Page 66 of Undone

Carson couldn’t care less about whether I eat this food, but he cares deeply about my dad’s approval.

“I . . .”

“What?”

“I’m just not hungry.” The truth is that I don’t have a single bit of appetite left. “Just not that hungry.” I stir my fork around in the noodles, stabbing at a red pepper and soppressata almost melded together in the spicy cream sauce.

Carson frowns, his own meal already finished—the waiter even took his plate and refilled his wine. He left my Prosecco alone, but only because it’s untouched.

“Should we talk about the wedding?” he asks calmly, but it feels like a threat. “Your dad said you might want to hire someone to plan it.”

My dad says a lot of things that I didn’t say—yet I find myself agreeing. If only to buy myself more time.

Another heavy sigh comes from Carson’s lips, a sound I know well from my own father. A reminder that I’ve done something wrong or irritated him in some way. Even more as he mutters something beneath his breath, lips moving, but I can’t hear what he says. I know it’s probably cruel. It’s not the first time he’s done that, half covering his mouth and using my own difficulty hearing against me.

“We didn’t have to come here,” I say after the waiter takes Carson’s heavy metal card back with him.

“It’s your favorite,” he says. “Usually.”

My lips purse together. We’re in Boston, tucked inside a tiny restaurant that Carson thinks is my favorite. It’s the only place he’s ever taken me, and when we met three and a half years ago at Harvard I’d never tasted anything outside the boundary lines of Walden Bay and I didn’t know much.

I still don’t.

“Besides, your father had something else scheduled tonight and he agreed we should try to spend more time together, just us.” Carson’s lip curls as he shoves the words out. Pettily, I want to make a fake-vomit face as well, so he knows I don’t want to do this either.

Not anymore. If I ever did.

Sometimes it’s harder to separate my own thoughts from my father’s, especially last year, after . . .

Carson says something to the waiter I don’t hear. They take my plate, though I forget to give them my fork. So I hold it awkwardly for too long, before reluctantly placing it on the corner edge of the table and tucking in my elbows to avoid hitting it accidentally. I sip the bubbling golden drink in front of me—it’s almost right, but I like the sparkling rosé more.

Everything with Carson is usually almost right.

Like the ice cream they place in front of me. I love sweets and desserts, but ice cream is like mucus in my mouth. I hate the feel and texture of it.

Still, I stir it quietly until it starts to melt and think of cinnamon rolls with extra icing. Of a boy dressed in a homemade Nightwing costume turning sixteen in my bedsheets, careful to avoid even a crumb spilling because he knows how much it will bother me as we both sing Happy Birthday under our breaths, smiles and laughs just as silent.

I think of that same boy, no scars on his face, and only kindness in his eyes until my stomach seems to calm now and I’m hungry again. But I don’t dare to say it. I’ll wait to scrounge through the kitchen when I get home with my new roommate.

The thought of Paloma is enough to have my mood perking up, just enough to make it through the silent isolation of waiting for Carson to finish scrolling his phone across from me and take me home.

• • •

Paloma isn’t home when I get there.

Carson lets me go without too much argument. I feel like every moment I’m outside the comforting walls of my room, I’m sinking deeper and deeper.

Slowly.

Like my limbs get more tired with every breath.

“I just need some sleep, I think,” I offer, mostly to myself. Just one nap and I’ll wake up feeling better.

• • •

It’s dark when I move again. I barely remember if I slept or just dozed off for minutes at a time. My body feels like it’s floating lightly on water, something more still than the ocean, but still moving. Slowly.

I get up and look at the clock on my bedside table. It’s been about four hours.