallowing feels like fighting against a flood of tears, but I do it and clear my throat.
Ignoring any response about his lies, I admit my fault in this.
“I never called about the baby because you left. You left, and didn’t really seem like you wanted to discuss us being, well, anything to each other anymore. I know we might not have been serious, but you could have manned up and spoken to me before you got on a plane. There was no closure. I didn’t really think you would care to know we had made this baby.”
“You knew I would care about a baby, about getting you pregnant. Don’t lie to me now. And … we were serious.” He looks down, deep in thought. “I should have talked to you. I shouldn’t have left.”
The cracks that broke apart the pieces of my heart when he left, the ones I’ve always refused to acknowledge, seem to widen with his confession. At least I’m not the only one who thought we were more than just hookup buddies.
“So, there it is.” My head bobs up and down as if on a string.
“Where do we go from here? Because I want this baby. First and foremost, let me say that. I want him.”
“Who told you it’s a boy?” I gasp, my hands resting on my bump.
“Colleen told me, by accident. Though I’m happy she did. It makes it feel more real, since I haven’t been here for most of your pregnancy. A little boy. We’re going to have a son.”
The way he breaks out in a smile, as if he can’t help it, as if it’s contagious … it hits me in all the feely places.
“Yes, a little boy.” I return his smile. “Would you want to come to my next ob-gyn appointment? I’ll be having an ultrasound, so you can see him.”
I offer this, knowing how big of an olive branch it is.