Situationship [Complete]

27 | We're Not

TRIGGER WARNING: The following chapter contains depictions of an eating disorder. All insensitive comments or suggestions will be deleted and offenders muted.

If you or someone you know are struggling with disordered eating in the US, please call or text the NEDA helpline at (800) 931-2237 today.

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I spent the first part of my week reassuring Mary that everything went fine in Vegas, that her fiancé didn't make me want to murder him, or that Brett got him so high he hallucinated being in love with me. I'm always cleaning up their messes. And my own. 

I went to Vegas in my feelings, then left with Heath in his. I'm not sure where I went wrong in my attempt to tell him all is well with our perfect little contract as long as he sticks to it, or what I did to get my head bit off. But, it's not unusual for my delivery to come off as more abrasive than intended. Abrasive, bitchy, whatever.

After Heath canceled on me on Wednesday, I want to bring up the party. It would have been a gray area, especially with a potential girlfriend involved. He hasn't canceled on me for tonight, at least not yet, so I'm holding onto that shred of hope to get me through.

I don't want to go to this party—especially without a date. But at least I won't be alone.

My false lashes take me forever to get on with my hands shaking this bad. The Marchesa dress is the only thing lifting my mood. I lean back and check myself in the mirror. The black silk of the rigid top flows into the off-the-shoulder detail, splitting perfectly at my waist to create the long, draping skirt. A slit and hidden pockets make it next level. It's beautiful and perfect for this event, but beneath it is me. It looks better on the hanger.

I stab the crystal hairpin at the side of my updo, hoping it will distract people from noticing it is the remnants of a failed attempt at a different style. My finger catches when I pull it out. I hiss and look at it, realizing I've been gnawing it raw all day. Fuck it.

I slip on my shoes and slide my clutch into the hidden pocket.

Leaving my room for Rowan's, I take a breath, knowing I'll have comfort in his company. I lean into his doorway and find him sitting on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, his tux still laid out beside him.

"Rowan," I say. "You're not even dressed yet."

He turns his head to me, and I flinch when I see his face. His eyes are red with tears.

"What's wrong?"

He sniffles and looks away. "I got a 1350 on my SAT."

While that is a great score for most people, under the 1400 mark will not make an ivy league or our parents happy. "That's okay, Rowie. You can retake it." I reach for him and he turns away and wipes his eye. "What's going on?"