49. Blakely
FORTY-NINE
Blakely
Jackson always makes me feel better, but there’s still this ball of anxiety that’s pulsing in the center of my stomach, making me agonize over our earlier conversation.
Go public.
Yeah, but why not? Everyone’s trying to make decisions based on what they think is best for me, and I’m no longer interested in the things they have to say. If others insist on lighting my world on fire, I might as well enjoy the burn.
After we finished making love, I fell asleep, exhaustion wringing out my bones. But now it’s almost midnight and I’m wide awake, stomach growling from emptiness, my body ready for a workout. I left in such a rush—was in such a state of panic—that I didn’t bring anything with me.
Getting out of bed as quietly as possible to not wake up Jackson, I head to the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror. I cringe at what I see, shame clinging to my insides. Black mascara tracks down my face, my foundation streaked, showcasing the path of my tears.
I look around, trying to find something to clean my face, my muscles tightening until they push uncomfortably against my skin, my body ticking as I try to shake off the feeling.
This is the first time I’ve been at Jackson’s house and felt the urge for my routine.
But there’s nothing I can do about it, so I close my eyes and count until the need simmers to something manageable.
It’s fine. Everything will be fine.
I settle for a water wash, taking a hand towel to help scrub the grime off my face. When I’m done, I lay the towel down, my face raw from where I scrubbed too harshly, and I stare at myself in the mirror. My finger traces my reflection, an odd sensation filling my gut.
I don’t like the way it feels, so I snatch my hand back and leave the room, heading to the kitchen to find something I can eat.
I’m squatting down, searching the bottom of the pantry, my stomach winding tighter with each second as I search for something edible. The last thing I need is something to screw me up tighter and make me snap.
Where is all his food?
“Looking for something to eat, princess?”
My heart jumps into my throat at his voice, and I spin around from my crouched position. “Yeah, I didn’t bring anything with me, but your food choices are literally nonexistent. What have you been eating when I’m not here?”
He purses his lips. “You’re staring at a full pantry.”
I force a laugh, the ball of energy spinning faster in my gut. “This hardly counts as food.” I wave my hand toward the shelves. “I need something I can eat, Jackson.”
He sighs, running a hand through his tousled locks as he walks closer, leaning his back against the kitchen island. “Don’t you get exhausted from all of this, Blake?”
My chest squeezes. “Exhausted from all of what, exactly?” I stand up and cross my arms, my defenses quivering from overuse.
He points to the pantry. “All of this. The never being able to eat anything other than what you’ve prepared. The constant fear of anything— anything —other than one-hundred-percent clean food entering your body. It’s no way to live, princess.”
My face grows hot, the earlier tension reigniting in my veins. “Are we really doing this right now? You know what my career demands. How important being healthy is to me.” I spread my arms to the sides. “This is how I live.”
His eyes turn down and he shakes his head. “Baby, this isn’t living.”
My heart stutters, disbelief dousing my insides. Is he really fighting with me on this? I clench my teeth, fury trickling slowly into my veins like the drip from an IV. “You’ve been with me for months, Jackson, and you haven’t said a word. And you choose now to do this?”
“You’re right.” He nods. “I should have said something the second I realized.”
“Realized what ?” My voice rises.
He exhales, reaching his arms out for me, but my ire is stronger than my need for him in this moment, earlier betrayals making me see things through a fogged-up window, distorting the words before they hit my ears until I only hear accusations.
I step away, my back pressing against the cabinets on the wall. “Don’t touch me right now. Just tell me. You realized what , exactly?”
His Adam’s apple bobs, his hands pausing in midair. Slowly, he drops them to his sides. “Realized that you have an issue, Blake. That you need help.”
Tears sting the backs of my eyes, disgust at what he’s saying rising through me like rapids, choking the breath from my lungs until I’m spinning from the lack of air. “I’m fine .”
“You’re not.” His voice is firm, his eyes glassy. “How many times do you work out a day?”
“I—”
“When was the last time you just ate for pleasure, or hell, not even for pleasure, when was the last time you didn’t track every single thing that went into your mouth?”
Anger smolders inside my chest as he attacks, the smoke swelling my throat. My insides pull and release, the ball of nerves in my gut churning so fast it sends sparks to singe my edges.
I can’t deal with this right now. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
He groans, his hands running over his face. “You never want to talk about it.”
“Because there’s nothing to talk about!” I yell. “I’m done with this conversation. I’m leaving.”
“You’re—wait, you’re what?”
“ Leaving , Jackson. I’ve had a shitty day and I come here just to be attacked by you? I?—”
A sharp pain radiates through my chest, the sting so sudden I hunch forward, my arm grasping the countertop.
One. Two. Three.
Closing my eyes, I focus on my breath, knowing I’m on the edge of collapsing. Of spiraling so fast I won’t make my way back out.
I need to leave. Go home to my gym and have my routine.
Normally, Jackson is enough to ease the storm raging inside, but for the second time in just as many nights, he’s furthering the spiral.
“Blake, please…” He touches my back, his hand smoothing up and down my spine, and I don’t have the energy to push him off me. Opening my eyes, I fumble to the living room where I left my phone and do the first thing I can think of to get out of here.
I call a driver.
Grabbing my purse and wiping the few tears that have escaped with the back of my hand, I push past him, twisting once I hit the front door.
My eyes are lasers, hoping I can slice him through the middle from my hurt. “ Don’t follow me, Jackson. I mean it.”
He’s standing behind me, arms outstretched, his jaw clenched. But he breathes in deep and nods.
I storm outside, a cataclysmic boom of thunder reverberating in the air, echoing the way I feel inside—like everything is imploding.
The dark skies open and sheets of rain fall, sharp against my skin.
Fitting .
My stomach heaves as I stand in the downpour, praying the water will wash away everything that happened today. That I can go back to before all of this, before any of this, and just be Blakely.
The girl with no mother and a father who still made it home for dinners.
My nose burns, raindrops and tears marring my face.
“What are you doing?” Jackson sounds panicked as he rushes from his front door, his voice strained and desperate.
“I already told you,” I force out through my inhales. “I’m leaving.”
“Come on, Blakely. Let me drive you.”
I spin, rainwater dripping off my lashes and into my eyes. “ No . I need you to give me space, okay?” My voice chokes on a sob, my hands coming down to cover my stomach.
This whole time— this whole time —Jackson has been judging me.
I thought he loved me, thought he accepted me for who I was, but he doesn’t. He’s just like everyone else, not accepting my choices and thinking he knows best.
Bile hits the back of my throat.
Headlights appear around a corner and my heart leaps, my stomach clenching and releasing along with my fists as I make my way toward the car.
I feel the heat of Jackson at my back, can practically taste his need to grab me tight and not let me go. But I ignore it, throwing open the back door and jumping inside. Fumbling through my words, I tell the driver to go, watching as Jackson grows smaller in the back window—his wet hair sticking to his face, shirt soaked to the bone, and his hand covering his heart.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll regret my rash decision, but right now all I can focus on is holding it together while everything around me crumbles to dust.
By the time I get home, the panic has crawled through my chest and wrapped around my lungs, clicking into place like a chain with padlocks. Jackson’s words have been on repeat, my brain latching on to them, stirring the melting pot of rage that’s brewing in my gut.
I feel sick .
“When was the last time you ate something without counting every calorie?”
Fire licks up my spine, my breaths so stuttered it hurts to inhale. My head is spinning so fast, I’m worried I may pass out, and like a helpless bystander, I’m relegated to a dark corner as panic overtakes my body.
He thinks I don’t eat anything? Well, fuck him.
I made the driver stop at the corner store and I filled up an entire cart with whatever my hands could grab. I slam the food down on the kitchen counter and rummage through the bags, my hands shaking as I tear through the plastic to prove a point.
I don’t need help.
Tears blur my vision as I grab the first thing, not even registering what it is, my fingernails ripping into the cellophane and tossing the wrapper to the side as I shovel it into my face.
The sweetness explodes on my tongue, but I don’t enjoy it like I should. Instead, nausea turns my stomach, my inner voice screaming at me to stop but my brain already lost to the first bite of sugar I’ve had in years.
I don’t even know what it is I’m inhaling. But it doesn’t matter.
Everything fogs over, and on autopilot, I continue to eat, Jackson’s accusations and the internet’s cutting words ringing through my ears and fueling my need, every memory another bite that slides down my throat.
She’s pregnant.
Photoshop does everything for this girl.
You have been looking a little…puffy.
You need help.
I let out a scream, my hands slamming down on the marble, smashing the food underneath my fingertips, my chest stretching so thin it feels like it will shatter into a thousand pieces.
“Blakely, are you… What the hell? Are you okay?” My father’s voice cuts through the air and everything in me freezes. He’s not supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be out of town.
Turning around, my breath lodged in my throat, I lock on to his shocked face, his eyes wide as they scan the demolished packaged items and the ripped-up plastic strewn all over the kitchen.
“Blakely.”
His eyes lock on to mine, and for some reason, his gaze starts to calm the inferno and I slowly come back to myself. But as I do, reality hits. I turn and look at what I’ve done. My eyes scan over the destruction. “Oh my god,” I breathe.
The second I speak, my stomach churns, my hands coming up to cover my mouth.
“Blakely,” he repeats. “What is this?”
“I think I…I’m going to be…”
My heart slams against my chest so hard, it cracks with each beat. I push past him, rushing up the stairs, flying past the pictures of my mother and straight-lining to my bathroom.
I barely have time to get my fingers down my throat before everything surges up, my body rejecting the food on its own. And with every heave of my stomach, control creeps back into my grasp, my fingers tightening around its reins.
When it’s over—the acidic remnants of bile burning my esophagus—a sense of peace cascades down my body.
Because at least now, in this moment, I don’t feel like I’m breaking.