Chapter 18 Fighting Myself
Amity
Acidic nausea worms its way up my throat. Holding my hand to my mouth, I sprint to the ladies’ room. I crash down on the sterile tiles, roughing up my knees in the process, lift the lid and drop my head down the abyss. Gagging over the putrescent toilet smells, it takes less than ten seconds for me to vomit my guts up. The sour remnants of breakfast this morning burn my throat. Chunks of cut up fruit regurgitate from my mouth until nothing is left in my stomach.
Spitting the last of the foul stomach juices, I slump back on the equally cold tiled wall, ashamed that the first instinct my body has is to resort to unhealthy coping mechanisms.
Vomiting wasn’t my usual go-to method to lose weight. Weight loss medication was my addiction, but with eating disorders, body dysmorphia, depression, anxiety and triggering situations, you’d be surprised by the cocktail of ways in which your body responds.
I know immediately that I’ll need to tell Dad and Mum about this episode, as well as my therapist. When I feel well enough, I rise, flushing the toilet before leaving the cubicle to wash my hands and face.
Feeling not in control of my body, my vices, my mind and my reactions make me feel weak. I’m disappointed that I let myself get sick over Lincoln, Billie and our whole history. Again.
Leaving the bathroom, I am petrified that Lincoln is around or Billie has returned. Lucky for me, neither of them are in sight. In fact, the entire office seems to have cleared out but Ella, who provides me with a gentle and empathetic smile. Handing me a bottle of water and packet of tissues, no words are exchanged, which I’m grateful for.
I hastily exit the firm, resisting every urge to run ten kilometres home in this sticky weather. I don’t need to indulge in any more risky behaviours this afternoon.
‘Princess?’ Dad’s quizzical voice calls out when I click the door shut.
‘Yeah?’ I croak. If my voice doesn’t betray me, my swollen red eyes do when Dad turns his gaze to me from the couch as I attempt to scuttle past the living room where he’s resting his leg.
‘What happened?’ he grits out, already knowing it has to do with Lincoln.
I slump down next to him, unable to escape how he scrutinises me.
‘Let’s call Mum, yeah?’ At that, he envelopes me in a warm, comfortable embrace as I sniffle in his shirt.
He presses Mum’s number, and after a few rings, she thankfully picks up.
‘Hey, Mark. What’s up?’
He grinds out one unimpressed word. ‘Lincoln.’
Immediately, Mum murmurs a few curse words.
‘Tell us what happened.’ She tries to inject calmness back into her usually cool demeanour, but I can tell she’s seething at the thought of me unravelling.
A few hiccups and a sniffle later, I get through the part where I hung out with Uncle Jacob, but can’t continue.
‘He’s gonna need a hell of a lot of make-up when I get through with him!’ Her violent outburst makes me laugh.
Dad backs up her antics by taking it a step further.
‘That’s it. He’s a dead man. I don’t care if I love the kid. He’s going down,’ Dad blows up.
‘Dad! Mum! Just wait. Calm down,’ I sputter. I take a few breaths. ‘We actually had a long overdue talk.’ My head bangs the back of the headrest. My body and brain are feeling absolutely drained.
Dad passes me his half-empty bottle of water as if he is trying to bring a dead plant back to life.
‘How do you feel?’ Mum interjects, reminding us she’s still on the line.
I shrug, which she obviously can’t see. ‘Sad. Tired. Angry, Relieved. Pretty much every range of emotion under the sun.’ I roll my head back and forth, trying to relieve the dense feeling in my skull.
Both remain quiet for a few moments, giving me the opportunity to continue.
‘I feel…’ I hesitate, trying to find the right words. Cohesiveness isn’t coming to me. ‘When I asked him how it all went so wrong, there were so many juvenile, ridiculous, frustrating excuses.’ I crunch the plastic beneath my hand, getting mad again.
‘Idiot,’ Dad spits.
I throw the bottle on the floor, imagining Lincoln’s head.
‘It’s just none of his excuses were or are inconsequential. The downfall was when I moved to Sydney, but if his feelings for me were as deep as he says they were, a move like that wouldn’t have destroyed our relationship…or at the very least, our friendship.’
I pause, trying to unscramble my thoughts.
‘I know he didn’t cheat on me per se…but it felt like he did when he chose Billie. Then he just watched from the sidelines as the constant rumours, taunts and bullying over my weight ravished me. My entire life, he’s watched me silently battle these intrinsic issues…and he did nothing. I’m disappointed in myself because I thought we were formidable,’ I confess, downcast. ‘My mistake was—’
‘Thinking he was a god,’ Dad finishes for me. Yes. That’s exactly it. I put him on a pedestal my whole life, and he fell from grace.
‘He’s always only ever been human, honey. You let him be your sun, not realising that even the sun can’t shine 24/7,’ Mum says.
Dad pats my leg, stoic in thought.
‘Princess. Love is a finicky thing. It’s not a romance novel or a rom-com. It’s real and gritty. It’s real and raw and human. A relationship will be tested by weaknesses, temptations and sometimes even by mistakes. It’s how you navigate through those choppy times apart and together that determines if it’s meant to be,’ he says.
I nod, eyes watery from how we not only lost our young, passionate, all-consuming love, but also our friendship.
‘For what it’s worth, I think he could be a man deserving of you.’
‘Even though he’s still fucking Billie on and off, even though he swears there’s no feelings?’ I snort, forgetting for a moment that I’m talking to my parents.
They both sigh simultaneously.
‘Princess, can I be harsh for a second?’ It’s so direct. I don’t expect it from Dad.
‘Mark, honey, be careful,’ Mum warns.
‘I will. I will.’
‘And don’t be crass,’ she adds.
‘How Lincoln treated you was shit. He was thinking with his dick.’
‘Mark!’ Mum gasps.
He ignores her and gives me an apologetic shrug.
‘But he was also too young to understand the magnitude of his feelings and the situation he found himself in. He didn’t know the depths of his consequences, and he certainly wasn’t capable of finding a resolution that would ever fix what he fucked.’
‘And now?’ My hackles rise because I can see his logic.
‘He lost you seven years ago, honey.’ His tone is gentler. ‘You made it very clear you wanted to erase him from your life. He might be all grown with a career, but he’s stunted from losing you. He doesn’t think he’s worthy of a second chance at your love—or any love again, for that matter—so he sticks to what he knows. Her. He probably hates himself for it, but at least he’s familiar with it. He’s hollow. I can’t explain it as articulately as I’d like, but when he lost you, he lost a part of himself. Take it from me. He isn’t in love with her. It’s a temporary escape to feel something. Anything.’
My lips wobble as I fight this constrictive feeling in my chest at his truths.
‘Her aside. What’s he like now?’
He looks around the room, contemplating how to answer that.
‘He’s still like a son to me, even if I do give him a harder time now and treat him more like an adult. Like a man. He’s kind, funny, smart and loyal. He went off the rails with what he did to you, but he never got off track with who he is it at the core, what he wants out of life. He’s completely closed off to the idea of being happy or moving on from you, and I think you always have been the reason why they never worked. He couldn’t give his heart to her because it belongs to you.’
I nod, resting my head on his shoulder.
‘Could you ever see…’ Mum prompts.
‘No.’ I’m firm, pausing because that would be a lie. I have thought about it. About what a life would look like in the future if he was in mine. ‘I don’t know,’ I amend. ‘So much has happened. I’m hurt. I’m angry. I’m still letting him trigger me. I know he doesn’t know that, but the past still does. I vomited straight after our chat.’
‘But that isn’t tied to your disorder anymore. Your body had a physical reaction to him giving up on you all those years ago. Anyone would feel sick if the guy they loved had hurt them the way he did,’ Mum reminds me.
‘But he was the reason I spiralled back then.’
‘No, honey. He wasn’t. Remember, you spiralled because of your own issues with your weight and the associated bullying. Lincoln never, ever gave you any reason to believe he thought those things about you, or ever compared you to her. Speak it through with your therapist. Lincoln knows nothing about your health issues. He has no idea that, in your mind, he is a trigger.’
I’m so ashamed.
She’s right.
I’ve blamed him for my downfall but the fact is that he never gave me a reason to believe he thought or said those things about me.
My weight issues have always been my issues. Not his.
‘I’ll set up a session.’ It’s a meek admission that I know she’s right about it all.
‘A lot has happened between you two, and even more in the past seven years. You’ve gone in different directions in life, but that doesn’t mean that both roads can’t lead home.’ Dad kisses the top of my head.
‘I just don’t know him anymore. I don’t know if I can trust him or get over the betrayal I feel when I look at him. I don’t want to derail again.’
‘Putting it all aside—and I don’t want details—but is there still an attraction there?’ Dad groans.
I blush, remembering his hands on me—even if they were rough or trying to get me to look at him.
‘It’s still there,’ I confess.
‘Even with Jagger in the picture?!’ Mum can’t believe I’ve friend-zoned someone like him. Hell, I can’t believe I friend-zoned a guy like him. Hot. Successful. Fun. Faithful. A great fuck. I must be insane.
‘Jagger doesn’t even compare,’ I answer truthfully. ‘I’m not sure what to do with Lincoln or any residual feelings. I don’t know if it’s just leftover attraction, sentimental memories and feelings just resurfacing, or if it’s my soul recognising his again.’
Dad ruminates, petting my hair. ‘Do you want to find out?’
‘He wants to talk more. I was feeling too emotional to carry on.’
Both wait patiently for me to get the last of my thoughts out.
‘I think I need to talk to him again. To see if what we had—or, at the very least, our friendship—is worth resurrecting. Some part of me has been misplaced or vanished since we ended. I hate to admit it, but what if he’s the only one who can find it?’