Agreements With Mr Rich Boy | ✓

49 | Desperate Men

Miles returned, handing her the small plastic cup of water. His height was emphasised with our seated position. But he lowered himself opposite us and leant his back against the chairs, long legs stretched they were on either side of me and Michelle.

"How was going to see Houman's family?" I asked. I watched her reaction: the way she dipped her head with a slight shake, and squeezed her fingers together until her knuckles went painfully white.

"Great," she said, sarcasm lacing her words. I gave her a pointed look. "It really was, until we had this huge fight."

"What was it about?" I asked, feeling Miles' eyes on my face.

She scoffed, as if remembering it. "I couldn't eat whilst I was there," she admitted, eyes on the floor. "He thought I was being rude."

I took her hand in mine, so similar to my mother's before her dramatic decline, but when she was still crumbling. "It's more than that, Michelle."

"And you would know, Jolie?" She asked suddenly, nostrils flaring and rolling her eyes. "You would know about my life?" She snatched her hand from mine.

"I'm just trying to understand," I told her, voice lowered like my mother did so well, able to soothe me in seconds. I prayed it had the same effect on her. "You fainted. That's not something to take lightly."

"You need to eat," Miles spoke up, his calming presence useful in a situation like this. I followed his gaze to the biscuit she was fiddling with in her hand.

"You don't have to tell us," I told her, placing my hand on her crossed legs. "Just know we're here and we'll support you in any way we can."

There was a pregnant pause.

"I was diagnosed with anorexia a few years ago," she said, almost so quietly I didn't catch it. Her voice cracked when she said the word, fingers busy picking at her skin. She drew her legs to her chest and hugged them, pulling her thick jacket closer.

Everything— maybe not everything, but certainly a lot of things— suddenly made sense.
Then not being with everyone at dinner. Her getting off her head drunk after one or two glasses of wine. And also, her discoloured skin she'd tried so hard to cover with make up.

My stomach churned uncomfortably to think those comments the media had made about her that Autumn had told me about were accountable for, or at least played a part in, her deteriorating self worth.

"Does Houman know?" I asked.

"He was the one that made me go to the doctor," she said. There was no resentment there, yet no thankfulness either, just something coming close to regret. "It's just so hard, going to someone and having to have them tell you something's wrong. I was managing fine. It's not like I was skeletal. I was average."

"It's not about being skinny," he said, "It's about disordered eating. Guilt about eating. It's obsession."

"We care about you," I told her. "We only want you to be happy."

"You shouldn't," she whispered. "I don't deserve people caring about me."

"You are deserving as much as everybody else," Miles said, taking his dark hand in her ghostly pale one. "The things telling you you're not," he said, finger to his head, "Is the illness talking. It's lying to you."